(AN: As you can see, we are nearing the end of this part of the story. But the journey does not end here: there is still much more to see and do, new worlds and familiar ones to explore, new faces to meet, new challenges to rise to, and the fate of the Empire yet hangs in the balance. With my brother's desktop operational and with anti-virus working for the next 11 months, maybe i'll get more updates out faster than before and it won't take a year to finish these stories again [or maybe i'll go on to do something else, like my Justice League saga]. As far as healing potions go, i still haven't found a way to incorporate them into a semi-realistic setting. I can get stamina potions and magicka potions, but i'm still having trouble with healing potions. As for Crixus, he does not see magic as a bad thing, rather as a substance which can be exploited and controlled and used for the greater good: he still has a prejudice against Nordic things, and since the Voice has its roots in ancient Nordic history - the Tongues, Talos, Miraak and dragons - he views it as a dark, evil, corrupting thing that should be avoided at all costs.)
(Just as a warning, this chapter will be even more gruesome than the last one.)
The Final Assault
Eirik took stock of the Sons of Skyrim. Of the four hundred they had when he first summoned them, less than thirty remained of the first company that took the field at the Battle of the Plains. The majority of the company were now down to only two hundred and twenty-four. The Firstborn had only lost one: Galmar Stone-Fist. The others were now recovering from their wounds. Eirik, meanwhile, was wracked with guilt and doubt once again. He had failed as a leader once again, and now he was responsible for the deaths of over a hundred men.
He remained at the camp, holding Galmar's bear-skin as he thought back on every time he had met the old warrior. He was suspicious of him, seeing as how he came from Bruma rather than Skyrim, and even after he had mentioned that he knew Sven Stone-Fist, Galmar was still wary. Only after going to the cold Serpentstone Island in the Sea of Ghosts did Galmar take him seriously. He was starting to feel now that Galmar had been right all along about him from the beginning.
The rest of the day he spent drinking; openly he said it was to honor Galmar Stone-Fist, who was doubtless drinking to their success in Sovngarde with Ulfric and Ysgramor and the Tongues and the heroes of the Thirsk Hall on Solstheim. In his heart, Eirik drank to try to forget his failure. Even Lydia found his company odious after a while and went to find Ulli. He drank so much that he eventually passed out on top of Ralof, who helped him over to Galmar's empty tent and let him rest there.
When Eirik finally awoke, the day was not yet dawned. It was dark outside and in the doorway of the tent there stood Crixus, a lantern in his hand and blood smeared across his face. Eirik rose wearily, his head pounding from a long day of drinking.
"Come to kill me now, have you?" Eirik asked.
"Not today," Crixus replied. He set the lantern down and sat down next to Eirik.
"What do you want?" Eirik asked again.
"I want to talk to you," Crixus answered.
"Why?" Eirik asked. "Haven't we said all that there needs to be said? Hmm? You're afraid of me, you think I want to kill you and destroy the Empire. That's why you've been treating me like shit!"
"Are you still drunk?" Crixus asked.
"No," Eirik returned. "But I wish I were."
Crixus shook his head. "You're no threat to me, I see that now. If you were, you wouldn't be giving up so easily."
"Give up?" Eirik asked. "I've led over a hundred men to their deaths. They didn't ask to die..."
"Those people up on that wall didn't ask to die," Crixus interjected. "What about them? Every minute we waste, more are being killed."
"No they're not."
"Do you think the elves have stopped killing people just because they wasn't enough space on the wall?" asked Crixus. "Listen, we've all lost men. You think a few hundred is bad? I lost thousands at the Red Dog Pass, and it wasn't my second, third or fourth battle, but my first command. My first! Thousands dead because of some nineteen year old Legionnaire who was thrust command by his superior officer. People die in war, that's what happens."
"I've never lost a battle before,"
"Oh, grow some balls, man!" Crixus retorted. "Everyone makes a mistake at least once in their lives. Even..." He sighed. "...even we Colovians make mistakes."
"Bullshit."
"No, it's true," Crixus shook his head. "I've made mistakes in my life, but I don't let them overcome me, and neither should you."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"There's one thing about the Oblivion Crisis that has oft-been repeated throughout Tamriel," Crixus said. "It is that all the other races of Tamriel are capable of banding together during a conflict except humans. That's why the Hero of Kvatch was so significant, because he...or she...represented the untapped potential of mankind to put aside our differences and stand together. I reckon we do that now."
"Why?"
"Because while you were here, drunk off your arse," Crixus retorted. "The elves attacked us again, early in the morning. The attack's over, we've driven them back. But now we need to strike them again. Your Sons of Skyrim are excellent fighters, I won't deny that, but you can't defend for shite. You need my legions."
"Why your legions?"
"Because I've been examining their tactics," Crixus said. "The elves, they like to use conjured arrows, that pass through normal armor. I've been using my...rationing of battle-mages to enchant some shields for my companies. We only have about two dozen so far, but they will turn the conjured arrows of the elvish bows. You need me!"
"You're one to talk..."
"Do you think you were the only one sobered by defeat recently?" Crixus asked. "I've been forced to conclude that...oh, fuck, I even hate saying...that you Nords do serve a bigger purpose than I...originally thought. There I said it, are you happy now?"
"The only thing that would make me happy," Eirik responded. "Is those elves out of Skyrim."
"And that's what we'll do," Crixus returned. "But so far, though we have been one army, we have not been united in our efforts: that is why we keep losing. Are you ready to put our differences aside and work together to drive the Dominion out of this land? Because I am."
Eirik nodded.
"Good," Crixus returned. "Then get your arse together. Today we recover from the assault, but tomorrow we make our final assault."
"There's just one thing that doesn't add up," Eirik said, slowly rising to his feet.
"And what's that?"
"Auriel's Bow," Eirik replied. "Where is it?"
"I gave it to you," Crixus replied. "It was in the cart with the rest of your gear. What's this about?"
"One of those Thalmor," Eirik returned. "Was wielding Auriel's Bow. They used it to burn my men, including Galmar."
"What?" Crixus exclaimed. "Are you sure it was the same bow? It-it might not have been some other kind of bow, a-an elvish bow with a fire enchantment or something like that? You never know with these elves and their magic..."
"It was Auriel's Bow," Eirik replied.
"I cannot believe this shite!" Crixus groaned. "You had one job, take the things out of the cart, and you failed at that!"
"There was no bow in the cart when I looked in it," Eirik replied. "It must have been..."
"Petruvius was guarding it day and night!" Crixus returned. "There's no way anyone could have taken it!"
"Well, it's no use arguing about it now," Eirik sighed. "They have it, but at least I have my..."
"If you summon a dragon," Crixus retorted. "I will cut your throat."
"I'm not summoning any damn dragon," Eirik groaned.
"Good," Crixus sighed. "I tell you, no creature of that size and power is going to accept being summoned around like a dog, especially by those who used to worship and serve its kind. They can't be trusted."
"Again you remind me of my peoples' past?" Eirik asked.
"Until you learn from it and change your ways."
"You mean like Rikke?"
"Yes, something like that," Crixus returned. "Now get your arse together. We have a long day of preparation ahead of us."
The seventeenth day of Last Seed. One year ago, carts carrying the Jarl of Windhelm and the Stormcloak rebels arrived at the town of Helgen in the hold of Falkreath one misty morning. Among them was one man who would change the face of Skyrim. The days have gone down in the west, now leading back to the time when the dragons returned. The circle is now complete and ready to turn again.
In the world outside, things moved on much as they had this past year. House Redoran struggled to survive on the mainland of Morrowind, red eyes gazing longingly towards the ashen wasteland of Vvardenfell. In Black Mark, the Argonians hunted the wamasu as they had for generations beyond count. In Elsweyr, a shadowy group of nationalists opposed the Main and their blind faith in the Aldmeri Dominion. The counts of Cyrodiil, not trusting the official story that Emperor Titus Mede II had returned from Skyrim and had become more reclusive than usual, began attempting to consolidate their positions of power. In Valenwood, the mangroves migrated to the coast, sensing the coming of autumn in the northern reaches. Nomadic tribes combed the rare fertile oases in Hammerfell, searching for the rare ice-berries, while the Crowns and the Forebears, catching wind of the Dominion's operations in Skyrim, began to prepare themselves for the worst. The lords of High Rock were also making their plans to increase their own power by funding raiding parties into the other provinces. Further yet, across the Abecean Sea, the hierarchy of the Thalmor in Cloudrest were making their plans for the Second War with the Empire.
Even in Skyrim, the world moved on its way. In the east, Athal Sarys waited impatiently in the Palace of the Kings in New Gnisis. His messengers had departed for Blacklight, hoping to secure diplomatic relations with House Redoran. To the south, Jarl Vulwulf's wife Nura said prayers before the shrine of Talos for the safety of the Sons of Skyrim on this their greatest escapade. To the far north, on the edge of the Sea of Ghosts, Mirabelle Ervine, assistant to the Arch-Mage, arose to lead another group of students to eradicate the wraith-like magicka beings that had erupted across Winterhold after the incident. In the ever-chill region of the Pale, the Dominion garrison now faced a new threat, one which threatened to sever any support to their position from Solitude. In Whiterun, Olfrid Battle-Born and Jarl Hrongar oversaw the affairs of the hold together in Dragonsreach, while Njada's recklessness had brought the name of Companions to sink low in the nostrils of those in Whiterun: all save for Olfrid, whose son was now serving as the Harbinger's lieutenant. In Falkreath, Dengeir sat nervously upon his throne, eying the shadows for what he believed were Thalmor spies. In Morthal, Idgrod Ravencrone the Younger looked towards Solitude, gleaming far off in the distance, over a vast field of swamps blue in the morning sun; while deep within that swamp, a woman prepared to give birth. In the Reach, King Madanach sat confidently upon the throne of the Understone Keep, sure that the high stone walls of the Dwemer city of Nchuand-Zel, called Markarth colloquially, would protect the Reachmen from any assault.
In Haafingar, not a soul walked the streets of the city of Solitude save the Dominion soldiers. Outside the city gates, the main Imperial army and the Sons of Skyrim were readying themselves for the battle to come. The Blades also were arming themselves for the battle: none in the main camp would be left behind. The day before they had spent sharpening their weapons and preparing for battle, while Crixus had sent messengers to the marshes of Hjaalmarch, ordering Gorak's army to march east, towards Dawnstar. Commander Maro was to begin the assault with his catapults and battle-mages. All the pieces were ready for the final assault.
Outside of the camp of the Sons of Skyrim, Lydia helped Eirik into his dragon-bone armor. On his back he bore two weapons: the great-sword of the Skaal and Wuuthrad. His left arm was healed now, but he was still angered over being beaten by the Dominion. He was determined to win back his honor, tarnished in defeat, by blood. Though he would not be leading the charge, he did not care. Once he was clad from head to toe in dragon-bone armor, he forwent the horned dragon-bone helmet and instead wore Galmar's bear-skin hood: the Bear of Eastmarch would fight this day against the Aldmeri Dominion, for the children of Skyrim.
The Sons of Skyrim walked now towards the front of the army, where Crixus was delivering a speech to his weary troops. The Sons of Skyrim needed no speeches, not anymore. For them, it was a matter of honor to make the Dominion pay for their loss.
"Here we are, eh, Dragonborn?" Ralof asked, a jesting smile on his face as he looked up towards Solitude. "Just where Ulfric said we would be. It's a long and strange road from Helgen, my friend. But the gods have been with us since I first met you that day in the cart."
"Aye," Eirik replied grimly.
"I wonder where Hadvar is," Ralof commented. "I haven't seen him since...well, not since Helgen. We grew up together in Riverwood: it's a small enough town, so you practically know everyone there. But he and I were like brothers...until he joined the Empire."
"When we're done here," Eirik said, turning to Ralof. "I give you leave to go to Riverwood and see if Hadvar survived this damned Thalmor conflict."
"But what about the Sons of Skyrim?" Ralof asked.
"What our purpose will be after this war is over," Eirik replied. "I don't know yet. But I have a family to look after, a home in Falkreath to build, and the Companions are chopping at the bit, urging me to unite them again."
Ralof chuckled. "Have your hands full as Skyrim's savior, Dragonborn? Still, I shall rest easy, knowing that you are our protector." He looked over at Lydia. "What about you, huscarl?"
"I go where my thane leads me," Lydia replied. "Probably help him build his house, then settle down and help him and Mjoll raise their little family. Lucia's rather fond of me."
"You both are fond of each other," Eirik smiled.
He then turned to the Firstborn of the Sons of Skyrim, waiting for him at the head of the host. There was Angrim the Old, Bjorn the Young, Calder the Huscarl, Dynthor the Renowned, Falke Four-Fingers, Halldor the Ranger, Inghild Iron-hand, Jodis the Mountain, Kjellbjorn the Red, Lalla the Shield-maiden, Maldor the Lucky, Noralv Stone-shatterer, Ovlin of Riften, Ralof of Riverwood, Svenn of Kynesgrove, Thorald Grey-Mane, Ulli the Keen-Eyed, Valgard Elfsbane and Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced. Perla remained in the marshes with Mjoll, and Galmar was now feasting in Sovngarde. The Firstborn present numbered only twenty, but twenty of Skyrim's finest warriors. Eirik had fought and bled with them now six times upon the field of battle: from Falkreath to Solitude, they had proved their loyalty and prowess in battle. To Eirik, they were as close as a family as Mjoll and Lydia had been.
"Are we ready?" he asked.
"Aye," Bjorn nodded. "We are ready."
"Good," Eirik smiled grimly. "It's time!"
"This is madness!" Eirik stated.
"No," Crixus retorted. "This is what we should have been doing all along."
The two armies worked now as one, marching up the hill towards the gate of Solitude. The Legionnaires held up their tower shields above, before and on each side, forming an impenetrable block of shields. In the center of the column, under the shields, Eirik and the Firstborn dragged their heavy battering ram back up the same steps they had taken two days ago. Only those at the front of the column, peering out from between the narrow gaps in the shield turtle, could see where they were going.
"You say you've been up this way before," Eirik hissed. "Well then you know the elvish archers only use conjured arrows. They'll break through your shields like an axe-blade through a sapling tree."
"Ah," Crixus retorted, a grin on his face. "But I have the advantage over those archers. What they don't know is that my battle-mages march with us under these shields, as do our archers. We'll have plenty of covering fire once they start unloading their conjured arrows on us. Besides, the front-most shields are the enchanted ones I spoke of before. Surely you must remember that."
"I still think this is mad," Eirik shook his head.
"Maybe it runs in the family," Crixus retorted with a grin. "Besides, with my brains and your brawn, this should be no problem."
"Right," Eirik returned. "And who gets the glory for this victory?"
"Is that all you're thinking about right now?" Eirik heard Rikke's voice speaking from the dark. "You Nord men and your obsession with honor and glory."
"We both get the glory," Crixus returned. "The Empire and the Sons of Skyrim victorious over the Aldmeri Dominion. Who knows, perhaps we may one day be welcoming you back into the Empire."
"That will be the day!" both Eirik and Rikke scoffed at the same time.
"Keep quiet!" Eirik heard Torgrim, one of the front-line soldiers, whisper back towards them. "We're about half-way to the gate. But we're in arrow range so keep it down!"
"If we're within range," Eirik heard Angrim retort. "Then what's the use of keeping quiet?"
"Quiet!" Crixus hissed. "We need to pay attention to their commands. Wait for my signal."
Under the shields it was stifling hot, but Eirik held onto the log as best he could. It felt good to be hauling wood once again, even though it was for war rather than money this time. Somehow it seemed to be part of who Eirik was and where he belonged. But his brief moment of euphoria did not last very long.
"Fire!" Eirik heard the command being given from above. There was a brief moment where he held his breath along with the others in the host, hoping that Crixus' enchanted shields would hold. There was a rattling like stones falling down upon metal and through the cracks they could see flashes of light bursting above them, but not through into their midst.
"Return fire!" Crixus shouted.
"Fire at will!" Rikke repeated.
Behind them rose Imperial and Nordic archers and the Breton battle-mage companies. A rain of iron and steel-tipped arrows came whistling over the walls of Solitude, coupled with bolts of fire, ice and lightning. Some of the elves took shelter or conjured magical wards to keep out the battle-mages' blasts: others were not so lucky.
"Cover!" Crixus gave the order.
"Shields up!" Rikke added.
The shields went back up and the army trudged on forward. Another hail of magical arrows rained down upon the enchanted shields harmlessly, and again Crixus gave the order for another volley. Slowly but surely they were making their way up the hill.
"We're here!" Torgrim roared.
"Set up!" Crixus ordered.
"Formations!" Rikke expounded upon their orders. "Get those shields set up around the gate!"
"It's all yours," Crixus said, turning to Eirik.
"Push!" Eirik shouted.
Once again the ram pounded upon the gate. Around them, Eirik could hear the rattling of conjured arrows, or the heavy thud of rocks or magical fire-bolts being hurled down upon the shields. So far the enchanted shields were keeping out all but the lightning bolts: those were carried on the shield's metal furnishings and through onto the bearer. Furthermore, he heard Crixus giving orders for the bodies to be secured. He did not have time to see, but he guessed which bodies he meant.
"Again!" Eirik shouted.
The ram thrust onto the gate again, leaving little indication of its mark. Eirik grew frustrated as they pulled back for another strike. Whether the gate of Solitude was indeed that strong or whether it had been shored up in the day and a half since their last attack, he could not tell. A fourth time they hurled the battering ram against the gate, but every strike seemed to do nothing to the gate.
"Again! Again!" Crixus urged them on.
"It's not breaking through," Eirik groaned as he helped pull the ram back.
"Can't you help it along somehow?"
"I thought you said..."
"I said no dragons," Crixus retorted. "You have more than that at your disposal, don't you?"
Eirik went over the Thu'um he knew in his mind as he brought the ram forward for another strike. He had forgotten many and learned some through sheer force of will, but the brief breath of ice would not be well to destroy the gate. It might take a longer time to burn it down, and there was no room to put the bearded edge of Wuuthrad to the gate, even if time were slowed down to give him more hits. Then he had it, a Shout that he could use but from which he could quickly recover to Shout again once through.
"Fus...Ro Dah!"
The gates were thrown back and he could hear wooden supports being thrown aside behind it, but the gates were not yet broken. Again the ram struck the gates, and this time they quivered.
"The gate's coming down!" Svenn roared triumphantly.
"Again!" Inghild cried out to the Firstborn upon the ram.
Forty hands swung the ram back, then charged forward with all their might, smashing into the gate. Chips and splinters of wood went flying every which way with the strike.
"Come on, you milk-drinkers!" Falke shouted at his comrades. "Let's fuck their gate down!"
An eighth strike was sent by the ram against the gate, and suddenly there was a loud, sharp crack. Cheers rose up from the Sons of Skyrim, who eagerly pulled the ram back and charged towards the gate again. Upon the ninth strike of that day, the gate finally gave way with a loud clank as wood and iron were shivered and the doors flung open to either side. Thus after a long siege which lasted twenty days - thirteen more than Crixus had predicted - the main army, led by the Sons of Skyrim, finally entered the city of Solitude.
A grim scene met their eyes, one that haunted them until their dying day. The streets of Solitude were filled with bodies. So many bodies were there that they covered up most of the street and were lying about in piles: the cobblestones that were not covered in bodies were covered in every shade of blood from black, brown to deep red. The executioner's block, where Eirik had seen Roggvir executed on his first trip to Solitude, was covered in blood and filled with bodies save for a single line that led up to the chopping block. Besides that, many of the buildings were burned or broken down, with many days rotten goods or torn clothing littering the streets.
"Gods above!" Svenn exclaimed, gazing upon those slain here. "Is anyone left alive?"
Truly it appeared to be the opposite case. As they passed around the bodies, they saw just how badly these poor folk had met their end. Eirik noticed that many of the bodies had their faces bashed in and bludgeoned beyond recognition. Others were skinned alive and clad in garments dipped in sea water, which stank even above the thick carrion-like miasma of death which clung to the city streets. Some had the lash-marks upon their backs, ugly and serrated as though the jagged claws of a troll had been dragged across their naked flesh. Others were missing limbs, had their fingers bent the other way, or red-black holes where their eyes used to be. Still yet others were covered in burn marks, with their throats cut and some were merely drawn and quartered, with blackened entrails stuffed down their open necks. Eirik noticed with horror that not all of these bodies were men. Some were women, with their breasts cut off and burns or bloody gashes between their legs. Some also had their stomachs cut open and were covered in blood. It was in Eirik's mind as though the nightmares that had haunted Galmar had taken life even from beyond the grave and the expanse of time.
Behind them came the others under Crixus and Rikke, who got their first glimpse of the horrors in the streets of Solitude. Eirik, heedless of Crixus' orders being given to those behind him to secure the Blue Palace, made his way towards the marketplace in the town-square. The wooden roof on the well had been broken down and the stalls that once filled this area were burned. But in the center of the burned wooden stalls and ash piles, he saw something that chilled him to the bone. Trails of blood led to a large pile of ash, where a mound of deformed blackened skulls sat grinning up at him in the grim morning. Kneeling down, praying to all the gods that this was not what he feared it to be, Eirik took a closer look at the skulls and his spirit broke. The skulls were not deformed, they were merely small.
"They're here!" an elvish voice called out. "They're in the streets!"
At that moment, Eirik cared for nothing else in the world but silencing the elvish voice he had heard. Man or woman, it mattered not to him. He had felt the small life of his unborn child moving within Mjoll's belly and he realized with horrifying certainty that some would never move again. He understood now why Ulfric, Galmar, Svenn, Rolff and the other Stormcloaks could disregard mer-kind the way they did: no human, not the war-like Nords, the brutal Redguards or the aristocratic Imperials, would ever resort to this kind of extermination. He knew now what Ysgramor knew when he returned to Atmora after the Night of Tears in Saarthal, and his rage burned as hot as the dragon's breath.
"Hun...Kaal Zoor!" he shouted, his being filled with anger.
What appeared before him was not the broad-shouldered form of Hakon One-Eye, or the slender Gormlaith, glad-hearted in battle; nor even the old, weathered and resilient form of Felldir the Old. What appeared before Eirik now was massive, clad in ancient steel forged in the fires of Atmora and cooled in the blood of Snow Elves. High was his lofty helm, made of the heads of two dragons leering upwards. His beard was long and golden and in his eyes was a fury matched only by Eirik. In his hands as well was Wuuthrad, a blade so mighty that the gods reforged it for him in Sovngarde and gave it to him as a gift for gracing their hall with his presence.
"Lend me your strength," Eirik said through clenched teeth as he watched the elves pour out from the steps leading towards Castle Dour. "That I may punish these elves for their treachery!"
"Yes!" roared the giant. "I have long waited the chance to reap bloody vengeance upon these bastards! Let the earth tremble before us!"
Like a herd of mammoths charged Eirik and Ysgramor into the thickest of the elvish lines. None stood before the twin Wuuthrad axes, which ground elvish bones into powder in one strike and bit through their flimsy golden armor. Behind them half of Crixus' forces headed east, towards the street which led to the Blue Palace, while the other half and the Sons of Skyrim watched the brutality which Eirik and Ysgramor heaped upon the Altmer soldiers.
"I told you he would do it," Rikke said to Crixus. "I told you he was dangerous."
"Shut up already," Crixus replied.
"You can't tell me to shut up!" Rikke retorted. "I am a Nord woman!"
"Look around you!" Crixus retorted. "The Dominion did all this! He has every right to be angry, and you can just shut the fuck up if you have no respect for the dead. Your people, I might add!"
In the midst of the swath of destruction strode Eirik, Wuuthrad cutting his path through the gold and malachite-clad elves. One sweeping blow hacked one in two, while a jab from the ax's butt-end broke the teeth of another. Thrusting the head of the axe into the face of a high elf caved his face in, while another sweep cut off the legs from another. At his side was Ysgramor, swinging his axe with ease and laughing off the fools who tried to strike his ethereal body. With sheer strength, he embedded one side of the axe into a malachite-clad officer, and the other into a justicar, then lifted them both up to his eye view.
"Ysgramor has returned!" he roared. "I bring Wuuthrad, and your death!"
With a swing, he brought the axe down, hacking the first elf in two, then swung the axe up, heaving the other elf off the blade. Eirik swung his Wuuthrad at the flying elf, cutting it in two across the chest.
Up the causeway leading to the courtyard of Castle Dour they fought, bodies of elves piling up around them as they hacked their way up relentlessly. Those below had to move out of the way almost momentarily, for every so often an elvish soldier would go flying off the causeway to break their necks on the cobblestone paved streets below. On and on they fought, spilling blood and severing limbs right, left and center.
"Dragonborn!" Ysgramor cried out. Eirik, still deep in his blood-rage, turned towards the giant Atmoran. "Alas, I must return to the Hall of Shor."
"What?"
"You have done well," Ysgramor returned. "I shall tell all the souls in Sovngarde of your glorious exploits in battle."
"But there's still so much to do!"
"That I leave to you, brave warrior," smiled the giant Atmoran. He bowed and then, though there was no wind, he seemed to fade away, back into Aetherius.
But for Eirik, looking away for even a moment was almost fatal. A fire-ball thrown by a Thalmor justicar caught him in the chest, knocking him down onto the pavement and sending Wuuthrad flying out of his hand and hacking off the legs of an elf soldier just as he was climbing onto his feet again.
"Mul...Qah Diiv!" Eirik shouted as he leaped back up onto his feet.
As fire engulfed him and his armor, the elves quivered, some of them running back towards the courtyard of Castle Dour while yet others threw down their weapons and surrendered. Eirik charged into them like a flood, smashing heads and cracking bones with his bare hands. An officer threw down her arms in surrender, but it didn't matter to Eirik: seizing the elf by the back of the head, he threw her into two others, then tackled two more down with his hands, smashing the back of their heads against the pavement. As he charged towards another one, the officer was already on her feet and began summoning fire into her hands to strike at Eirik's back. But at that instant, an armored form came leaping towards the elf, tackling her onto the ground and shoving a sword through her stomach. Hearing the struggle, Eirik turned around to see Lydia crawling off the dead elf officer.
All around them charged the Sons of Skyrim and the Imperial Legion in a great wall of death, overtaking the elves that still fought before the gates of Castle Dour. Those who remained were slowly being driven back into the wide, open-air courtyard. Here many of the Imperial troops garrisoned in the loyal holds of Skyrim had been trained during the weeks and months of the Civil War: now they would be fighting on their own turf, yet it was wholly alien to them. Instead of the white wolf of Solitude upon a red banner, the black and gold-rimmed banner of the Aldmeri Dominion was hanging from the towers and gates.
The fray that erupted in the courtyard of Castle Dour was most fierce. None from the camp of the main army were permitted to remain behind: even Esbern coordinated the Blades in their attacks against the number of Dominion soldiers packed into the courtyard. Serana as well, clothed all in black, waded among the elves, smashing their heads in with her hands or ripping their necks apart with her jaws and feasting on the blood, only to resurrect the fallen elves to send them back at their comrades. The Sons of Skyrim fought savagely, holding nothing back against the ones who had slaughtered their people. As the tide was turning, it seemed that the combined might of the Imperial Legion and the Sons of Skyrim would drive the Dominion forces into surrendering.
But then there was a burst of light and Eirik could smell the acrid stench of burning flesh and hear the screams of those being burned alive. Turning around towards the keep of Castle Dour, he saw an uncharacteristically large Thalmor covered in a bulky hooded robe: in his hands was the Bow of Auriel. Out went another arrow with a flash like the birth of a sun, and then a burst of fire that caught man and elf alive.
The next shot, Eirik saw, was aimed directly at him. He doubted if any bone or scale of dragons could protect him from a weapon made by the gods.
What happened next was so fast that Eirik did not have time to realize what had happened until he was too late. There was a flash, like being struck suddenly by lightning, and then a dark shape passed between the light. Then came the fire and pain, burning so hot that it melted off the fiery aspect of the dragon, leaving Eirik clad only in his dragon bone armor: only his Thu'um, learned in the dark recesses of Miraak's temple on Solstheim, kept him from great harm. Then he heard a familiar voice cry out in pain: his hear stopped as his mind returned to the events of the day before yesterday, his first great loss.
Then he saw, lying on the ground before him, catching fire swiftly, the form of Lydia. In shock and regarding not his own limits, Eirik shouted "Fo!" onto her. He could feel his throat buckling out, as though something was pulling it apart from both sides. He could barely breathe as he turned Lydia's body over; she had been shot through the chest with a golden-white arrow. Heedless of what might happen next, he took the arrow and pulled it out of her chest. Lydia lurched forward, blood gushing out of her chest and pouring out of her mouth.
"Lydia..." Eirik gasped, his voice thin and raspy as he tried to speak, yet found that his voice failed him.
Lydia did not speak, but her blue eyes said everything. He could see in them the restrained gladness at their first meeting in Dragonsreach, when she learned from Jarl Balgruuf that she was to be huscarl to the Dragonborn of legend. There was also the happiness that met him upon returning to Breezehome after his battle with Sosyoldinok, the warm guiding through their love-making in the woods south-west of Hjaalmarch, the eagerness as she stood at his side in the mists of Sovngarde, staring down the World Eater face to face. There was also the joy of being honored by the Tongues of legend, of holding Lucia in her arms or carrying her on her back as they played in the fields outside of Evermore, and the strength that too often Eirik sought in her counsel when he lacked it himself.
Eirik shook his head. This could not happen, not again. He was the Dragonborn of legend, he had the power of the gods. He wouldn't hesitate, not this time. He knew what he had to do to save her, what he had to do.
"Ofa..." he muttered. But all that came from his mouth was blood, spattering onto Lydia's face. He could not speak, his breath came in ragged gasps and he could not even Shout: the only thing he could have used to heal her wound and it lay just beyond his grasp. Hot tears streamed down his face as he reached up to Lydia's face with his hand to wipe away the blood. Had Lydia given all of herself for him only for him to impotently spit blood in her face?
As he touched her face, he felt that it was cold to the touch, yet still as soft as that night in the woods. Her blue eyes were still gazing up at him, but now they were empty. Wordlessly he begged the Divines, even the daedric princes of Oblivion, to bring her back. For a moment he seemed paralyzed by sorrow, weeping into Lydia's chest with no thought of the battle around him.
Then suddenly there was another explosion from Auriel's Bow, and it all came back to him. Like a wave of fire it swept over him, filling every inch of his body with flaming rage. His eyes turned towards the doors of Castle Dour; blind to all else around him. Every breath ached as he charged towards the doors of the castle, but it didn't matter: he let the pain feed his anger. A Thalmor justicar appeared before him. He kicked the elf down with one foot, then leaped upon him, crushing the elf's face in with his fists. As two elves ran to defend their leader, Eirik jabbed one so hard with his gauntlet, the dragon-bone pierced the armor and embedded into the elf's flesh. Turning to the other one, Eirik seized her by the head and smashed her face into the stone wall to his left. He turned with fury in his eyes towards five elves standing before the stone stair-case leading up to the doors of the castle. Whimpering and begging for mercy, they threw down their weapons, fell to their knees and held up their hands. Without another thought, he leaped at the middle one fist first, sending him crashing down onto the stairs. He swung his hand back to strike the others, then felt that he still had a weapon. Drawing forth the great-sword of the Skaal, he ran one elf through, hacked off the head of another and split another down the center. The last two began running towards the castle in fear: Eirik threw the sword towards one, catching him in the back and sending him down dead and tripping the second one. Walking towards the last elf, he stomped the elf's ugly face in until there was nothing but a bloody mess like those who had fallen in the streets. Once he was sure there was nothing else standing before him and the castle, he drew the great-sword of the Skaal out of the back of the elf soldier and walked towards the castle doors, kicking them down before entering, sword in hand.
All was dark inside Castle Dour. The only light streamed in from the narrow windows in the side of the great stone keep. Even so, there seemed to be another kind of darkness, one that lingered on in the depths of the hallway. Eirik's footsteps echoed as he walked slowly forward, hearing no other sound besides himself. Finally he heard a laugh, cold, hard and haughty, echoing from somewhere before and beyond.
"Hello again, Eirik Bjornsson," the elvish voice greeted. "It's been a long time since I had you in the dungeons. How you keep getting out I'll never know."
Eirik tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse and he could not force himself to make the words. Once more he heard the laugh echoing throughout the keep.
"Doubtless your tiny human mind is struggling to remember when we last met," said the voice in retort to Eirik's unspoken thought. "It was last year, when you passed through Haafingar. We captured you and your fat Nordic b*tch, but you both escaped at the last minute." Eirik could feel anger rising up to throttle him out upon hearing the voice taunting him and Mjoll.
"What?" the elf asked. "Did you really think that I cared about laying your fat, ugly woman? Don't be so crude; your women are like orcs - fat, ugly and entirely too violent. No, I wanted to break your spirit. And now I see that I have. Your little housecarl did what all the threats and tortures could not do. Now I have you exactly where I want you."
The voice laughed again. "After our first little encounter, I wanted to learn everything about you. Then after the fiasco of Northwatch Keep, I decided that I should keep a closer eye on you. And that did not disappoint: you've proven to be a valuable asset to the Aldmeri Dominion. You've done in less than six months what the White-Gold Concordant could not effectively do in twenty years."
"No..." Eirik finally managed to get out of his lips, his voice hoarse and croaking. This only elicited more laughter from his unseen foe.
"Did you foolishly believe you were fighting me with your allegiance to Ulfric Stormcloak? We were enemies, but, like you, he served his purpose, until those pesky little Dunmer interfered. Now we have you..." He laughed again. "And you will serve quite nicely as Ulfric's successor."
"No," Eirik forced out again.
"Foolish human, when will you get it through your thick skull? The war is over, we've already won."
"Out...there..." Eirik forced out again, pointing back towards him.
"What? Your little band of renegades?" the elf taunted. "You think that winning one battle will make a difference? That it will make your little homeland safe?" He laughed. "That's what Titus Mede believed when he signed the White-Gold Concordant: it was an illusion, a comforting lie told to protect him and his frail people. The truth is that the war was never over: it was merely postponed. No matter the outcome of this battle, the war will go on. The Aldmeri Dominion will triumph...I will triumph."
"Fuck...you..." Eirik groaned.
The elf laughed again. "You do need to learn to respect your betters, slave. No matter, you will learn soon enough. Mighty Auri-El has given me the weapon he gave my people eons ago, when the Trickster Lorkhan created your mongrel race; the weapon he made to eradicate your kind from the world."
From out of the darkness, Eirik saw the Bow of Auriel drawn forth, an arrow placed into the string and pulled back. Though the great white bow shone like the sun, it gave off no light onto the bearer, save for the gleam of his squint yellow eyes. The elf drew back the bowstring and then, to his surprise and to Eirik's surprise, the bow merely vanished. One moment it was there and the next it faded like mist before the coming of the sun.
"No!" the elf roared. "Damn the gods for this treachery! I am Thelgil, you are my ancestors! How dare you do this to me!"
Eirik managed a coughing laugh, yet that was more than enough to keep the words back in his throat and off his tongue once again. Suddenly there was a flash and a fire-ball ignited a brazier, sending the room into a dim, reddish glow. Before him, Eirik saw the tall form of the Altmer known as Thelgil, high justicar and lord commander of the Aldmeri Dominion. Aside from his black robes, he was wearing something that glistened in the light of the brazier.
"Ancarion's death was merely a set-back," Thelgil said. "For you see, maggot, you and your pathetic comrade did not stop our operation. I still acquired what was sought after: stalhrim."
Eirik did not wait for Thelgil to strike him, he struck first. Swinging the great-sword wide, he aimed to take off the elf's tall head with one blow, but a clank like striking stone was heard: Thelgil bore a shield in one hand, which blocked the blow. But Eirik knew that he was still physically stronger than this frail-bodied elf, no matter what armor he wore. With a roar, he swung again, striking the stalhrim shield once again. A third time he struck and a fourth, but the elf was quick and held his shield in the way each time.
"Is that all you have, mongrel?" Thelgil laughed. "Too bad, I was almost hoping you would be a challenge."
Eirik then realized why Thelgil had no weapon in his right hand. Out the hand went and Eirik was suddenly pushed back, his whole body twitching as bolts of lightning arced through his sword and delivered pain to every inch of his body. Once again he heard the haughty laughter of Thelgil ringing in his ears as his body continued to convulse.
"All of that strength," he mocked. "And yet so easily subdued."
"S-Stop...talking!" Eirik groaned, finally forcing two words from his hoarse, aching throat.
"You have no rights here, human," retorted Thelgil. "I am your master and I will speak if I desire it, and you know your place, cur!"
Another wave of lightning swept over Eirik's body, wrenching a scream from his tortured throat. He was writhing on the floor, feeling blood in his mouth and the cold floor around him. His sword had fallen out of his hands: there seemed to be no escape. He knew that he could not shout again or else he would destroy his throat and never be able to speak or shout again, if he survived at all. The lightning illuminated the tall form of Thelgil, who loomed now over him, his yellow eyes glaring down with certainty upon his prey. It seemed more hopeless now than in any battle he had yet faced.
Eirik felt his senses start to go numb and the light was fading. Before his eyes he saw Mjoll smiling at him, one hand resting upon her large stomach and the other holding Lucia's hand, who stood at her side. Then he saw the twenty-one faces of the Sons of Skyrim, including old Galmar Stone-Fist, then he saw Lydia, Ulfric, Arvid, old Bjorn Thoreson, his father who awaited him in Sovngarde, and his flaxen-haired mother Signy, her eyes blue like Lake Ilinalta under a summer's sun; the same shade of blue as Lydia's eyes.
Give me strength, he prayed wordlessly. If I fail here, it's all been for nothing
At last Eirik could feel the lightning no more, but his eyesight was growing clearer and clearer. With a loud cry, he pushed himself up off the floor and charged Thelgil, throwing him off his feet and knocking him onto the ground. The lightning ceased and Eirik could feel his aching body, burning from where the lightning bolts had struck and burned him. But he was oblivious to it all, looking now for his sword as Thelgil hurried for his shield which he had dropped when thrown back.
"Do you think this means anything?" he taunted. "Whether I live or die is meaningless, you've already lost. You ignorant mongrels should know when you're conquered!"
"Never!" Eirik retorted.
Eirik seized the great-sword of the Skaal and charged at Thelgil, swinging his sword hither and yon. The stalhrim shield blocked every body, but Thelgil was not perturbed. Conjuring a sword from Aetherius, he began trading blows with Eirik, who had only his dragon-bone armor and his sword to fend them off.
"Pray, weakling!" Thelgil taunted. "For all the good that will do you. The Eight were never on your side!"
"No!" Eirik growled, swinging another blow that was deflected off the shield.
"And why should they heed your prayers, savage?" asked Thelgil. "Your mongrel race has worshiped dragons, daedra and the wind long before your kind stole the Eight from my people! You are a heathen, they will not heed your prayers."
"The past..." Eirik strained. "Is the past."
"And the future belongs to mer-kind!" Thelgil retorted.
Eirik struck again, unperturbed by Thelgil's taunts. He had had a long time to consider his words, from the mouth of Servius Crixus to the summit of Apocrypha and now to Castle Dour. He had been constantly reminded of his peoples' failings, of how they had failed to measure up to elven or Imperial standards of goodness and morality time and time again. It mattered not to him, nor would it ever matter again. The past was the past and it could not be changed. All Eirik could do, all any human could do, was make the best of the present. Galmar and Lydia gave their lives for him: to give up now would be a greater dishonor to their sacrifice than a little blood splattered upon their faces.
Again Eirik swung the great-sword, striking the shield with no effect. He swung again, putting all of his strength behind the blow. Thelgil's shield was pushed back, but he recovered from the blow, holding the shield back up. Eirik noticed that he did not recover as quickly now as he had before.
"Do what your kind do best, mongrel," Thelgil taunted. "Unleash your brute strength, but it will make no difference! Skyrim belongs to the Aldmeri Dominion!
"No!" Eirik rasped, as he swung again.
"It has always belonged to the elves! You savages stole it from its rightful owners, and soon, we shall reclaim what is rightfully ours!"
Once more Eirik swung and saw Thelgil's stalhrim shield raise up even slower than before. A life spent in the ivory towers on the Summerset Isles were no avail against one born in the woods of Falkreath, trained for twelve years with an axe against the trees. Thelgil did not have the stamina to stand toe to toe with Eirik, not without his magicks. Again Eirik swung, knocking back Thelgil's shield: for a brief moment he saw that, beneath his stalhrim breast-plate and fauld, there was a small place covered by nothing more than his black robes.
"Foolish worm! Can you not see? Elvish supremacy is the only truth! We are the future of your pathetic country! Skyrim belongs to the Thalmor, to the Dominion, to me!"
Like a storm, hurled by the North wind, Eirik struck three times with the great-sword of the Skaal. Thelgil was growing weaker and Eirik could see his opening. With a mighty fourth blow, he knocked back the elf's shield, then thrust the blade through the one hole in his armor. Thelgil's thin, squinting eyes widened in shock at the Nord's blow. Rage still fueling his body, Eirik lifted Thelgil off the ground.
"Skyrim..." Eirik rasped, his voice coming back. "...for the Nords, b*tch."
In one swift motion, he drew the sword out of Thelgil's abdomen, sending the elf down onto his knees. Following up the blow, he hacked off the elf's head with one clean swipe. Thelgil's body fell lifelessly onto the floor before him as Eirik cleaned off his blade. He sighed, then wiped the elf's blood off his face and collapsed onto the floor, the pain of the elf's assault finally getting to him.
It was not over, Eirik knew. It would never be over.
(AN: I bet you're all thinking that George R.R. Martin has hacked my fan-fiction account for the last two chapters, but I assure you that it is still me. This chapter was how i foresaw Eirik's part in this story concluding from last year, while i was writing those over-the-top arguments with Crixus. He finally is reconciled with his past, but at what cost?)
(Dany le fou, who has stopped reviewing [miss your reviews, dude] once said that he wondered if a happy ending were possible. Well, i still don't know if that's the case. I had to kill off Lydia [she died in my first play-through, the one that was the foundation for The Dragonborn and the Lioness - well she disappeared after I married Mjoll and was never seen again, not even in the Halls of the Dead], and, unlike my other fics where someone dies, she will stay dead. I also wanted to do something kind of similar to my fic Witch's Soul, where a beloved character dies ungracefully: the only difference is that Lydia isn't cursing Eirik into the grave, her eyes say everything.)
(Like all my stories, this chapter was fueled by music: everything from Heaven and Hell, Megadeth, Charlotte Church, the Shadows of the Colossus soundtrack, whatever it took to get this written. As for our villain, i tried to give him a little bit more development, but i don't know. He did, of course, get the stalhrim armor from Solstheim, that little bit from Dragonborn had its eventual payoff. His armor is sort of a cross between light stalhrim armor and the regular Thalmor robes. And yes, i had everyone's favorite Sherlock Holmes in mind when i designed this character: he screams of racist Altmer!)
