Special thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this chapter!

-L-

"I'm glad you have a moment to talk to me," Nenya said with a sigh.

"Why wouldn't I make time for you?" I asked sweetly.

Three nights ago, I'd assassinated the Thalmor (whose name I never bothered learning) and Siddgeir. Three days of chaos ensued, and the Stormcloak army was now in the region. Ulfric was holding them back, but Falkreath knew that they were about to find themselves in an untenable position. The Legion had tried to establish itself as being default leadership, to which the locals—agitated in no small part by Bolund who, as much as he dislikes Valga and her girls, detests Imperials in general—responded with a very loud outcry.

Although there was no violence yet, the town was seething with resentment on all sides—and the murmurs for Valga to take the throne warred with Legion snubs that it wasn't for the rabble to decide who would be the next Jarl—that decision, according to them, rested with the leadership in Solitude.

Technically both sides had a point, but usually, when there's no clear succession, either someone seizes power or is put forward by popular sentiment (often at the suggestion of the steward, when the candidate isn't the steward him- or her-self). Then, and only then, the High King or High Queen of the day is asked to give his or her blessing to the new leadership… or they depose the candidate themselves and appoint their own pick for the role. Politics in Skyrim is simpler than in Cyrodiil, and in a small Hold like Falkreath, there's more 'will of the people' rather than 'will of so-called important people.'

Valga's no fool, but I don't think she'll just put herself forward for Jarl. She might agree to take the role if the idea is proposed by someone else though, or as a result of a show of public support. The wild card is the Legion, but if Valga has the people's backing, even the Legion may not be able to do much. Especially if the people, squeezed as they are, jump in on the Stormcloaks' side when they come.

That's what has the Legion so nervous: what are the people going to do when arrows start flying? They should have given this more thought before camping on both of Falkreath's doorsteps.

Nenya had caught me in town, doing nothing more than being out and about—owning a summer home in the area as I did—and prevailed upon me to walk with her. We'd actually left Falkreath's environs, and the Legion's camps, which said this was a very private conversation indeed. "What are you trying to accomplish?" she asked finally, heaving a heavy sigh.

I blinked at her. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

Nenya gave me a grim look. "Leandra, I've lived much longer than you have. I've seen your type before, just as I've served great men and small men as steward of this Hold."

I said nothing, merely looked puzzled.

"I know you killed Namotil, and Siddgeir."

"You think I—"

For a moment, Nenya seemed to teeter on believing my shocked surprise. Then she slowly shook her head. "I didn't see you do it, it's true. But I know, in my heart, that you did—maybe yourself, maybe you just directed the knife strokes. It doesn't matter. Until now, your patterns have been hard to see. But you're here, now, in Falkreath, hanging around when any reasonable passerby would leave."

"I do own a home in this Hold," I pointed out, wondering what she was getting at and how to get her to speak out without admitting to the deaths.

"And you're never there. I've met Jon and Olfina—they're lovely people," Nenya answered with a shrug. "In fact, Olfina told me how you helped them out of their Whiterun difficulties. Now, Whiterun falls and you breeze in here… then two influential figures are dead and the Stormcloaks are at our door. But they're waiting, not taking advantage of the chaos. That's not Ulfric's pattern, nor his general's. It's the pattern of a circumspect mind, someone playing a longer game than those two usually do." She bent her golden gaze on me, and in spite of her autocratic, elongated elven features, the expression was kind. "All I want to know is what you want with Falkreath."

I sighed, composing my answer as quickly as I could, while still remaining careful. "I want what's good for Falkreath. And that means Falkreath being left to itself." There. I didn't cop to either of the murders, or to being in Ulfric's advisory cadre, or anything incriminating.

"Why? You don't really belong to the Hold."

It was my turn to sigh. "Because this war is an ugly thing. The sooner it's over, the better."

Nenya studied me for a long time, as if she could read my intentions or deeper thoughts. Then she shook her head. "I believe you. And I won't ask you anymore sensitive questions. I take it you're in favor of Valga for Jarl?"

I gave her a wry smile. "Forgive me for not suggesting you, but I never had the impression you wanted that position."

Nenya laughed, a real laugh, and shook her head. "Not I! But I agree that Valga is the best candidate. Some might suggest Bolund—"

"But he and his brother were too deep in the former Jarl's service," I finished when she broke off with a grimace. "Better if Falkreath can get away from that kind of corruption." And Bolund is likely susceptible to that 'Skyrim for the Nords, outsiders out' nonsense.

"Indeed," Nenya nodded. She grew serious quickly. "I want to protect my home. Is there a way—any way—to avoid fighting between the Legion and the Stormcloaks?"

"Only if the Legion isn't straddling Falkreath like it is. Would you propose Valga to the citizenry?"

Nenya nodded again. "Someone did a piss-poor job of organizing the Legion. Tullius is usually much more careful."

The rumor is that he's been cut off, left to handle this war without the Empire throwing resources his way. He's got to be more careful than ever, but he's rattled: he can be replaced if the Empire doesn't see some kind of progress.

If ever he was going to start making mistakes, now is the time. And apparently, he's making them.

"I shouldn't be grateful for anyone's death," Nenya suddenly announced. "But I'm grateful that Namotil is dead, and that I didn't have to kill him myself. I'm too settled here in Falkreath to want to leave."

It suddenly clicked why Nenya and I were having this talk: she was hoping that, if the situation arose, I might speak for her when those myopic, race-conscious elements of Ulfric's army started their nonsense with her, or tried to spread it like manure in a garden in Falkreath. Runil has the benefit of being a member of the clergy—even Rolff Stone-Fist might be careful dealing with a priest—but Nenya doesn't.

"Don't worry, Nenya. I'll do everything in my power to help Falkreath weather this storm," I assured her, putting a hand on her arm.

"Then we'll need to hurry. Armies don't wait patiently," she said, drawing herself up. "As steward, Siddgeir's circlet and signet ring came into my care. The best we can hope to do is to call a town meeting this afternoon and recommend Valga as Jarl. If the majority of the town agrees, we can go from there."

"She needs a housecarl, someone to bring to a fight. Especially if the Legion decides that their customs supersede those of Skyrim."

Nenya, to my surprise, chuckled. "Helvard will do it, if I ask him. He's a decent fellow, loyal to his Jarl, but he's also been my silent partner in trying to keep this Hold afloat for years. He's not loyal to Siddgeir, so much as to the position of Jarl. Of course, he's taking Siddgeir's death badly, but I think if he had something constructive to do—Falkreath for Falkreath, as it were—he'd die to ensure stability."

"Well, let us hope it won't come to that," I finished, reading the twist of her expression correctly.

"Will you speak to Valga? I tried… and she seemed not unwilling, but not quite sold on the idea. You're a little more persuasive. It's imperative that none of this be sprung on her," Nenya declared.

People don't like that kind of surprise, after all. "Once she's Jarl, can she simply evict the Legion? Will they be obligated to leave?"

"She can revoke the former Jarl's invitation, yes. But the problem is that they're technically not within the town, and unless she wants to make a blanket rejection of the Legion—"

"Which she won't do."

"—we'll have to come up with some other pressure to induce the Legion to unass our doorsteps," Nenya concluded bitterly.

Valga won't issue a blanket statement: that would get her branded as a Stormcloak sympathizer and if the Legion manages to turn the tables—the balance of which is only just now beginning to tip out of stalemate—they'll take their revenge out on her.

"I'll talk to Valga. You talk to Helvard."

We'd taken about ten paces back towards Falkreath before Nenya spoke again. "Leandra? There is one more thing I wanted to ask you."

"Of course."

The Altmer studied me closely. "You've done a great deal for Falkreath, been a good friend to us. I sense that we will need good friends very soon. And, although it's crass to say it, friends with influence. I want to propose to the new Jarl that you be instated as Thane of Falkreath. You already own property here, and I have the sense that you talk to a great many people… and that those people listen."

Thane again? That would make three of the nine Holds. I am moving up in the world.

"And, of course, if you would do this for me, I would gladly offer you whatever support I can—provided it isn't detrimental to Falkreath."

Something in my stomach shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure I understand you, Nenya." I understood perfectly: she guesses I'm influential enough to step in if Falkreath needs an advocate. She's laying the groundwork for the Hold's future, and making me a central pillar of its rebuilding phase.

Nenya's expression was perfectly neutral, but there was a heaviness behind her eyes. "I don't know how better to say it. It's good to have friends, and perhaps it will benefit you someday to have the friendship of the Steward of Falkreath. Besides, as Thane, I'm sure Valga will appreciate your counsel, even if it means waiting on couriers. Valga knows Falkreath, but you know more of Skyrim. Broader horizons. I want what's best for Falkreath… and I believe that, whatever colors you choose to wear, you don't let them interfere with your eyesight."

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised at being identified like this. Nenya is, after all, much older than she looks, and I've only been in intrigue less than a year. "It's a great honor. I worry that I won't be able to perform my duties to their full extent."

Nenya relaxed a little. "Don't worry about that just now. There are plenty of people who can manage the small things. Besides, I sense we'll need all the trading partners we can get, soon. And you happen to be in that business, are you not?"

It was a deliberate change of subject, and one I was glad to seize upon.

-L-

"You know, Nenya was saying as much to me yesterday," Valga sighed, wiping her forehead. Usually, she won't let guests into the kitchen, but in my case she made an exception. "I don't think I'd like it… but I certainly don't like the Legion running roughshod over Falkreath. You know, we almost had a brawl in here last night? Here!" She shook her head, looking mutinous as she sliced turnips for the stew, giving the impression of being glad for an excuse not to be in her own main room.

"Here? But this is a respectable place!"

"I know it," Valga grunted, beginning to chop carrots into unusually uneven chunks. "That Bolund. I'd have turned him out on his ear if that Legion idiot hadn't risen to his bait."

"Has the Legion sent word to Solitude about the lack of leadership here?"

Valga smiled thinly, expression grim with dark amusement. "You know better than that: they claim they can't risk one of their runners—or the letter he carried—trying to get past the army poised north of us. You mark my words: the Legion's attempts to police who comes in and goes out of Falkreath? It's a token gesture if someone really wanted to get in."

Naturally: look at Namotil and Siddgeir.

"Well, if the Legion won't do something constructive," Valga fumed, "I suppose it's up to us—not that I didn't know that before. I simply thought they'd be a little less antagonistic. It's like the master of the house has gone and they're suddenly forgetting to take off their boots, tracking up the house!"

I had to chuckle at this: if there's one thing Valga hates, it's a filthy floor. "Well, if there's anything I can do, you know you need only ask."

"Well, between you and me, I thought about giving those Legion idiots something to keep them occupied, but someone beat me to it. Did you hear about that?"

"I knew something happened to the garrison. From the smell, they ate something that didn't agree with them," I answered vaguely.

"Oh, yes. Of course, it's made them more paranoid than ever, so no chance of seeing if lightning strikes twice," Valga concluded, giving the soup a stir. She frowned into the cauldron as if it might give her answers to her unvoiced questions. "And I thought Dengeir's concerns over my cooking were insulting."

At that moment, Narri sailed in. "Valga, they're asking if they can just take a couple kegs back to the camp," she said, patting her sweaty hair away from her face; the locks continuer to straggle, giving her a terribly disheveled look.

"If they can pay for it, they can have as many as they want," Valga answered shortly, though she managed to soften her tone at the end of the sentence.

Narri flushed.

Valga's eyes went narrow. "You don't mean to say they're asking us to let them run up a tab?"

Narri nodded… but something about the way she did it left Valga looking black.

"Or did they want us to donate a couple kegs?" she asked dangerously.

Narri nodded. "They-they're getting tired of the bad relations with the town," she answered in a whisper.

"Stay here and watch the soup," Valga declared, absently waving the ladle she held like a sword. "I'll have a word with these… gentlemen. Which one?"

Narri gave a description, at which point Valga stormed off. A moment later, Valga's voice arose, furious indignation etching every word as she demanded anyone in Legion armor should leave her establishment immediately.

Apparently the Legionnaire in question argued.

I caught the word 'shrew' and seconds later recognized the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

"Stay here," I commanded Narri, who really looked too terrified to leave her post.

I reached the door to the main room in time to see several Legionnaires trying to intercede for their friend, who had just taken Valga's ladle first to the gut, then again to the back of the head, and several more who looked ready to join the fight, because the locals in the tavern were already on their feet.

I almost missed the door opening to admit Nenya, Helvard, and several of the Jarl's house guard. Nenya took in the scene and stomped twice on the floor: a thin sheen of ice appeared on the floorboards, sending everyone who didn't pay immediate attention to their footing slipping and sliding. Several people went down without ever securing their footing.

"What is going on here?" Nenya demanded. Then, without waiting for an answer, her tone dropping dangerously as she regarded Valga. "What happened to your face?"

"Some Imperial lout," Valga almost spat, more angry than frightened, "felt it was out of order for me to refuse to let them make off with my kegs. I demanded they leave and he… took offense."

Nenya turned to the assembly. "Which one?"

Valga indicated the one being restrained by his friends.

"We're a civilized people," Nenya grated out, her tone as hard and cold as a Windhelm gust. "And in the absence of a Jarl, authority in this Hold falls to his steward. That's me. House guard: take this man and place him under arrest. I suggest all you Legionnaires clear out. Falkreath is holding a town meeting and it is not a matter for outsiders…"

For a moment, I thought she was going to call me, loudly and obviously, out of habit, by my real name, which was not the name I gave the guards as I passed in and out of the town. However, Nenya was with me when I declared myself to be 'Melisande Grey.'

Fortunately, she being aware of this, she didn't cause any trouble as she continued, "It's a meeting for locals… and trusted friends." She gave me a significant look. "I shall be having a word with your superiors." Despite having just arrived, she followed the guards frog-marching the Legionnaire out of the inn. The rest of the house guard ensured the Legion cleared out, leaving a very angry Valga to return to her kitchen.

Narri emerged a moment later, looking shaken. "This… things are going to get very bad, aren't they?" she asked in a near-whisper.

"They certainly don't look good," I allowed. "But you never know."

-L-

"It is for this reason," Nenya's voice carried over the packed main room at the Dead Man's Drink, into which all the immediate residents of Falkreath and more than a few from nearby homesteads had packed.

It was far too hot really, and not even the cooling glasses of herb tea Valga provided—iced down by Nenya before the meeting started—could really make up for that. Even with all the windows and doors open, the atmosphere seemed smothering, largely because of the Legion 'spies'—and I use the term loosely—listening in from outside on what was going on in here.

Apparently, Nenya had had a rip-roaring argument with the commander of the garrison, first over her right to detain and imprison his man, then over his abuse of Falkreath's hospitality by trying to defend the instigator of a brawl who was trying to steal under a guise of propriety, then over his bringing down a threat on Falkreath by straddling it like a boy-child just learning to aim.

It was when the commander of the garrison went so far as to voice suspicion that Nenya had something to do with Namotil's death that Helvard stepped in, and as a result the majority of the corps of officers who had been using the Jarl's longhouse as a barrack voluntarily withdrew to the two camps flanking Falkreath. Most of these did so in an effort to try to mend fences with the locals: 'you don't want us here? Fine, we're gone.'

It seemed even the Legion's leadership was having different opinions about how things should proceed: some felt Nenya's anger on behalf of the innkeeper was more than justified; others felt there was too much blame on both sides for anyone to judge fairly; others felt these grubby peasants should be grateful… but grateful for what, when Nenya apparently challenged this, no one would say.

Part of this I heard from the porch of the Dead Man's Drink—people in the longhouse were making a Daedric Prince's own racket—and part of it I got from Nenya herself. Apparently, she felt it necessary to keep me up to date on what was going on. I couldn't complain, and got the feeling she was glad to have an intrigue-minded person to consult with.

Or maybe she just needed to rant, because I'd never seen the composed Elf so frazzled in all the time I've known her. Not terribly long, granted, but I imagine working for Siddgeir would instill one with patience.

"It is for this reason," Nenya repeated, holding up her hands for silence. "That I propose Valga Vinicia assume the role of Jarl of Falkreath!"

She'd given all the good, solid, legitimate reasons for this recommendation, and most of the room agreed. You could tell just by the fact that the cheers and sound of support were louder than the noise of those opposed.

The fact is that Falkreath can't remain leaderless at a time like this. Not with the way the Legion has been acting. Not with a hostile force within a few hours march, glowering at this city and its contingent of Legionnaires—someone has to have the authority to treat with the invaders, after all.

It was really as simple as a majority-rules vote. As soon as it became apparent that the majority was in favor—Bolund and a few of his friends were not, but they were far too few to matter—Nenya nodded.

When Nenya spoke, the room fell almost totally silent. "As Steward of Falkreath, I recognize the will of the people by recognizing you, Valga Vinicia, as Jarl of this Hold, just as I will recognize any of your direct line as having the right to assume the Jarlship should you pass." She held up the coronet of the late Jarl Siddgeir. "I bestow upon you the tokens of office: the coronet and the signet of Falkreath. May you rule justly, wisely, and well." The coronet went on Valga's head—she looked as though she might be sick from nerves—and the ring went on her finger.

There was some noise at this, mingled confidence that she couldn't be worse than Siddgeir and hope that things would look up now that there was some proper leadership who knew how to handle money.

In Skyrim, this was as much as was required for picking an interim Jarl. True, tradition demanded that the High King or High Queen give his or her blessing, but as no one currently fills the throne, there's no one to ask.

So, as soon as Helvard swore himself to Valga's service—and Valga uneasily accepted it—Helvard and Valga headed for the longhouse.

"Thanes of Falkreath," and here, Nenya gave me a look to indicate I should count myself among them, "please join us."

I followed Thadgeir and two men I didn't know, but who had a rather ill-favored look about them—such that I took them to be two of Siddgeir's flunkies. They certainly didn't seem happy about… well, anything, really. I suppose with Siddgeir's death, their easy life is over. They'll be expected to live up to the title of Thane. Perhaps they even expected the Jarlship to pass to them, but if they did they were sensible enough not to push a people already feeling squeezed.

And if they don't pull their weight as Thane, they'll suffer the real humiliation of being stripped of their rank. It's not usual for a Thane to be removed from the position, but it's happened often enough for there to be precedent.