Now the Dragons are Gone

by SomeSod

Harkon, Miraak and Aldiun are dead. Ulfric Stormcloak's corpse lies in an unmarked traitor's grave as Elisif the Fair rules from the Blue Palace, Queen of Skyrim by the will of The Divines, and the might of the Imperial Legions. With mature content and adult themes throughout as our exhausted heroes try to return to their previous lives in a world which no longer needs them.

5. Chapter 5: Doom-Driven Hero

Chapter Five: Doom Driven-Hero.

Erik II

Erik waited anxiously for Lydia's verdict, trailing in her wake with a pair of broadswords cradled in his arms. She pulled a longsword down from its rack, unsheathed it with a rasp and carefully held the blade up closely before her brown eyes to the flickering lamp light. With so many weapons and pieces of armour in one place daily maintenance was required by Erik in a constant battle with the damp. A battle which following yesterday's storm had seen Erik spent much of his morning and afternoon carefully checking every blade in the armoury for rust or pitting to ensure everything was perfect for Lydia's inspection.

"Good." Lydia grunted as she sheathed the blade with a snap and returned it, before pulling its neighbour down.

"Little bit of rust here. Get that out." she said, tapping a few small flecks of pitting he had missed with her forefinger, sheathing it and placing it with the pair he was already carrying. She pulled an old Dawnguard arming sword down next and repeated the performance.

"You've done your best with this one- but do you see that flaking there?" She held it up before his eyes- the old blade had a tarnished, two-tone quality to it, like the Hamon line on the Akaviri blades he had seen.

"I found that one difficult- something's wrong with the metal- it's all tarnished, and the oil and cloth were causing the blade to flake."

"The Dawnguard used to silver-plate their sword blades during the fight against the Volkihar- a neat trick but expensive. The silver would flake on a strike that and left small flakes behind in the wounds, but then you need to silver the thing again. Don't worry about the flakes the fall off, keep the steel in good repair and we'll send it to be re-silvered it if we ever need it again." She put it back on its rack.

Moving to the next one, they quickly worked through the Beren's personal weapons- a matching set of Skyforged steel dagger, arming sword and greatsword. The steel was rippled oil, and had kept its sharp edge far better than any of the other blades had. Lydia paid far more careful attention to these weapons, still in use and likely to be called forth, than the older ones which had been set aside. These were placed back on their stand, and Beric's ebony bastard sword and mace were the next weapons checked. Both of the brothers maintained their own blades, but they were stored in the armoury with all the other weapons and Lydia was nothing if not thorough in her duties as housecarl.

"Not a bad effort overall. Get the few spots you missed out of those last two, and put that longsword grip to be rebound to the side. Leave everything that isn't critical until next week." She nodded approvingly, and left Erik, her inspection complete.

Erik released his breath as she stomped out and closed the doors behind her, and dropped the weapons with a clatter onto a nearby workbench. Exhausted, but filled with pride and relief at having passed his first big test as the Dragonborn's squire. Keen to finish while the sun was still up and before afternoon turned to early evening, he unsheathed the blade and pulled out some old rags, a bottle of vinegar and a pot of sand to begin the process of removing the small spots of rust that pitted the old steel sword.

Lydia had handed over the responsibility for maintaining all the weapons to him early on, and while his morning where filled with training and the day-to-day tasks of being a squire, his afternoons had been increasingly filled with the job of getting the weapons up to an appropriate standard, no easy task in and of itself. After two years of war, they had managed to collect nearly a hundred weapons- blunt-bladed training swords, trophies from battlefield, relics from Draugr tombs or the like as well as presents from Jarls and other nobles as gestures of respect and symbols of rank. Most them had been left behind during Tullius's campaign, a select few carried on the battlefield. When their party had returned, Lydia had turned her ire upon the servants at how the blades had been neglected in their absence. Weapons had been quietly retrieved in the afternoons while Serana and Beric practiced their swordplay, and taken out into the yard or under the covered porch to the rear of the estate. She had explained the job simply, he was to maintain the armoury, and she would carry out a random check on a handful of weapons once a week, with a full check against the itinerary within the month to ensure nothing had been stolen or was otherwise missing from its proper place.

Initially he had been intimidated by the amount of work and effort that would take, but had been surprised when the others had joined him out on the sunny little porch, oily rags to hand as they maintained their own blades and spoke of the inconsequential little business of the day, teasing each other as they had on the road and on the hunt to Half-Moon camp as they took little breaks from their daily worries. It was that which had made the task easier, and he had slowly been welcomed into their banter. Their personal weapons, had been utilitarian things excellently maintained.

It was a far call from the weapons at home that he had maintained as a page in his father's service. Thane Erikur's armoury had been more for show than war, where the ornately worked silver and gold had dripped from the hilts of blunt never-sharped blades who lacked history and any foreseeable use, which left his work unappreciated and unacknowledged, and fearing what becoming a squire in Solitude would be very similar as he served another member of the local nobility who had sat out the war. Squires had been originally a Breton institution which had spread across the Empire amongst the sons and daughter of the martially-minded nobility. His father seemed to have grasped the concept and been excited by the possibilities it offered for alliances between families, but didn't care for the work that was to be carried out by them, having lacked a military education in his youth or any military service as a man, which made a mockery of the blades he had polished and sharpened. Now, here in Whiterun, everything had a purpose, instead of polishing display weapons, counting beans and learning to recite poetry at length here it was weapons of war which were oiled and polished, arrows and bolts that were counted and he copied letter and wrote replies from the Dragonborn's signature.

He has discovered an audience amongst his peers for his efforts, the squires and pages of Whiterun, so different from his friends in Solitude. Often, they had been sent out while their masters had talked politics and the affairs of the city and their estates, left to entertain themselves. Many were his own age if not older, and they told him of the ancient and recent histories of Whiterun- the arrival of the legions marching north through the Pale Pass, or south down the Rorikstead road from Solitude. Some had been bloodied in combat, their faces arms, chest or legs marked by scars honourably earned that stood out white and red upon their skin. They had been old enough to dare to flirt with Serana, only to be sent away with a scathing put down or dismissive joke, said without spite and taken with good humour, to be received with laughter by the rest of them as they watched from across the room. All had been interested, near jealous of him as he toured the armoury to them, showing them carefully picked blades of Skyforged steel, ebony, glass and a number of other exotic materials, weapons of types and shapes that they had never seen and which far outstripped their master's weapons in their workmanship and histories.

Keen to impress, he had redoubled his efforts to maintain the blades lest one of the squires pull one down and unsheathe a sword or dagger in interest, only to reveal a rusted blade that would embarrass him and the rest of the household. Lydia had driven him hard, but with an audience of his own peers that would judge his work, he took deep pride at the way that they looked at the well-maintained blades with interest and respect. In return he had told them of history of the armoury's blades, and the rescue of Frothar Half-Moon Camp. Most off all, they had wanted to hear about the Thu'um. Many had heard the call of the Greybeard, or it's use at the Battle of Whiterun when the Stormcloaks had tried to carry the city by escalade. Many had been unconvinced of claims from during the battle that the battering rams and ladders had been smashed by the Thu'um, arguing that the green wood or numbers of men upon them had broken them apart. But none had seen it. He had. He had watched the assault go in from the edge of the treeline, and had heard the thunderclap and seen the wall fall. It had come apart like rotten wood under on the chopping block, and even at the distance he had been he had seen the ground as it had seemed to ripple like blanket tugged across the bed or an ocean wave at the power of the shout racing over it. The squires had been interested in that story, even though he had been embarrassed to admit that he had sat the battle out, though given their masters had sat out Tullius's campaign they had little to brag about.

The double doors banged open behind him, and he turned on his stool and then jumped up, but Beren waved him back down. He was wearing training clothes- a thick gambeson over a shirt and loose leggings, which he was not particularly surprised to see. He had made his name in the practice and perfection of his martial skills, and he would often spend an extra hour in the evening practicing blade and footwork before dinner as an almost meditative way to exercise away the stresses of the day, eager to escape the politics which threatened to chain him to his desk.

"Satisfied Lydia with her inspection then?" he asked pleasantly, twitching a pair of leather gloves onto his hands and pulling a wooden greatsword of a rack, giving it an experimental twirl as he allowed the lead-weighed wood to settle in his hands.

"She spotted a couple of spots of rust on two of the blades, I'm just fixing them now."

"It was probably the storm from yesterday, the rain sets the steel to sweating, especially if it's in a metal scabbard." He nodded knowledgeably.

"I'll make sure to wax the blades after I've gotten the pitting out, what should help them last better through the winter." Beren nodded in approval as he slowly moved through stance to stance, getting the muscles used to working again after his last meeting with the companions had finished.

"So, Ingun then." Beren said, and he felt his cheeks reddening. "that's a smart match these days, marrying a Black-Briar. How does it feel to be married to the second in line to the Jarl of Riften?"

"I don't really know." He said awkwardly, honestly. He had not really given it much thought. "I've not even seen her." A contract had been drawn up and an amulet of Mara sent by messenger on his behalf, and a short letter of acknowledgement came in reply. So far it all felt very business-like, like buying a prize mare.

"Beric has, she's the splitting image of her mother apparently. Tall, pale, long brunette hair. Pretty girl, though rather quiet and studious, very interested in alchemy." He said off-hand, his words accompanied by the swish of the wooden blade.

"A bit like Serana?" he asked, suddenly worried and awkward. The thought of marrying the acerbic, highly intelligent and superficially friendly woman did not appeal to him.

"Why, would you like that?" he asked, suddenly serious, turning on the spot, sword raised in oxguard stance, sighting along the blade at him.

"Umm…." he stuttered, taken aback and awkward at the blunt question, not wanting to insult Serana or question his choice of advisors.

"Is there something wrong with Serana?" he asked, a guarded, inquisitorial look on his face as he advance on Erik slowly, weapon at the ready, pace steady.

"No! nothing wrong…. just..." he didn't think himself unduly biased but felt that magic was occasionally useful but generally something best left to the other races, and that darker magics were best left alone altogether. The Gods punished those like the Dunmer who cavorted with Daedra and practiced the darker arts of necromancy, or who worked with the Undead. Could any who had seen the history of Morrowind say otherwise? Also, his father would be disappointed at such an unpromising match, marrying a woman without station, limited wealth or oath-sworn and honour-bound allies. Where the commons could marry for love, it was the responsibility of the nobility to put such selfish desires aside. He would honour his father's judgement, his family's agreement, do his duty and marry the woman despite whatever reservations he might have, and in so doing demonstrate his nobility and honour to family, his peers and the common people.

"I'm just teasing you Erik." He dropped the guard at Erik's long pause and a smile playing on his face as she shook his head gently and Erik flushed, rather embarrassed at falling for the gentle teasing.

"Are you worried because she's a bit older than you?" He asked quietly.

"There's a little bit of that I suppose…And I also I don't know anything about her. What she's like as a person." Beren thought for a moment as he moved into the centre of the room, fluidly moving from stance to stance as he slowly increased the speed of his movements.

"Did you know that Aela is older than me?" he nodded, sword and rust spots forgotten.

"When I was brought to The Companions my brother had left Whiterun for the College, and I was taken into service as a servant. I remember seeing Aela then, already a legend in The Companions and just promoted as one of the youngest members of The Circle. I was in awe of her, seeing her up close. But I felt like I didn't even exist to her. All day it was 'polish this, sharpen that, hurry there and hurry back.'…I don't suppose that sounds familiar." Beren asked with a little grin over his shoulder, and he grinned back, self-conscious and interested. "Then she asked me to spar with her, and she pushed for me to enter the trails. Once I had proven myself, we went on a few hunts, came back, got drunk together, talking away deep into the night. Before I knew it, we were inseparable, always running off together for the next hunt, the next fight, never able to sit still no matter how much we were scolded for it." The sentences were interspersed with the clatter of the training sword on the dummy, punctuated with a flurry of hits and grunts as he battered the targets.

"I heard about Aela, even in Solitude, how she hunted a man-killing giant for her entry into the circle, how she brought it down with a single arrow to the eye from a hundred paces." He said, warming to the subject.

"So, what does the lovely Ingun enjoy, besides alchemy and her books?" he asked over his shoulder

"I… I don't know.. I haven't asked." He admitted ruefully. He didn't want to think of it much to be honest. And besides, life as a squire kept him too busy to think much about the future.

"You should talk to Beric about her, he's met her, briefly. He's very well connected. Or your father, Thane Erikur. Surely he's spoken of the Black-Briars?"

"Yes! All the time actually. Dad respects Maven a lot, admires her to be honest. She made her money through trade and commerce like Dad, though the traditional Thanes and Jarls despise her for it, just like they do us. The Court liked to whisper about how she sold out her own city for a throne, but Dad says that most Jarls and Thanes are more obsessed with honour and respect than peace and good government. Says that he told them they had plenty of time to create their own solution, and shouldn't criticise others for what they're not prepared to do themselves."

Erik wasn't convinced. He had always felt closer to his aunt Bryling than his father. He had little patience for the numbers which never obeyed his sums, even as the lines of the ancient odes burned into his head without effort. Money may measure a man's value, but honour measures his character, and deep down he knew he would not be standing here if his father wasn't deeply lacking in that particular line of credit.

"What does he think of Elisif, our Queen then? Her cunning little trick with the traitor Jarls and the Moot certainly seems to fit into that mindset and seems out of character for Elisif. Was that on your father's advice?"

"I don't know." He said honestly. He remembered their execution and shivered. "I think father would have approved of the decision though. He would argue that it needed to be done, otherwise they could always remain figures around which Stormcloak plots could be rallied. Elisif sent a strong message, acting like she did. Sometimes a Queen needs to be hard to govern well, to be seen as strong in her own right, rather than relying upon others for strength." He spoke clearly, carefully, reluctant to speak publicly against the Queen. They had been traitors, and deserved a traitor's death for sure, but executing unarmed and half-blind prisoners to secure the throne and intimidate your rivals struck him as an action driven by fear and desperation rather than confidence.

"Seems an ill-omened rise to power, to execute someone else's prisoners for your own gain, especially if you claim to unite the kingdom under your rule. If Elisif had delayed until after the Moot she would have looked merciful had she ransomed them into exile like many of their family and friends in Hammerfell. Dead before the Moot at Elisif's hands they're martyrs to the cause, with families angry for revenge. Although I suppose the Stormcloaks don't lack in that category." Beren sounded bitter and aggrieved and looked like he was going to say something else on the topic, but thought better of it. Erik was surprised, but held his tongue. If the Dragonborn wanted to gainsay the Queen, then he was free to do so, but he was just a squire. Beren seemed to notice his unease, but didn't comment on it.

"The Potentate seems to also share your father's views; did you know that?" he asked.

"He does sir?" Erik asked surprised, he didn't know Beren had met the Potentate, and said as much.

"No, I've not met him. but he's a Breton, and he's got a Breton's way of doing things. Titus Mede was an Imperial General, but he fought for the throne like a Nord. Came to power as a warlord, leading a small band to seize the Ruby Throne from an unworthy pretender. I know that Amaund Motierre politicked his way to the Potentate, plotted his way to power. You can respect that I suppose, not the most honourable approach but effective, so long as the coin lasts…at least he earned his position, in his own way and with his own strength, such as it is. That's admirable..." Beren grew quiet for a while, and his exercises stopped as he dropped the training sword to his side.

"…They say the next great war has already started, that's why they picked Amaund. He's focused upon the southern borders with the Thalmor, leaves the provinces to sort out their own little problems so long as it doesn't affect the bigger strategy. They needed someone who fights like the Thalmor- spies, assassins and secret plots. They fighting in the shadows as soldiers and warriors prepare for a war that will never see the light of day."

Erik looked uneasily around the room line with readied weapons, thinking. He wasn't convinced, and neither was Beren by the sounds of it. The Thalmor and the Stormcloaks had both stolen a march upon the forces of the empire through surprise and underhand tactics, but in the end the Imperial Legion had prevailed despite their tricks and how their loyalties to the nine tested their oaths.

"Well sir, I think that the Thalmor had the advantage when they killed the blades and took the empire by surprise. The battle of Red Ring, and their attempt at fighting Hammerfell shows that men can beat the Thalmor time and again on an even footing. And next time it won't be a surprise."

Beren nodded in agreement.

"We're going to have to re-fight the great war because we were offered a peace without honour, we all know that, we can't do anything about it. But we can stop the civil war from being re-fought. The Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns might be playing their little games of cat and mouse this past week, but tomorrow they'll put their swords away and beg for an end to it. Foolish pride, fear and self-interest called them out to fight, and they've both paid the blood-price for it. I'll offer them honour, mercy and justice, and they'll take that for free. Sure, they'll shout and scream at first, but once they've exhausted themselves making a scene, and I've cracked a few heads on both sides and cowed the rest, we'll roll out a few barrels of Black-Briar Reserve, and put this mess of the past few years behind us. The Potentate will need to learn the lessons of the civil war, see the value of the warriors and soldiers who won it. Just as Elisif will learn what sort of justice is require from Skyrim's monarch, what strength a warrior can bring."

Beren grew serious at the end, and nodded, half distracted and half angry with himself. He turned back to the chalked floor, and spent another half hour or so in quiet but increasingly violent exercise until he was dripping with sweat and the air blurred around him, vibrating with a constant swish of the stroke and thundercrack of impact. Erik worked the small spots of pitted rust out of the blades before carefully waxing the blades to protect them now that autumn storms and winter snows were beckoning on the horizon. Erik finished the job shortly after Beren left. He carefully checked over the two blades, now gleaming and absolutely rust-spot free, sheathed them and returned them to the weapons racks which ran around the room and the open central area with its chalked floor and the training dummies.

If he was luckily, he thought, checking the faint light still peeking through the small barred windows of the armoury, he could rush down to the Gildergreen inn for a quick pint and a slap-up supper with his friends. It had become habit they had formed every Fredas evening, allowing them to get away from their chores and their masters for an evening with a few friends their own age. While the city was on edge, the guard patrolled this district in force and he hadn't been explicitly told not to go out this evening, just to be mindful of tomorrow's responsibilities. He slipped out and closed the door carefully, locking them with masterfully worked key, watching in awe as the keyhole melted away once the key was withdrawn. That was a neat trick of enchanting he thought, though he would have preferred Durag's dwemer locks to have been set on the armoury door rather than Serana's magical ones. He tucked the key away and set off happily humming in search of Serana. He checked the office, and disappointed went on to search the library. He was unsurprised to find Serana and Beric sitting together with their backs to him, where they seemed to be having a quiet but heated argument beside a table covered in papers and open magical tomes.

"I can't leave Serana. I'm sorry but that's utterly impossible. You've seen how Aela thinks, and Durag..."

they both jumped when the floor creaked under him and looked up to see him spying from the doorway, both looked wounded, embarrassed and a little put-out at the intrusion.

"Armoury key." He said, embarrassed, holding it up in his hands awkwardly.

"Thanks Erik. I was just about to come searching for that actually." She said, holding her hand out for it from her chair. He rushed across the room and handed in over, and she slipping the key onto its ring with the others with clumsy fingers, swallowing uneasily. He hesitated for a moment, wishing he had caught her alone.

"I'm just heading down to the Gildergreen inn to see my friends for a bit." He started moving out of the room, eager to head off before another chore could be added to his list.

"Be back before sundown." Beric nodded from beside her. "It's Jeek's day tomorrow and we need you to have a clear head and be fresh and ready for an early start."

"Yes sir." He promised for what was beginning to feel like the hundredth time, rushing away.

---

Erik hurried back to the main hall and left via the north wing, heading through the trophy room and entrance hall where animal trophies and armour recovered from a dozen skirmishes and battlefield were displayed for visitors to inspect while they waited for their appointments, though by this time they had all been seen and any others had been turned away for the night. He slipped past the skull of Mirmulnir and out the large double main doors, and then waited as the porter let him through the estate's gates where even at this late hour a number of petitioners and beggars were waiting, hoping to be seen by Beren or his brother to discuss some slight, plan or scheme. There were also the usual collect of the sad, mad and desperate, who attempted to mob him with all sorts of offers shouted shamelessly in the street- sexual favours in exchange for access came from a lithe Bosmer woman, dire warnings of doom from a bowed Breton, naked save his beard which grew grey all the way to his groin, while a Nord hooded and cloaked and leaning on a staff ranted of owls by day and robins by night, alleging the behaviour of these wild birds as a prophecy from Kyne that was sure to be in the Dragonborn's favour if he could just have a minute of his time. Many came back every day, and some recognised him as the Dragonborn's squire. but a healthy diet and strict regime of daily exercise made him quick and strong enough to avoid being stopped for long, and his openly displayed arming sword, on which he casually rested a hand deterred the rest. He nodded to a pair of town guards who were trying to chivvy the die-hards along, and made his way alone the sparsely attended winding lanes that wound though stone walled estates of the Winds District before emerging onto the main road that led him towards Gildergreen square.

Here he encountered more people. The town guard was out in force, patrolling in teams of six or twelve under their file- and watch-leaders, watching with warry eyes the mobbing crowds. Whiterun was filled to bursting with people as he walked along the road. He dodged a street-seller sizzling sausages on a skillet and yelling his outrageous prices to the crowd, the smell of the fragrant but greasy meat setting his stomach to rumbling as he pushed through. Here a group of de-mobbed imperial veterans in faded threadbare red tunics dyed black and crimson played dice in the forecourt of a tavern, watched with disproval by a band of robed pilgrims to the Gildergreen, restored to bloom by Lady Isabella, the thrice-blessed. There a band of swaying, swaggering merchants made their way back home, one of them falling over after a man bumped into them. The man started as their good-natured calls turn to shout of 'stop thief!' and ran, pursued by a patrol of guards. He carefully avoided a tight band of roughs with faded blue cloaks, who were cat-called but the imperials but otherwise ignored.

Finally, he made it into the main square by the west road. The Gildergreen sapling was, in his opinion, a disappointingly small tree for all the pilgrims which attended to it, but it stood green and renewed in its guarded and fenced off island enclosure surrounded the stream which flowed down from Dragonsreach, untouched by the approach of winter in the square that formed the major crossroads of the winds district. The east road led towards the fortified citadel of Jorrvaskr, the north road past the scaffolding that formed the platform where the Jarl and important dignitaries would be entertained as the road meandered up to the keep of Dragonsreach. Finally, the south road into the road into the plains district- its markets, slums and the spittals. The Gildergreen inn, three stories tall and richly decorated with wood carvings that framed the leaded windows and lines of the building and stood on the southern side of the square, where a pair of hired guards stood by the door to ensure that the inn's clientele were not disturbed by the less well-heeled. They nodded in familiarity to Erik as he approached and pushed the door open for him. Though their pleasant and relaxed expressions faded fast and he looked over his shoulder. Behind him a band of four or five Stormcloaks were making the way through the crowd. Their jewellery and clothing were of good quality, though it was their faded blue cloaks which made the most deliberate statement. The crowds parted around them as they walked with an easy swagger towards the inn, and ignored the provocation of the onlookers with haughty distain. Though they were unarmed, their hands were heavy with a warrior ring on nearly every finger and their hair drawn into warrior braids.

"Try the next one lads." The right-side inn guard said with a studiedly casual air, folding his muscled arms loosely across his broad chest. Erik decided to find somewhere else to be and scurried inside.

The inside of the inn was warm, well-lit and lively. A female Breton with shoulder length red hair framing her heart shaped face sat in the corner, playing a quiet tune on the lute that struggled to be heard over the easy and happy chatter of the richer visitors and pilgrims to the city. They sat easily at the tables that filled the floor while well-dressed servant carried goblets, heaped platers and deep bowls in a brisk trade to the hungry patrons as they entered via the kitchen door to the left, while the walls of either side of the inn were lined with little walled off booths which hid the tables away and made for an intimate setting. At the far end stood the bar, where several off duty imperial legion and watch officers chatted easily with their civilian partners and friends, enjoying the good quality wine that the Gildergreen inn was famous for.

"Erik!" he heard the call and saw Absolard waving him over, and smiled and waved back in acknowledgement, ducking and dodging past the servants and the patrons. Their little booth was crowded with a dozen or so young men and women. They were squires of the noblest visitors' families of Whiterun ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen, though they were given a wide berth as their immature teenage antics resulted in a relish for language and ready violence which most of the other patrons found rather tiring. They were all crowded together around a table on which sat a couple of pitchers of ale were surrounded by tankards, and Erik was again reminded of his promise. Only one pint. Or many two, but no more than that, he resolved as the other squires made room for him as he pushed into the booth and sat on the end of the bench.

"No Serana?" Bjald, a boorish eighteen-year-old Nord asked through a face pitted by fading acne scars.

"She was busy with Beric- didn't think it right to ask." In truth, he had completely forgotten after Beren's little chat and the embarrassment of being caught accidentally eavesdropping.

"That's disappointing. She should have joined us, have a bit of fun people more her age. Beric looks like he's what, fucking twice her age?"

"Amazing what killing dragons does to you." He said lightly, as he waved at a barmaid for an extra tankard and a fresh pitcher of ale.

"Serana's killed dragon's too, she looks untouched." Absolard put in, a lanky red haired and freckled Breton now in his third year of service to Lady Isabella, as he refilled his tankard from a pitcher, spilling a little onto the polished oak table.

"Alchemist ain't she, most of them eat their own secret herbs and drink their own little secret brews. Plus, she's a proper little warlock from what I hear. Probably uses magic to keep the grey hair and wrinkles at bay." Bjald made his point with a sloshing tankard of ale, and satisfied took a hearty swing from his tankard.

"Maybe she just likes older men." Erik shrugged, tracing circles in the spilled ale.

"Yeah, a whole six years older, huge fucking age gap that is." Absolard commented over his pint.

"Don't know why you're chasing Serana, plenty of other less creepy women around." He thought of the necromancy she had mentioned and suppressed a shudder. Anyone who consorted with those powers and with such skill was best avoided. He was however unsurprised at his attempt to woo Serana. Besides her looks and skills success would mean unparalleled access to the Dragonborn, and her wealth was rumoured to be respectable enough for the lesser nobility to consider sufficient for a suitable match.

"That's cause you're properly posh aren't you, nice arranged marriage that your Da fixed up. The rest of us aren't going to marry a Black-Briar. Courtship is quick, life is short, so act fast and get your end away while you can." He shrugged, though there was a little bite to his words now.

"yeah, you're right. It is nice." Erik snapped back, then instantly regretted it. "Least you get to see your bride before you marry her." Absolard looked up at this.

"Really? Wow."

"yep." He shrugged. The barmaid appeared with a pitcher and tankard and mopped up the spilled ale, casting him a dirty look at the mess he was making. He blushed and whispered "Sorry."

"What if she's fuck ugly?" Bjald needled him maliciously.

"Then she'll still be better looking than yours." He said sarcastically, pointing at Bjald with his new pint, wishing the squire took a little less after Thane Nazeem. Erik, tired of a pointless argument turned back to his friend

"What's the good Lady Isabella up to these days Abby?" he asked, and Absolard flicked his eyes around before dropping his voice.

"Prayer and contemplation mostly. Since returning to Whiterun she spends most of her time in the grand temple of Kynareth or before the Gildergreen sapling she planted, when she's not on charity visits to the Plains. The priests are trying to be gracious but she's got a Breton's sense of clothing and suspect many of the 'pilgrims' have newly discovered their faith. There's more than a few reasons why they want to see her on her knees."

Erik nodded in agreement, having met the woman he had been impressed and interested by the good lady knight on one of her brief visits to Kyne's End estate. Her cheerful tanned face had been paired with a warrior's eyes, and sun-bronzed forearms had been toned with muscle and scarred, though her elegant silk dresses put him more to mind of a well-kept Solitude courtesan than a hardened warrior.

"What did she have to say about the duel? Do you think Beren's going to call her forwards to give evidence?"

"You know I can't talk about that. Besides, you should know better than me if Berens's going to call her forwards." he flushed as Absolard shook his head.

"Come on, you must know something. You were there weren't you?"

"Yeah, we were there. Not much to say to be honest. Walking through the streets of the Plains district game Meat Market, suddenly there was a lot of shouting, running crowds. Then a scream of pain. We got through the crowd to find Jon standing over the body of Thorald, before dropping his blood-dripping sword and running to hold Idolaf, crying as he tried to console his dying brother. Could have avenged his brother in anger which is understandable, but that fight doesn't strike me as an honourable duel, as much as a knife fight between a couple of idiots."

"Sounds like the Grey-Manes are liars to me. Think Beric agree with you as well. Problem is that I think Beric wants to fight an honourable way out for the Grey-Manes." Absolard looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Don't see how that's going to be done by the man."

"Well you known…Beren is…you know." He trailed off as he mouthed 'a god.' Absolard rolled his eyes at this.

"Then what fresh miracle does he plan to produce tomorrow?"

"Don't know."

"Alright then." Absolard scoffed.

"Shut up." He thought for a moment, before fishing a copper out from a puddle of ale on the table. "Beric told me that he used to make only six of these a day when he was in the guard. That's as much as a bowl of stew here, or a fresh-snared hare in Meatmarket. In Solitude a hare might be half that."

"So?"

"A Nord won't be happy if he spends his daily wage on a single meal. You've been to Whiterun more than I have, was it always this tense? This on edge?"

"During the war, sure- threat of dragons, invasion. Lady Isabella was mobbed by desperate people after driving Nahagliiv back from Markarth, especially after Riften burned."

"Same as Solitude though the Dragons never came close to our walls. Those were always outside threats though. Now we've got all our enemies inside the walls." He said thinking of the Stormcloaks who now flaunted their former loyalties. You wouldn't get that in Solitude.

"…and?"

"They need this 'Jeek's Day.' Get everyone together, calm them down, hear them out, and get them drunk together as friends. Once they're given their word, they won't go back on it, even to Beren- even those ex-Stormcloaks that walk the streets for all that they're willing to pose and fist-fight won't pick up a sword after they've sworn on their honour to him." Erik flushed, embarrassed by his passion, and Absolard looked unimpressed.

"People can't eat honour. They have a saying in High Rock 'when hunger knocks on the front door, reason flies out the back.' People don't care for heroes when they don't have food, and when a sword can get you today's meal, they'll pick it up and damn tomorrow's consequences." He shrugged, deep in thought "…. Speaking of our next meal." he trailed off as he waved a serving maid over to ask about their supper.

"Didn't think it was that bad."

"At the moment it's not- harvest has just come in which means the city is full of food, even if there's a lot less than was hoped because of battles and dragons. And they city's swollen with people- pilgrims, Stormcloaks and the rest, they're all driving up prices. hopefully they leave, but what if they stay? What if they start riots? If they do then in the spring, they're going to have to import grain, which will be pricey. Or rioters will loot barns and farms to eat the seed grain. The cities nobles are not going to be able to feed people if they're buying troops, putting down rioters and smothering fires."

Erik wad impressed at the young Breton's feel of the politics of this town.

"Did Lady Isabella teach you all that?"

"Ah, no. My family just has a lot of manors and estates. Growing up, I sat in the office and followed my father and his steward on inspections. Must have picked something up while I was playing with sticks and scaring the geese. Plus, with all the Orcs I've seen people crowd into the cities before. Raiders they are. I know how riots start- fear and desperation." Erik nodded. His father had always kept him distant from the family business, though he was grateful that trade seemed much cleaner and safer than farming, or the mining and industry his aunt engaged in.

"Apologies for the delay." Said a servant who arrived to cheers from the squires. He acknowledged them with a cheerful nod, squeezing in as he pulled a thick wood board out from under his arm and placed in on the table, on which he sat a small lidded cauldron, filled with piping hot stew of beef and winter vegetables, next to it a few loaves of good white bread. The squires ate their meal with hungry enthusiasm, heaped bowls steaming as their adolescent banter cut between them thick and fast, though the pitchers of ale that refilled their tankards were emptied with enthusiasm they were not refilled and the barmaid waved away with a polite dismissal. All of them would be involved in some way with tomorrows events, and today would be their last opportunity to relax for a while. It had been a busy week for all of them. They smelt of varnish, and polish and a host of other products which had been used to ready arms and armour for display. After dinner, they played a quick game of knucklebones for heading off. They tipped well, for though a rowdy crowd they were self-conscious of their noisy behaviour, and left a couple pieces of silver as a tip by way of thanks and apology, before hurrying away to their homes.

---

It seemed as though no sooner had Erik fallen asleep then dawn rushed upon him like a wild horse, pulling from his trunk bed to the business of the day and he was thankful that he had only drunk three pints of ale, and a had downed pitcher of water upon returning home. The first rays of morning peaked through the window of his small room brought with them the first murmurings and stirring that would soon turn to the roar and thrum of Whiterun in festival as the city roused itself. Murmurings matched by the complaints muttered by a servant under his breath as Erik hurried dawned his own armour before Meeting Beren in the Main Hall. They then rushed through the streets of the early dawn already the streets were lined with early risers and well-wishers, which Beren acknowledged with a cheerful through hurried greeting.

He had dawdled upon being admitted to the famous walled enclosure of Jorrvaskr and its large Mead hall, overcome by the magnificence of the setting and magnitude of moment before a yell brought him back to the present, hurrying through the hall to the under-hall, where Beren now stood in his private quarters in boots, leggings, shirt and arming doublet, waiting for Erik. He had grown up watching men and women being armed by their squires, and armouring his brothers and sisters for the practice yard. As a result, while he was unfamiliar with this particular style of armour, it followed a basic and familiar layout, and he slowly armoured the dragonborn while he named in his head in their Breton equivalents to ensure he did put anything on in the wrong order as he worked from the feet up.

First sabatons went over Beren's hobnailed boots, followed by greaves to protect the front of the leg, attached to the thick furry boots by small laces, buckles and points. There was no armour on the back of the leg to save weight, merely the thick leather and furs of the boot. Next, the knees were protected by poleyns and faun-plates. There was likewise no cuisse to protect the thigh, but instead the arming doublet hung low to the knees like a skirt, protecting the leg with tassets riveted into the arming doublet underneath the top layer of furs, critical protection against Skyrim's cold. Next, he lifted up a hauberk of Skyforged steel mail, and standing on a small footstool held it above Beren's head for him to work his arms into. The shirt clinked merrily as Beren worked the awkward garment onto his body, pushing his arms through and wriggling until it hung evenly upon his chest and protected his body to the waist and arms to the wrists. Erik quickly offered a war belt, the thick scared leather polished to a shine, which was secured around Beren's waist and helped to take some of the weight off his shoulders and onto his hips.

His mind began to wander as he worked, setting into the familiar rhyme. He started running through the plan for the day's events in his head. He had learnt that Jeek's day followed a simple, traditional format. The Harbinger of The Companions, attended by the circle and all the sworn brothers and sisters of the Companions would parade from Jorrvaskr through the streets of the city, to the main gates of the plains district. There, they would ceremonially observe for threats and dangers to the city, and leave a selection of Companions as gate guards, before processing back to the square of the Gildergreen, where they would declare the city safe and secured from attack to the assembled Jarl's court. The priests and mages would likewise be in attendance, and confirm the cities safety and protection by both divine and magical means. At this, the Jarl would declare the commencement of Jeek's day, and formally open the main festivities.

The Jarl, the Harbinger and various Thanes would sit in courts of honours to hear disputes and petitions for justice, lasting from late morning and to mid-afternoon. This would be followed by a feast and entertainments to symbolise the renewed tied as former enemies' now re-established friends broke bread together. Jeek's day however, to his understanding at least, had a popular but mildly mixed reputation- the wealthy of the city laying on public banquets often led to widespread drunkenness. charity was granted, with thanes, jarls and harbingers arranging marriages and dowries to orphans, pledging to stand in for missing parents, and worthy prisoners would be released from gaol as a gesture of clemency. It was however not uncommon for certain feuds to be ended with banishment or fines which tainted the day for the guilty party, or for the families of those prisoners released to object to the shortened sentences which those rightly condemned criminals received. He understood however that violence was frowned upon as an almost blasphemous act and that execution or public corporal punishment was forbidden as against the spirit of the day.

"All done sir." Erik said proudly after the last of the gauntlets were secured over its vambrace.

Beren adjusted his shoulders and opened and closed his hands speculatively, the metal clinking as the segmented plates slid gently over each other.

"Well done Erik." He nodded. "The speed will come with time but for a first effort that wasn't at all bad."

Eric grinned self-consciously as he offered the war belt, complete with arming sword and dagger in a matching style. Beren accepted it and buckled it with practiced ease. He then bent and took up the great axe Wuuthrad, looking at it with a guarded expression.

"Never liked axes myself" Erik babbled, now at a loss of what to do. Beren looked up searchingly at him

"Nervous?" Beren asked

"Should be a fine day." He answered, unwilling to admit it, feeling awkward at being scared of a crowd of thousands.

"Challenging but fun is how I would choose to describe it. Remember- we are on show today- and what you do and how you act will be a reflection on me. But once the opening formalities of the parade, the opening and the court are out of the way then we're done for the day. Just remember that and it'll be over before too long." Beren said breezily and finished with a nod, and they swept out of the room. Down the underground corridor they tramped on the gloomy stone floors, the low arched ceiling pressing down above them while the walls were lined with little cells, cramped sleeping quarters for companions lit faintly by flickering candles, before they marching up the steps to the main hall, the walls reverberating to the skitter and crack of their hobnailed shoes, slick on the flagstones and steps.

They emerged from the under-hall, and now that there was nothing to do but wait, sitting by the main doors. Beren closed his eyes, his fingers tapping an unfamiliar rhythm on the haft of Wuuthrad. Erik took a small tumbler of water from a barrel by the door, and realised self-consciously that he was sweating through his gambeson under his mail and cuirass, the thick cloth sticking to his skin. He looked around at the building. The hall felt small and cramped, having a more homely, lived in feel than he would have expected given the cold grandeur of Dragonsreach. The floor was dominated by the open central hearth, surrounded by solidly build though scared oaken tables arranged around three sides of the hearth. The roof was lost to sight in smoke and darkness, though pillars which held it up were solid, elegantly carved tree trunks, inlaid with gold and silver gilt which glinted in the sun light and fire light. The beams likewise, though smoke-blackened by the fires. Vibrant banners hung from the beams, died in rich reds, stitched with golden threads, while wall-hanging of rich blues, greens and reds told the history of past heroes. Weapons from noble duels, trophies of looted armour and hunted animals and mementoes of thousands of years of history that defied description cluttered the hall, yet it was the shield of Ysgramor, which hung over the central chair of the central table, the sole mark of rank amongst those chairs that held his attention- big as a wagon wheel, the silver-gilt surface burnished to a high sheen that reflected the ruddy glow of the open hearth, the designed beaten into the surface scattering and reflecting the firelight so that the old relic seemed to glow red in the morning light.

Slowly The Companions and The Circle clattered in. The Circle in their parade armour, a gift paid for upon their ascension, apart from Aela who wore her usual archaic harness. The rest wore an eccentric collection of Nordic, Imperial and Breton armour sets, or even more unusual ones. There was a Dunmer in the Bonemold spell plate of Morrowind, and even a set of flowing robes and mail worn by a Redguard who lingered on the edge of the group as they chatted easily and lent on their shields or otherwise waited. Almost a hundred companions now stood in the room, the majority of their guild and all that could be spared on make it back in time from their adventures across Tamriel. Vignar Grey-Mane made his own entrance, having managed to squeeze into his armour to join the parade, and he saw the slight ripple as his arrival played out across the crowd in whispers and shaken heads, all ignored by both the Grey-Mane and the Dragonborn. Finally, after a series of headcounts and hurried runners were sent to hurry along the late-comers and the last Companion was present, Beren ordered the doors open, and they marched out of Jorrvaskr and across the courtyard to the main gates.

The light of the fully risen sun was blinding after the smoky hall. The noise of the crowd was deafening, like the boom and crash of the sea of ghosts in storm upon the shore. Beren ordered the horns sounded, and the gates thrown open. First, the horns boomed out in the chill morning light of autumn, silencing the crowds with their brassy notes, and then when the gates were thrown open the crowds roared back their approval. Then the first hunt of The Companions marched out, three wide and ten deep, followed by The Circle arrayed in a protective formation around The Harbinger. Before them strode the two brothers, Vilkas and Farkas, along with another member of the companions who he did not recognise. Beren walked just behind them, Aela to his right hand and him to his left, while Vignar Grey-Mane took up his station behind them, along with two other members of the circle- Ria Metellus and Njada Stone-Arm. The second and third hunts of less senior companions followed on behind them.

They made their way through the streets towards Gildergreen square, here the streets were lined by the rich families of the nobility and merchants, who applauded and shouted from behind the loose line of relaxed town guards. Many others leaned from the upper balconies and windows of their townhouses, while the servants and the children of their families sat on the stone walls which surrounded their estates, legs dangling as they watched wide eyed and cheering. The tramp of the boots of a hundred companions echoed off these walls, the steady timing of it calming Erik as before them, beyond them they heard the massed echoes of the crowd in Gildergreen square.

They entered the square to wild acclaim, and here the guards were positioned denser, keeping the massed pilgrims and festival goers back to allow The Companions to secure the city as they had done since the foundation of Whiterun. Erik could see the scaffolding already occupied by the Jarl's party and his guests. Beric would be there, along with Serana, Lydia and the rest of the Dragonborn's household of sufficient rank to merit mixing with the local nobility. But it was the reaction of the crowd which took him most be granted. The minute they entered the crowd chants erupted from the crowd, and they surged forwards, barely held back by the interlinked shields of the guards.

"Dovahkiin!"

"Dragonborn"

"Dovahkiin!"

"Dragonborn!"

"DOVAHKIIN!"

"DRAGONBORN!"

"Bless us!"

"Bless us all!"

Beren acknowledged their cheers, with a lordly gesture, a broad smile on his face. Many of them were pilgrims, their eyes filling with tears and they fell to their knees as they passed by, chanting hymns and praises, or rending their threadbare road-dusted robes in religious fervour. Others were the families of merchants and lesser nobility or the wealthier warriors of the city, and they watched in a cheerful but well-behaved crowd, toasting their progress with horns of mead, mugs of ale and goblets of wine from where the tables for the later public banquets had been set up. In this way they made their way through the crowds from the Gildergreen square and down the south road. Out of the square the people lining the streets or watching from the walls did not much impede their progress. They made their way out through the inner gate and down the stairs into the heart of the Plains district, through the Meatmarket, the spittals and then to the main gatehouse of Whiterun.

It was here that the mass of the citizenry lived, having been kept from the Winds district by the town guards and entertained by the feasts organised by their local guilds of metal workers, butchers, milliners and the like. They streets were crooked, narrow and densely packed with the common people. At one point they passed almost underneath a veteran, a muscle-bound Imperial with a red bandana stretched across the bald dome of his shaven head, sitting on top of a groaning tavern sign with two huge battered silver goblets in each hand. He raised one in unsteady salute.

"Remember me sir?" he called cheerfully

"Polonius! Still In one piece?"

"Course, Fucking Invincible I Am Sir! Thirteen!" he bellowed, over-enunciating as though he was still on the parade square to the approving crowds who roared with similar legion pride or cat-called back with their own legion numbers.

"See you've found a steady perch for the night."

"Out of reach up here Sir. I've seen how you Nords get when drunk." He hiccupped and drained the goblet, before sprinkling the dregs of the wine on those below, who yelled back and cursed as it stained their feasting finery.

"Aye, and I've seen what Imperials drink!"

The crowd roared their approval and the veteran grinned back broadly.

Finally, they entered the Meatmarket, and it was with that moment Erik truly got the sense of the size of the population of the city. At their arrival Beren flourished and pumped the great axe Wuuthrad above his head in salute, grinning broadly in response to how they cheered and screamed their approval. He had though the hundreds which had packed the Gildergreen square had been dense, but the Meatmarket was half the size of that and held thousands. The square was filled with little stalls and tables doing a brisk trade in pasties, drink and trinkets, surrounded by thatched roof wattle and daub buildings. Many of the crowd stood upon the tables laid out for the public banquet, hoisting their children onto their shoulders, other people were climbing carts, walls and even the roofs of the buildings. Imperial legion veterans were much in evidence, and they yelled out to Beren as they passed, and he yelled back, here and there recognising junior officers and men by face or by name, and making some quick-witted reply to their remarks as they passed by. Others surged forwards with a roar like a battlecry as they received The Companions and their hero, a man who had once walked amongst them as a boy.

The guards lining their route were pushed back by the surge of the people, foot by foot, scraping and sparking on the flagstones and soon the great column of the companions was strung out, arms clamped to their sides and they shouldered and pushed their way through. Arms reached out from the crowd, before, behind and over him, thrust by crying faces as they reached out to touch the man they held as their saviour. Beren slung Wuuthrad over his shoulder, awkwardly trying to acknowledge their thanks, shaking hands quickly as they pushed through the melee. Here and there men and women burst into tears at his touch, or else fainted as he laughed and joked with the crowd cheerfully. Imperial banners flew along the Whiterun mare, waved with zealous enthusiasm by the crowds.

Having passed through the Meatmarket the entered the final stretch down to the main city gates, passing through the blacksmiths quarter along Iron-monger Street before turning onto Plains Gate Road. The crowded masses of celebrating citizen that had characterised the Meatmarket thinned here, slowly but surely. The street was broad, and lined with secure and squat little shops, the air smelt of soot and industry. Though the fires had been quenched and the tools dropped for the holiday, this was a cheerless place of hard industry. Blacksmith-forges, smelters, pawnshops and weapons traders lined the road, selling weapons and tools of simple and sturdy make. People still lined the streets or stood around the quiet forges and anvils, in threadbare and patched clothes, waving and cheering sedately at their passages. Their cheers however were self-conscious and forced it seemed, an act of approval that was calculated in its insult to some other, unseen but not unfelt party. Here and there on the outskirts of the thinning crowds people slipped away in ones and twos. Others just stood and watched, unblinkingly and arms folded, scattered throughout the crowd in threadbare blue cloaks that appeared lining their route in always limited but increasing numbers.

This was the home of many of the returned Stormcloaks, who left their swords at Blizzard's Rest and on their return had bartered away their armour for drink. Now they eked out living on what work they could find porters, carter, thieves and beggars amongst the lanes and byways of the quarter and the slaughterhouses and slums that made up the spittals behind the Meatmarket and Iron-Monger Road. A few small public feasts had been laid on, in cramped forecourts and forge yards, small temple-fronted squares or down narrows alleys, and the crowd grew quieter with every step they took. The houses were smaller in width, their narrow fronts cramped together and there were fewer carvings on the woodwork. Off the main road that they were following the cobblestones rapidly faded away into muddy rutted streets, and the smell of rotting flesh from the spittals's slaughterhouses mixed with stench of human waste. It had been down those streets that the priestess of Kyne Aeta Stone-Strider had given birth to two healthy young boys, before dying of some flux or sickness and leaving them to fend for themselves. The lanes and alleys he looked down seem determined to close themselves off from his probing sight, with their meandering lanes hung with laundry stained with soot. Here and there graffiti, heretical in his eyes in its praise of the nine was daubed, alongside the Bear of Eastmarch.

"Will you share a drink with us Dragonborn?" Came a sarcastic yell from the audience.

"Enjoying your feast tonight will you Dragonborn?"

"Your new house looks awfully grand from down here don't it Beren?"

"Don't have time to drink with us tonight do you?"

"How hard did Elisif have to fuck you for her throne then?"

"You can have a go on my tits tonight, seeing as they're bigger than your missus's." A Dunmer whore cat-called from a narrow balcony, stripped to the waist and jiggling her breasts with her hands.

Aela stared ahead blankly and Beren was silent at this, ignoring the provocation, and as if sensing his mood, the marching companions sped up their approach as the rounded the corner and marched down Plains Gate road. Here the crowd was cheerful, many townspeople, weavers and merchants made their trade in cloth and general goods, and people were well turned out and cared for by their local guilds and thanes. Beren was stone faced by Erik side, acknowledging their cheers with little nods or waves of the axe.

They arrived at the gate, and Beren quickly detached the third hunt to secure the gatehouse, the warriors took up their positions- men and women who could be trusted to remain sober and alert while the town watch drank insensible at their posts or else crawled into their beds. Climbing the guard towers of the gatehouse, he quickly made his way in a circuit around the crenulations, making a show to the crowds of checking in every direction around him that there was not threat to the city. Descending again, he oversaw the locking of the City gates, and relieved the Guard Captain of the keys, securing them onto his belt to later present to the Jarl, assuring him as Harbinger that the city was secure for the festivities to begin.

They resumed their march, the first hunt leading off, followed by The Circle and the second hunt bringing up the rear. At the bottom of the hill the noise of the city was thrown towards them, a riotous clamouring of the city eager for their report. Music rose as they began their return, horns and fifes and lutes took up the tune, along with a brassy drumming like an under beat, a current that would carry them back home, but which increasingly overshadowed the woodwinds and string with its raw power and force. They could see the wall that encircled the winds district, topped with evenly spaced squat towers. Jorrvaskr peaked up just above the walls, the fortified compounds market with its distinctive roof, the remains of the longship which had carried Jeek here to found his home and claim the Skyforge for the Nords. Above all else they could see the soaring rooves of the Dragonsreach just making out its own little fortified gate guarding the broad staircase that wound back and forth down to the Winds district, and the Gildergreen square. As they marched off up the hill the drumming grew. A strange noise, tinny and discordant to their ears, as hundreds of drums beat out of time, all without direction for their speed or rhythm. Or like the clatter of thousands of rocks thrown upon a tiled roof.

They reached the end of Plains Gate Road and turned back down Iron-Monger Road. The noise was unbearable here, that strange metallic drumming burning into their ear drums, shaking their heads. The Companions that surrounded them casually reached down and eased their swords in their scabbards for a quick drawn. A cacophony of sound, which seemed to stab into the very eyes of its listener, rattling the teeth in their heads. Surely this must be what a battle sounds like Erik wondered.

The peasants were beating metal on metal. There were children beating pots and pans together, their hungry pinched faces light with glee. There were old maids, clanging stone against the family cauldron. Leant on their sides, the cavernous holes loomed towards them, ringing their ears. The blacksmiths were beating their hammers against their anvils, filling the air with sparking savage strikes. And the street roughs, with old helmets and bucklers to hand or else with the lids of pots or pans. Some with only squares of sheet metal, striking them with the pommels of their daggers in a resounding, never-ending racket. Erik resisted the instinct to clap his hands over his ears at the din and gritted his teeth. Hammers rose and fell, drowning out all thought, all sound.

The sound was fuelled by their betrayal, their hate and their desperation. Many must have been Stormcloaks at the Battle of Blizzards Rest, or their families. Cut off by Imperial cavalry and Breton Knights to the rear, massed Breton pike phalanxes to the flanks and the steady ranks of the imperial legion to the front, they had been from amongst the ten thousand that had thrown down their swords at Beren's feet, trading them swords for their lives, and allowed to depart upon pain of sworn oath. The battlecry 'Victory or Sovngarde' made it clear what Nords expected of their warriors in battle, and surrender was not amongst those two options. Many abided by their oath, and returned in peace to family and farm, or else to Whiterun, Riften, Dawnstar or Windhelm. Some were happy to see their loved one back. Other families cursed them for holding their lives over their honour, their fathers or mothers casting them out to live on the streets as unworthy successors to their line. A few never came home at all, living as poachers in the wilds unable to bear the shame, and fearing the Thalmor Justiciars who might well follow them home. Others reneged their oaths, again taking up arms as bandits or returning to Stormcloak colours as Imperial armies marched on their town, but to be an oath-breaker to The Dragonborn was no easy thing for a mortal soul to bear, and the shame of it burnt deep in the breasts of many. Now they hated him for it, perhaps wishing rather to have been cut down where they had stood than condemned to live on in shame and ignominy.

He could see now the ring-leaders. Grinning men in finer clothes, fingers heavy with warrior rings, the iron of their rings taken from the smelted down weapons of their kills, a savage custom from an earlier age. They stood ostentatiously, unmoving amongst the riotous crowd, revelling in the opportunity to shame The Dragonborn and his chosen men in return. He looked desperately at Beren, terrified. Why didn't he do something. Why didn't he shut them down? He looked wide eyed, and hugged on the gauntlet to get Beren's attention.

"It's Jeek's day. They won't hurt us." He yelled into his ear, though it seemed scarcely a whisper above the noise of the crowd. Indeed, they could not. For Jeek's day banned such violence, just as their oath bound them. They would stand by and protest, but would not lay a hand upon them lest they be double-damned in the eyes of gods and men, likewise the Companions stayed their hand, honour compelling them to ignore pointed provocations of the old, the sick and the unarmed. Beren walked by untroubled. Here and there they spat upon ground The Companions walked upon, though all kept their distance and held their resolve. Others damned them with a gesture, turning their backs on the Dragonborn that was unfit for their eyes. Erik turned to Beren, wondering what he would do in response to that. Beren was red faced, his jaw set and his head fixed forwards as he ignored the mockery of the people of the slums. His eyes did not glace left or right, but straight ahead as he marked on, determined not to be provoked. They seemed almost blank, devoid of emotion or response as all jollity, all anger drained from them in that ruddy face. Now he looked, he seemed more embarrassed than angry. Erik reflected on what The Dragonborn had told him previously, about the dirty-blonde poacher they had encountered, and the damage that Serana had told him of when he had called down his Thu'um upon the city of Windhelm. He looked around the people around them, and wondered as their foolish bravery, the recklessness that led them to provoke Beren.

Finally, they left the Iron-Monger Street behind. Ears bleeding as a strange ringing filled his head, Erik followed and the returned to the warm cheers of the people. they marched back up to the city, entered the Gildergreen and there Beren, acting as though he had quite forgotten the display of the city below, formally presented the keys to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, making his report in a bellowing voice. Balgruuf matched it, and declared the festivities open.

---

Beren looked over the table before him from his fur-covered high-backed chair, his Skyforged steel greatsword sheathed and leaning against is armrest. His expression was stern, but the flush of his cheeks showed that his rage, always simmering now happily bubbled below the surface. Erik had been left shaken by this morning's display, and Beric had been quick to sit him down and have a look at his ears from behind the Jarl's stand in the Gildergreen square. With a calm hand he had carefully wiped away the blood and healed the damaged eardrums, and while the head ache remained, the high-pitched bell like ringing that had filled his head had faded with it while Beren, Serana and the Jarl's advisors bickered over how to react to such a blatant demonstration, indeed provocation by the Stormcloak veterans. However, given the thunderous expression on Beren's face, he was quite certain that Thanes Vignar of the Grey-Manes and Olfrid of the Battle-Borns would be willing to trade places with him for almost anything.

So far this morning the cases presented had been open and shut affairs- all the real work having been handled days in advance by law-speakers and the like. First a pair of brothers who had been banished from their clan were welcomed back into the fold, each side paying wergild for the injuries done to each other, and crying as they embraced. Then a pair of distant relations arguing over a series of competing wills was settled through Beren calmly and clearly reading the carefully written arbitration set before him by the Law-Speaker, and challenging any who refused to respect the rulings to single combat. A couple who eloped to get married were welcomed back, the vows of revenge both sides sworn rescinded through a period of penance ordered by Beren and overseen by priests of Stendarr, god of mercy. Finally, a father who had been revealed to be cheating on his wife was forced to recognise his other son, and make restitution to both his own family and his mistress, who had been deceived into believing they were to marry. It had merely been for Beren to pronounce the closure of hostilities, oversee the paying of the fines or the swearing of oaths. A toast from a traditional shared drinking bowl between the two now reconciled parties was drunk and then they departed, more interested in telling the story of how the Dragonborn adjudicated and witnesses the end of their conflict than anything else.

The herald, a quick witted Dunmer sent from Dragonsreach stood up and announced the next case.

"The Harbinger will hear petitions form the families of the Battle-Borns and Grey-Manes concerning the deaths of Olfrid and Thorald. May the Divines grant him wisdom and mercy in his judgement." He returned to his seat to Beren's left, while to Beren's right sat a Law-speaker from the College of Solitude, a middle aged Redguard woman with an expression which suggested that an extended blood-feud between the houses could only be an improvement to quality of the city's nobility. They sat on a low platform in the training yard of Jorrvaskr. Below them there was a small witness bench, where amongst the small crowd Erik saw Absolard sat scratching his chin absentmindedly next to Lady Isabella who was watching proceedings closely, while the two contending families sat on benches, separated at a distance of two swords lengths by a single file of town guards. Finally, the prisoner, Jon Battle-Born was led out, chained between two guards. He was dirty, and his clothing was torn and thread bare, this was often a deliberate act by the accused to provoke sympathy or their plight, but Erik rather though they were over-doing it given he had only spent a couple of days in the Cells.

Beren motioned to the left-hand group.

"The Harbinger calls Thane Vignar Grey-Mane, Sworn-Brother of the Companions to give evidence." The Herald announced.

Vignar started, strode forwards and offered and awkward bow. His balding head shone with sweat under the overcast autumn skies, and thinning strands of hair were caught and waved in the wind. He rose heavily in his ceremonial armour and began to speak.

"Four thousand years ago our fore-fathers landed here, a valley untainted by Merish pollution, protecting by the Skyforge, sacred to the Divines. Perfect, unspoilt virgin lands for the proud sons of Atmora, and the noble daughters of Kyne to work and to till. United as one they had departed Atmora, five hundred strong, tongues all. They arrived despondent, shattered and divided from their great journey, scattered upon the waves. Here Jeek and his crew settled to gather their strength and winter their crew until the coming of spring. His intentions to stay he made clear to all, turning his ship into their winter shelter there could be no retreat, no rapid departure from this place they would make their home. He called his crew together, and mediated their complaints, and heard their disputed with the wisdom of Ysmir, and the forbearance of Stuhn. It is to them that we commit our case, and beg they hear our plea."

Beren was so far unmoved by this flowery language, but Vignar was warming to the subject, and had begun to slowly paced back and forth before his family and deputations from the wider clan.

"Amongst his crew stood Virnek Grey-Mane, and his wife Varna, the progenitors of our line. Today we stand here still, counting amongst our ancestors those who fought at the battle of Mournhold against the heretical Dunmer. Ancestors who stood firm with Talos at the Battle of Sancre Tor against the Magicks of the Bretons, by which victory our very empire was founded. Most recently, those who fought with the Imperial Legions at the battle of the Red Ring, buying our victory the safety of our blessed homeland with their blood."

Here he turned towards the Battle-Borns, lecturing them with the full-flow of his words

"It is to this line that we were called to act by honour, to avenge the insults done to use this day by the line of Battle-Born. No less noble in their history, and indeed once I was given to call them friend, to invite them by my fireside in peace and to toast their health, wealth and happiness. No more. It is a brave man's part to live with honour, or with honour die. For when a man has died, honour is the inheritance his children receive above all else. This honourable inheritance must be maintained by every man and woman of the clan, burnished and upheld."

At this he adverted his gaze from the unclean family before him. He turned his back upon them, dismissing them and the muttered curses uttered behind his back. He stepped forwards, arms wide, palms to the heavens as he made his case to Beren.

"Two days ago on the feast of Tales and Tallow Jon Battle-Born broke into our house in disguise, there, he insulted my family with his very presence, abused our guests with foul language, my daughter's betrothed he assault and then fled into the night like a thief, leaving the man bleeding and senseless upon the floor."

Vignar hurried across the open space, pointing at Jon and bellowing as he rushed.

Look at his face! his guilt is written clean upon it! If he denies it, I have witnesses of my own to prove it."

He turned his back again on him, and carefully adjusted his hair which was in now disarray from his antics, taking the opportunity to mop the sweat from his brow. Jon by contrast sat still and stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable, as though Vignar's allegation bothered the young nobleman as much as did wisp of distant grey cloud on an autumn morning's horizon which threatened an afternoon's rain. His unconcern seemed to push Vignar to greater and greater anger, and he began puffing with exertion, red-raged at the cool reception his target gave him.

"The insult this dog has done to our family must be punished! The very Divines cry out for vengeance! Our ancestors scream for his blood! By all the laws of beasts and men and gods, it is our right to cut him down where he stands! And so, Honour-sworn and filled with noble intent, my son, my boy departed to right this wrong. He found Jon his carousing in the slums of our fair city, as is his place, amidst the thieves, rogues and whores that suit his station and family name. He challenged him to a duel to revenge his past insults, and instead was upbraided in foul and coarse language in his refusal. Instead he allowed his own brother to fight, and then voided the result of the duel when he cut down my own son after the stroke that felled his champion. They speak of honour, but tell me Battle-Born how did you defend it? At no point did Jon set hand to steel to risk with his own blood the words that flow worthless from his mouth like wind from a Daedra's arse!"

Uproar followed this and the two families began screaming and yelling at each other. One or two even coming to blows, and immediately a troop of guards came filling out, pulling the two families apart. Beren watched un-impressed, chatting quietly with the law-speaker and the herald. Erik catch snatches of their conversation. It was clear from the law-speaker's point of view that Vignar had hoped trade on his own service to the companions, and that more favourable hearing he was likely to get from them in comparison to the normal law-speakers who heard an endless succession of similar cases concerning returning Stormcloaks. Meanwhile Beren murmured that Vignar presented Jon as violent spend-thrift, lacking in restrain or dignity and thus clearly a dangerous murderer who depended upon his newly fashionable imperial connections (and his families rumoured thieves' guild ones) to protect and enable his debauched behaviour. A man who the Harbinger should declare an outlaw, to be ejected from the city, and then could killed without legal Interference. Vignar now re-appeared, a large cut above his head gently weeping blood as he stanched it with a rag of cloth. Beric could have healed such a wound in an instant, and Erik wounded how Vignar would react to the offer of magical healing. But there were no healers present, for the enclosure was sealed and instead he endured it as best he could. Eventually order was restored, and tired of hearing the Grey-Manes speak he motioned Olfrid, patron of the great clan Battle-Born to speak.

He strode forwards a dignified figure in his nobles' robes, a fine fur wrapped around his shoulders, planting his feet firmly on the ground, and placing his hands on the lapels of his robe, he directed his speech to Beren, ignoring all else as he spoke plainly and directly.

"It is not of the similarities but of the difference between our two houses that I will speak. We are both alike in dignity, honour and nobility that detailing such issues presumes the ignorance of the listeners, and does nothing to solve the issues before us. We shall waste no time in reciting such matters. That is one way we differ from the Grey-Manes. Another is how Vignar offers insults in the place of explanations, with us it is the opposite. He claims Jon offered provocation but refused to answer it will steel, but today he offers us similar insults but counts upon our respect for customs to prevent violence and bloodshed, yet searches for such an outcome for his own ends. Finally, is how we uphold our honour. To our oaths we are bound, and our traditions we hold."

"Of our observance of the traditions I will speak first. On Tales and Tallows my son did visit the house of the Clan of Grey-Mane in disguise. This is true and I admit it freely. He did so to attend the party that the Grey-Manes were holding, a masked ball. This was foolish. But what was the greater foolishness- to attend such an event uninvited, or to host on Tales and Tallows of all days. Can you imagine it- the distaste to hold such an event on such a day! Such behaviour, Such shame!"

This set his small band of supporter to muttering "Shame, shame," in a pompous echo as they shook their heads, Olfrid took no notice and spoke over them.

"Secondly, I will talk of our preservation of our honour. The Grey-Manes allege that my son insulted Thorald but refused to fight him. This is a lie. Our son upheld both his own honour and Thorald's through his refusal not to engage in an illegal duel. Or to be plain, a knife fight in a dark alley. Idolaf refused to duel with a man in a crowded street, fought only to defend his life when he had no other choice, and by his honour he died, steel in hand taking his wounds to the front. Let the Grey-Manes challenge this, what witnesses have they brought? Who amongst them was there that now stands alive and can speak of his conduct?"

"And finally, I speak of oaths. How can we trust a Grey-Mane to honour their Oaths in this Court of Honour? Jon chose not to fight Thorald, he was moderate and temperate in his behaviour, seeking to turn away Thorald and Idolaf from rash action. Thorald swore never again to carry weapon or to raise a hand against the imperial legion, yet within days of his return to Whiterun he reneges on both, and his family seeks mercy from the very man his conduct shamed!"

At this point he strode forwards and clapped his hands upon his son's shoulders, covered in dirt and clad in clothes gone to rags, the very picture of a remorseful victim of circumstance.

"We stand before you today Dragonborn proud of our past, but humble in the present. I have lost one son to a murderer. A murder my son revenged through the self-defence of his own life. I admit he was wrathful in his anger in bringing the criminal to justice, but what man can say honestly, he would act otherwise after watching his own flesh and blood cut down before his eyes? I beg you as a father, do not rob me of another son this day."

This provoked applause and scattered tears from the onlookers of the Battle-Born clan, while the Grey-Manes booed and called for blood. Beren quieted them with a glance and a wave of his hand, before calling the first witness forwards while he sent Erik for pitchers of ale and water. When he returned, he fought that Lady Isabella had taken the stand. A Nord woman in her early thirties, she had been born and raised in High Rock but had journeyed to Skyrim to visit the land of her mother's birth almost three years previously. He had seen her previously in training clothes with rolled sleeves, or else clad head to toe in fine Breton plate armour with greatsword swinging as she trained with Beren or Beric. Today instead she wore a low-cut bodice dress from High Rock of some white dyed silk, with skirts that fell to trail on the ground and sleeves that extended to the wrists. An elegant girdle circled her waist, heavy with finely worked gold and studded with sapphires to match her hair and eyes. Erik knew however that it was not her revealing foreign dress that would damn her in the eyes of the prudish, provincial Grey-Manes, but her birth. It was well known that she had an Altmer Sorcerer somewhere in her immediate family tree, and her face had a slight elven cast to it, in her pallor, her chin and her cheekbones. Most damning was the small points of her ears, and already the Grey-Manes were muttering "knife ears" and "mongrel" behind her back. She smiled sweetly at her old friend on his chair as she took the oath, dipped a neat curtsey and began her testimony.

"Hello again Beren. By Dibella, my how long it's been."

"Lady Isabella, too long by Shor. And I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances. I understand that you were in the Meatmarket at the time of the incident, could you explain what you were doing there?"

"I was there as part of the Grand Temple of Kynareth's charitable mission into the slums. As a skilled alchemist I know more than a little bit about the diseases that spread through those streets amongst the poor and needy. I brought food, medicine and my considerable expertise."

"And what did you see while there?"

"There have been plenty of pretty speeches made today. What a shame that Idolaf and Thorald didn't follow their fathers' examples in talking out their disagreements." She cast her eyes coolly over her shoulder at the Battle-born, before letting them rest a moment longer on the Grey-Manes.

"I was working by the Inn forecourt, treating scrofula patients. In the forecourt a man was sitting in with a couple of others, when another man appeared wearing a sword and followed by a couple of friends of his own, also armed. This man, who I later learned was Thorald, yelled for Erik to come out and die. Unsurprisingly, he didn't. Idolaf in reply told him to drop his blade before he dropped him- he used those words exactly. Thorald replied that he had cut down any number of imperials, a man that dresses like one but has never seen battle should be easy. Anyways, Thorald killed Idolaf, Erik appeared in the doorway, saw the blade in Thorald's hand and reminded him of his oath to you, Beren. When Thorald started walking towards him and he saw his brother's body the smart lad realised what was up, drew his blade in self-defence, and killed Thorald. Then he dropped his blade and wept over his brother's body until the guards arrested him."

"thank you, Lady Isabella."

Vignar suddenly pushed forwards, stalking towards the woman.

"How can we trust this foreign knight from High Rock? This worshipper of imported Elvish deities? She was unable to identify either of our sons, and she is a good friend to many of the Imperial cause. They may be exploiting her close friendship with the Harbinger to gain a favourable conclusion for the Battle-Born. Her evidence should be dismissed." Vignar pull in, waving her away like an irritating flea, Erik found this rather hypocritical, given how he was here trying to trade on the Harbinger's goodwill for organising much of the public sceptical and entertainments for the day.

"Are you suggesting perhaps that another fight in the same inn on the same day killed two men in exactly the same way?" Isabella snapped back.

"That's enough from both of you." Beren thundered, rapping the table with his gauntleted hands for silence. "Lady Isabella has a reputation of impeachable honesty, and her worship of the Breton faith or Imperial divines is not sufficient grounds to eject her evidence from the court simply because she worships Kynareth over Kyne. I have already spoken to the law-speaker of our past, which the Grey-Manes misrepresent to their discredit." At this Vignar flushed and looked like he was going to speak again, but Beren locked eyes on him, daring him to question him further, and he thought better of it. They stood in silence, as he turned to quietly debate with the Law-Speaker and the Herald. The Law-Speaker seemed to disagree with him, but the Herald nodded in agreement.

Beren stood, and formally began his summing up.

"The decision of this court is that Idolaf and Thorald engaged in an Illegal duel, without giving due notice or seconds, which was fought within the boundaries of the city walls. If one had lived, they would have committed the crime of murder, and a sentence normally deserving of death. With their deaths, it is decided that honour on both sides is satisfied, and that no wergild shall be exchanged."

This was perhaps the unsurprising part, and Erik was grateful that Beren had taken his brother's advice. The families looked only slightly relieved that they were not being asked to pay wergild to the other.

"However, we also find Jon Battle-Born guilty of entering under false pretences, assault, gross body harm on the person of Froki Silver-Stream, the betrothed of Olfina Grey-Mane, and of manslaughter in self-defence of Thorald Grey-Mane. In the light of the death of his brother, we hereby exile him from the city and hold of Whiterun for ten years."

This provoked howls from both families, as they began to attempt to protest. It was Beren however who reached down and pulled his sheathed greatsword up from where it had lent by his chair, and dropped it with a clatter into the table before them, silencing them all.

"If the Battle-Borns refuse my verdict then I will uphold my judgment by force of arms, and if needs be challenge Jon Battle-born or any champion he dares name, to single combat. May Tsun bless our trial."

Unwilling to discover who the eight would favour in such a contest of strength and skill-at-arms, the Battle-Borns nodded, and their protests ceased, Beren then turned to the more emotive of the two groups.

"Grey-Manes. Let it be known that Jon Battle-born will depart into exile unharmed. Given your behaviour and to ensure your good behaviour, you will offer up one hostage from your family to my household until Jon Battle-born has departed. Once he has left, the hostage will be released."

Vignar began to protest but Beren cut him off, and lowered his voice into a harsh growl.

"….and if, you dispatch riders with poison or blades in the night after he has left, then I will return and claim that hostage, and burn your hall down around you all with you still inside it. I that completely understood?"

Outraged at this blatant threat to his family, Vignar looked on the cusp of challenging the dragonborn. However, his wife touched him by the hand, and shook his head.

"Aye." He muttered through his moustache, eyes on the floor. The man looked like he might collapse.

Jon looked relieved, and was kissing his hysterical mother on the cheek, trying to calm her as he was led away in chains to spend his last night in Whiterun in a cell beneath Dragonsreach. Olfina fainted into the mass of the Grey-Manes, who crowded around the young lady, casting murderous glances at all around, the Battle-Borns, Lady Isabella, and finally at the Dragonborn.

---

After the excitement of the courts of honour there was as small break before the feasting that marked the formal end of hostilities. Washed and changed out of their armour and into their finest clothes, Erik and Beren returned to the great Mead Hall of Jorrvaskr. The tables were richly laid with gleaming golden table ware and white tundra-cotton table clothes. A small quartet of musicians played 'the dragonborn comes' from a corner, while servants circled obtrusively carrying horns of mead, goblets of wine and small pastries on elegant platers. A pair of wrestlers fought by the fire, grappling their sweat-slicked bodies to the cheers betting onlookers. Erik looked carefully amongst the crowds. Aela was there in an elegant dress heavy with gold and trimmed with furs, chatting away to Njada stone-Arm, while Vilkas and Farkas were engaged in a drinking competition, standing on the tables sending the golden table wear skittering as they matched each other drink for drink. Beren touched him on the arm and took him to one side.

"You impressed me today with how you handled the crowds along Iron-Monger Road. They were trying to provoke a fight, and you maintained your dignity, your composure, something that you have previously had issues with." At this Beren gave him a hard look, and he remembered with burning cheeks how he had accosted the woman with dirty-blonde hair on the trail to Half-Moon camp. "That's all wiped away now. I'm proud of how you dealt with that near-riot. That bodes well for the future." He paused for a moment, conflicted, and then shook his head. "I can trust you to behave yourself for now, can't I?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good. I'll have no need to call upon you further tonight. Go pestered Farkas and Vilkas about their adventures or Njada about her hunting. Go! Enjoy yourself!" With that he shooed Erik away. Aela appeared by his side as if summoned there, pressed a horn of mead into his hands and pulled him away with a breezy laugh. They disappeared into the press, laughing and joking as they went.

At a loss Erik walked easily through the crowds. None of the squires had been invited, nor had the other members of The Dragonborn's household- Beren, Serana and the rest had all been invited to the Jarl's Palace, as the Jorrvaskr feast had been strictly reserved for the Companions and those who had laid their petitions before The Harbinger. The Circle was unknown to him, and given the state of intoxication that the twins were in he would be lucky to get a coherent sentence from them, let alone a story.

"Erik!" He was suddenly pulled into a headlock, and he yelled in surprise, grasping the arm that encircled his neck. "Who let a little runt like you in?"

"Absolard?" he gasped. "Let go of me you maniac!" laughing, he released him and Erik rose up, flushed and embarrassed. The beaming squire pressed a cup of Solitude spiced wine into his hand.

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Not if you're going to welcome me that that! What are you doing here?...are you gate-crashing?" he whispered, aghast. He laughed it off.

"Yes. We're gate-crashing the most secure party in Skyrim. We figured no one would notice, especially if we didn't stick out." He deadpanned and nodded to Lady Isabella, who was now surrounded by a group of flush-faced hungry eyed admirers, laughing at everything she said and hurriedly topping up her goblet.

"She's popular tonight."

"Probably the only bit of culture in Skyrim, besides the bard and maybe that jester. The Bards I've heard off but the other one? A nattering, capering Imperial fellow. 'the Fool of Hearts' they call him. 'Broke in the head' I reckon. I've never heard of a funny-man in this province before."

"We usually turn them away at the border as a public menace. We've heard how they celebrate in High Rock, 12 course meals and those absurd dances like the Volta. There's no need for all that in Skyrim! We like to keep things simple. A roast, thick-cut and still pink and bloody in the centre, a never-empty cup and a bard is all we need!"

"And maybe a good fight to two!" a passing companion put in, grinning broadly.

"Yes, well Enough of that. Drink a toast with me." Absolard thought for a moment and then raised his cup.

"To Beren Stone-Strider!" Erik raised his own cup, and repeated the toast, and The Companions around him pressed in, adding their own cheers. They drained their cups, and raised another toast, to Aela Stone-Strider, to Jarl Balgruuf, to Lady Isabella, to Ingun Black-Briar, his betrothed. The rich meads of Whiterun and Riften and the wines of Solitude and the Alto Valley loosened their tongues, and they relaxed, telling tales of animal hunts, duels and hair-raising escapes.

Eventually a gong sounded the start of the feast, and they filled their seats around the central hearth, Beren seated in the centre under the shield of Ysgramor, his wife to his right and Erik seated to his left as his squire. There was no formal high table here, all tables were served in unison. First a rich soup was served, red and spiced, accompanied by large loaves of white bread which were broken and passed in halves between the formerly feuding families, and their protectors and arbitrators. Then three huge roast oxen were carried out, spitted from the roasting pits and placed before them on wrought-iron stands, where their mouth-watering scent filled the room. Great cuts were hacked off their bones with sharp knives and carried in steaming piles, accompanied by baked potatoes, roasted onions, carrots, leeks and a rich gravy. More wine, mead, beer and ale was carried out, along with more unusual drinks, like sujamma, limoncello and rum. Then the desert course came, confections wrought in the shape of dragons and manticores from sugar, there were sweet rolls, glazed and powdered, along with cream and little pastries of apple, pear and snowberry.

The noise of the hall was immense. Here and there drunken guests wrestled, slapped each other on the back, laughed, cried, cheered. The band quartet was entirely drowned out. Beren laughed freely most of all, constantly turning between his wife and him, sending drinks down the table or calling upon his friends for stories or songs. Erik could see a prominent space had been left, three seats on the table where the Battle-Born sat. it would seem that the Grey-Manes had refused to break-bread with them, and had scorned the Harbinger's arbitration and hospitality, a calculated insult that would have to be answered in gold or blood in the future. If Beren saw it he gave no notice of it. Instead, a couple of small tumblers and a flask of akvavit arrived, and he poured out three small measures as the remains of the feast were carried away. The table wear removed, and the carcasses carried off. There was a pleasant alcoholic buzz in the air as they waited for the entertainments, the bard and then the fool of hearts that would be soon to appear.

"So, one day a Breton and a Dunmer were walking along one of Skyrim's roads" he explained, flushed with alcohol and turning from him to Aela and back again. Aela propped her chin on her hand and winked behind her husband's back, in a way that told him to prepare himself.

"And the Dunmer says 'I have been told that Skyrim is home to all manner of savage and barbaric creatures. Is this true?' And the Breton replies 'Oh yes, but they are easy to recognise and avoid, I'll teach you.'"

"So, they carry on the road and they pass a cave, and from the cave this horrible growling comes tearing from it." Beren growled deep and low, punctuating the joke before downing and refilling his tumbler.

"The Dunmer panics, and fills his hands with fire, And the Breton stops and shakes his head calmly 'Ah,' he explains 'that's a man eating bear.' And the Dunmer confused, calms at the words and they walk on."

"Next, they walk by a bush, a huge and thick mass of thistles and thorns. From inside it, they hear their horrible roaring, fit to wake the gods themselves." Beren roared in imitation and picked up his refilled tumbler.

"The Dunmer draws his sword and readies himself in alarm. The Breton stops and looks at the bush carefully before walking away. He cheerfully calls over his shoulder 'that's a man eating lion."

"confused and alarmed, the Dunmer hurries after him. Finally, they pass by a deserted campsite and from the tent comes this horrible wet slurping, suckling sound. Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!"

"the Dunmer has been made to look a fool twice now, and is feeling very embarrassed. 'Do you know what animal that is?' the Dunmer asks the Breton", Erik shook his head as Aela caught his eyes, her smile becoming rather fixed at this point.

"Ah, don't worry about that.' Beren says knowledgeably, a happy gleam in his eyes they caught the firelight. 'That's a man eating soup."

Erik grimaced, and laughed at the bad joke, and Aela swotted Berens arm and rolled her eyes. Luckily, they did not have to long endure Beren's sense of humour, as the real entertainment arrived. All eyes turned as the bard was led out, and silence fell upon the Far-famed Hall of Jorrvaskr as they received a master of his own craft no less than they were of theirs. He lent heavily upon a staff as his assistant carefully led him by the hand to the centre of the hall, watched by every warrior that sat on all three sides of him. An unimpressive Nord, stooped and bent by his years, a band of black cloth was bound over his lined face, yet his fame was renowned across Skyrim. Before them stood Braggi Jarls-Skald, hired at a king's ransom to tell Talos's Poetic Edda. A chair was set out behind him, and at his side on a stool sat his aide, who Erik now recognised as the Breton from the Gildergreen inn the night before. On her small lap sat the delicate lute that she would play with skilled fingers to accompany key scenes, small leitmotifs to enliven and inform the character, scene and events.

It was the one small node to modern conventions that the bard would make, as he would rap out the timing with his staff, beating the rhyme and rhythm of his words with the crack of wood upon stood that would be the beating heart of the story, the doom-drum of his tale that would propelled the fates of hero and villain alike. He distained his seat but stood instead, clearing his throat with a small cough before accepting a small sip of ale to wet his throat. Behind their own chairs he heard the patter of footsteps as the servants and other entertainers squeezed into the hall, peaking from the shadows to watch, here and there he could hear their whispered words of complaint as they jockeyed for position and were pushed and shoved from behind by as the smaller forced their way through the crowd. Braggi shook his blind head at their rudeness. He cracked the staff three times upon the stones, silencing those whispering into shame. And then he opened his mouth to begin to recite, watched by every eye in Jorrvaskr.

Erik heard a quiet patter of feet from behind him interrupt the tale, felt something jog his shoulder, and turned angry eyes that barely caught the swish of something. Silver, or maybe steel. An arm, Jester's motley. A knife flashed in the hand, and The Dragonborn flinched as the glint caught his eye. The razor edge of the leaf-shaped blade shone red in the firelight. The blade did not slice across the front of Beren's throat, instead it plunged tip first into the thick corded muscle of him neck, sliding easily up to the crescent guard. Then it punched out, tearing out the throat entirely. Blood misted into the air as the blade flew in an arc from the mortal wound, and Beren gave a wet cough, scarcely above a whisper, as his hands dumbly grasped the spurting wound. Aela turned next to him in shock as the blood started to pump, propelled by that mighty heart to spurt in mortal mockery to the beat of the Skald's staff, spattering her face in a spray of tiny droplets. For a moment, there was silence as eyes slowly slid from the bard to death of The Last Dragonborn.

Then there was uproar. Desperate, he jumped up and the chair thundered down onto the ground behind him. The capering cackling little Imperial in his motley held the dripping blade in his hand, and Erik lunged for him with both hands. Screams, yells, shouts filled the hall as guests and servants reacted, their minds catching up to the horror their eyes reported. The press of servants behind the man impeded his escape, and as he spun on his heel slashing his knife at servants, wounding with every stroke Erik caught the trailing arm with his own desperate reaching hands. He wrenched the man back, hanging onto his arm, determined, and unarmed he bit deep into the flesh of his forearm, just above the wrist. Cackling to himself, the assassin turned back like lighting. Erik felt a blow like a hammer on his chest, several blows. Wriggling like an eel, the man slipped from his weak grasp and disappeared into the panicking crowd. Confused, he fell.

He landed badly, on his side and he curled up. Tears filled his eyes. His chest was icy fire. He couldn't breathe. Every breath he took whistled in agony, wheezed out wet. His lungs weren't working, he couldn't get enough air. There was water in his throat. Lying on the floor he could see nothing but table legs and panicking feet. Someone kicked him as they ran past and cursed him for a bastard. He didn't deserve to be forgotten like this and he tried to weakly screamed for help, but merely coughed. He turned his head, to call out, to shout for help.

The Dragonborn lay on the ground next to him, his dull eyes gazing at him, glazing over. He blinked in confusion. Aela knelt over him, her feasting finery stained with her husbands' blood. She gripped his limp hand in her white knuckles as tears fell. She drew rapid and deep breaths, shaking in disbelief eyes wide in shock and open mouthed as she hyperventilated, panicking. The man was futilely pressing a bandage to the wound, so deep he could see the bone amidst the ruined gristle and tissue. The blood no longer spurted in time to his heart, but oozed slowly, draining from Beren's body. Erik looked up to Aela as the man adjusted his grip, checked Berens eyes and shook his head.

Aela eyes bulged, and her chest rose as she drew air in a never-ending breath that seemed to suck in all the world's air, her hands were drawn up before her face, shaking claws. And then she screamed, long and terrible, her voice cracked and it ended with a sobbing rush. She pushed the man away savagely, bent and held the corpse of her husband to her breast, rocking it like a child as tears flowed down her face. burying her cries in her husband's blonde hair, screaming and shaking. Shaking him like a sleeper, that could be roused by her rage, even as her impotence fuelled her screams. Beren's limp body twisted and twitched in his wife's grip, but did not wake.

The man spotted him, and pushed towards him, he yelled something, but there was so much noise and yelling now Erik couldn't hear it. The pain spread in waves through his body, unending, unendurable, in time to his pounding heart the fed the growing puddle beneath him. The man rushed to his side, and turned him onto his back. Erik coughed, and something leapt from his throat, landing wet on his face. The man worked quickly, pulling his tunic apart with powerful strokes of his hands to bear his chest, and then seemed to hesitate for a second. Erik raised his head with flagging strength to look down on his chest. Every breath he took in bubbled out his chest from what seemed like half a dozen holes, where blood ran like rivers even as the man tried to mop it away, tried to find his wounds. Every wheeze brought up bloody spittle that popped and splattered his face like rain, or bubbled up from the rents in his body. He struggled, tried to push the man away.

The man wrenched him back, and suddenly one of the companions was there, lying on his legs to hold him flat, another two holding his arms done. They mopped up the blood with table clothes and napkins, trying to find his stab wounds which slowly oozed bubbled blood. Hands covered them, but still the blood bubbled up from between their fingers.

All the voices sounded so faint. Who were these people, who pushed down on his chest and whispered into his ear? Why couldn't he hear them? Why couldn't they warm him by the fire? He felt cold. He felt bad for how he thought of his father, how he treated his father. He wished he could have been a better son. He wished he could apologise, that he would hold him one last time, hug him. He couldn't remember the last time his father held him, told him he loved him. Where was he? Why wasn't his mother here? His brothers and sisters?

He rested his head on the stones wet with his life's blood. He lacked the strength to hold it up. The floor was so comfortable here, now. He could not see, could not think, and when his last breath left him, could not feel.

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Author's Note

Sorry for the delay in publishing this month's chapter- the power went down yesterday and the internet here didn't get working until lunch time today. This gave me a bit of extra time to titillate this 18,000-word monstrosity. I suspect if I never re-write this story, I would split this chapter into two parts to make it more manageable, but that can be a post-completion exercise. Next chapter will hopefully be out at the first of next month, so long as the internet doesn't pile in again, or someone doesn't stage an intervention into my hobby.

Responses to reviews

Hey Greywolf93, thanks very much for the review.

Why did I kill Beren off? because that's been finished ever since Aldiun was killed. The first problem I had when I sat down to start writing this was how to generate the tension needed to propel the plot. Beren is so powerful (especially with the souped up, lore consistent shouts) that realistically nothing could ever be seen as a threat to him. Also given his previous enemies- Harkon, Miraak and Aldiun, it's difficult to present 'Tim the Enchanter' as being anywhere near his level or in any way a threat. Finally, given his god-tier levels of plot armour, on a meta level we always know he was going to come out on top of any fight.

On a meta level, the conventions of fan-fiction are to retell the plot in your own words, rather than to develop the plot from the end point to consider the consequences of the main events of the storyline. Given how the LDB often thinks he can get away with stupid actions because he's 'the chosen one,' what happens to him now the dragons are gone, and his prophecy is fulfilled? The threats he dealt with were generally black-swan 'sealed evil in a can' events against which the entire world could rally and they were happy for him to do so as it cost them nothing. When he started interfering in more conventional enemies, then all those players took interest, some as allies, some as enemies and it was only a matter of time before Beren realised the same thing. So they acted.

So therefore, I felt that I had solid reasons to kill him off. It also provoked more interesting questions- everyone in Skyrim has gotten used to having him around as a walking 'I win' button. Remove that and now they all have to start finding their own solutions. Serana has been used him as a cloak for her own vampirism, now people are going to start questioning why a young woman with a dark and mysterious past is so exceptionally magically powerful. Elisif's been using him as a crutch, building up a favourite in the hopes that she can ride his coat tails to the throne, now she needs to make a power based like any other queen. Finally, Beric's been using him as an excuse, drifting through life. You can be sure he's going to be motivated by the fact that life is short and a very strong need for revenge. Now the dragons are gone this story is going to start moving from High fantasy to a more low fantasy one, where the fantastical fades and we are left with the memories of an age of heroes, while what heroes of that age bitch and fight amidst the achievements of a greater man. For these reasons Beren was never a POV character, and it was never Beren's story- it's Beric's, Serana's, Elisif's and possibility a few others.

Why did I kill Erik? - for similar reasons- innocence and likeability are fairly strong plot armour as well as rashness and youth. it also helps support one of the other themes I'm trying to work with- collateral damage onto innocents as a result of the character's actions, and how they will try and rationalise that. Also, because again on a meta-level we all know that fan-fiction never kills of POV characters, and that the youthful male stand-in for our readers will survive all the way through.

Or at least, that was the intention. I have always been up front that this is the first story I wrote, and I've tried to foreshadow it as much as possible (like with chapter 1 and Beren asking Erik 'how much time do you think we have?'), and write for theme and as a consequence to action and characterisation, rather for the childish reason of 'subverting expectations.' Using the death of the LDB as the inciting incident for my story would help driven narrative, theme and characterisation for realistic, understandable reasons which would not be possible or as interesting if he remained alive.

Hey HermitWitch, thanks for your review

Thanks very much for all your praise! I was worried how this chapter was going to be received. As I said if I ever come back and re-write this story then I suspect I'll cut the first half of this chapter off (the inspection, Beren training, the pub) and fit it in between chapters 2 & 3 where it won't affect the political flow of the story.

I'm glad that your enjoyed Beren's mix of humour and emotionality. I wanted my dragonborn to be more confident and assured in his role, given he's accomplished everything he had to do and therefore was unlikely to be as angst-ridden about his role. Being able to take a less serious side allows him to reassure and support some very scared people, and also helps separate his easy-going nature from Beric's quiet seriousness where his humour is more dead-pan and his anger is expressed in a more passive-aggressive style. This temperament also wrong-foots a lot of the more pompous people (like Erik, the Grey-Manes and the Battle-borns) for whom dealing with the LDB is a very big deal, and are wrong-footed when all they get is dad jokes and sudden LOUD NOISES.

As for the emotional weight, I'm relieved that in the midst of all the crowds and people milling around, that central relationship of Beren/Erik/Aela worked. Poor Aela, she and Beren had a very loving relationship which they pursued in spite of arguably better matches (or at least more politically advantageous ones) and some resistance inside the companions too.

Now Aela is arguably a natural successor to the role of Harbinger, and will obviously want revenge, but has to deal with the fact that as she's pregnant she's not going to be the one to go chasing it. However, given she is a werewolf and Beren moved them away from that there is going to be resistance to her leadership, as well as Vignar Grey-Mane and his faction obviously not being particularly keen on the Stone-Striders at this time. She could look outside The Companions, but her and Serana hate each other, Beric isn't keen on her, Durag is a nerd and she lacks the political skills at the moment.

Erik unfortunately is dead, but if it makes you feel better then at least he got what he wanted from life. He died a hero side by side with the Dragonborn, and will be remembered in songs for all time (or hopefully at least 4,000 years).

Next month I'm planning on a chapter from Elisif's point of view. Though given how slow news travels its going to take a while for new of Beren's death to arrive….