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.

6. Chapter 6: No News from Whiterun

Chapter 6: No news from Whiterun

Elisif I

The gentle murmur of tired voices that ebbed and flowed over the threshold from the small audience chamber behind her was abruptly cut out as the oak double doors slammed shut. Her heels clacked on the tiled floor loudly in the sudden still silence as she walked between shafts of cold light thrown by an autumn evening's sun that streamed in golden bars through the cloister's windows. She ignored the view they offered over the Blue Palace's central courtyard gardens, and instead ducked halfway down the covered cloister's length into a small robing room on the left, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Elisif was relieved to see it was empty for now. She groaned quietly as she removed the Jagged Crown from her head, setting its ungainly weight down carefully on a side table before collapsing into a high backed chair where she closed her eyes and gently rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers in a fruitless attempt to alleviate the pain that pulsed through her head behind her eyelids, the curse of sleepless nights. Legend said that the crown contained the prior knowledge of Skyrim's rulers, who whispered the collected wisdom of centuries from dozens of High Kings to their successors. She wished it was true, for she had need of that wisdom now. The worries which she had felt as Jarl had mellowed with experience and confidence, but the stresses of ruling as Skyrim's High Queen left her still feeling as overwhelmed as she had initially, a little more than two long years ago.

Meeting with the poorest of her people always felt her feeling humbled and exhausted, but with a renewed sense of confidence in her abilities. Many of them faced short lives marked by hard work and riven by grinding poverty, and came to her with a sense of burning injustice and absolute trust in her ability to help them. Trust that was frequently rewarded. Their problems were often small and localised- a thief here, an embezzling corrupt official or a bandit hide-out spotted, and their solutions simple- a reward promised and posters printed, an investigation or trial organised, and a detachment of guardsmen dispatched, occasionally reinforced by a leavening of her household knights. In doing so she had learnt the business of government from the ground up, and kept her finger on the pulse of her city and her hold. She had learnt through trial and error when to act and when to watch. When to stand by and accept the limits of her powers and authority, and when not, with the courage needed to defend to the desperate, the poor and the starving. Any who wished to see her could have a chance of doing so, and she curbed the worst excesses of behaviour from the highest of the Solitude's nobility to the lowest of its citizens. For all that her advisors petitioned Henrietta to remove the open audiences as they filled her hours with matters of state, she insisted she still kept her Middas afternoon open audiences. Letting any and all see her, reminding all that nothing happened in her city or her hold which she did not, sooner or later, hear of.

Despite her pride at how she had improved in her governance of her city and her hold, she felt a measure of guilt at how she lately allowed these little problems to occupy her time as she hid from the bigger issues. She was sure that Henrietta would politely but firmly remind her of her lapse in keeping to the carefully arranged schedule she had worked out. A schedule under every increasing strain as the previously seen councillors, thanes, guard and legion officers now rubbed shoulders with petitioners and diplomats who arrived every day in ever increasing numbers, dining at her expense and demanding precious hours of her time for themselves. She knew that in the near future ambitious suitors would likely come flocking now that victory had arrived far ahead of time, with renewed vows of friendship and goodwill from rulers of foreign lands previously cold and unknown to them. It was these more complex and alien problems which intimidated her, and to which she still struggled for a solution. It was perhaps a small sign of the hard-won respect she had earnt that previously her advisors had merely presented their solutions before her already written, limiting her input to a seal and signature. Now they expected her to create one for them.

The problems she faced as High Queen for Skyrim were much the same as those she faced as Jarl of her hold, simply magnified beyond her means of her divided and war-torn country to solve. Famine threatened many, as the price of food rose and was yet to spike despite the harvest season normally causing prices to drop with a glut on the market.

This was especially true in the former Stormcloak holds, where fields had been torched and barns torn down, either as part of the Stormcloaks scorched earth tactics to deny the conquering Imperial armies food, or else to provide firewood and materials for trench lines, battering rams and siege towers. General Tullius had seemed almost proud in his last report of the siege that not a single tree or cottage stood within twenty miles of Windhelm, so thorough had been the search. Finally, even in the imperial holds there was little food or winter fuel to spare and taxes remained high. Much of her country was inclined to allow the Stormcloaks to starve over the winter and coming year, a general and indiscriminate form of revenge that was seen as fitting compensation for their crimes by her exhausted people, brutalised into callousness towards their own countrymen by the civil war. Piracy and banditry threatened the roads as the demobbed, the desperate and the homeless turned to their swords for food. And with the roads ruined and watched by bandits and the seas haunted by former fishermen and traders now turned pirates and raiders, there was precious little coin to solve these issues as merchants only moved in the company of military patrols, while the large trader caravans had avoided the province altogether since the start of the civil war.

She got up, frustration lending energy that burnt the exhaustion from her weary limbs as she paced and turned on her heel, back and forth, back and forth. Desperate thoughts filled her head as she swore by Stendarr for wisdom and guidance. She could peg the price of grain, search and seize illegal stockpiles or smuggled shipments, and organise relief convoys and distribution points, while dispatching punitive expeditions to bring the bandits to justice. But she needed ready coin, military muscle and political leverage to persuade, to charm, to compel, to push and to punish beyond what she already had.

There was the newly returned legion in Solitude, the 8th Nord, but that fell under General Tullius's command for the moment, leaving her with Solitude's four thousand strong force of militia and town guards and the three hundred knights of her household, along with the smaller garrisons of Dragonbridge, Lighthouse point, Robber's Gorge and the other towns of her hold, all of whom were needed to maintain the peace and rule of law in her own lands. She would need ready coin too- seizing grain at a set price would be controversial, but a Nord trusts in silver and gold in their hand, and paying up front would bring criticism to a murmur. Yet her depleted treasury would not support such an act.

The Imperials were resurgent in Skyrim, and her enemies cowed and hidden for now, but they would leave in the spring, and to push a recalcitrant Jarl back into line in required troops and money of her own. An army of her own, large enough to ensure that the furthest Jarls would understand the nature of the world, with popular and respected commanders and backed by ready coin. Perhaps she could raise a new legion from amongst her new-found admirers, she thought with a bitter grin.

And yet, there was still no news from Whiterun.

She went over the figures in her head, fretting over the maths of it as the days slid by at a glacial pace. Today was Middas the 11th of Hearthfire. She had sent the letter on the 20th of Last Seed, four weeks ago, or there abouts. Three weeks was the normal travel time to Whiterun, and another three weeks back. At least until winter set in, and the snows buried skyrim's war-wrecked roads and froze her rivers solid. Her letter must have arrived sometime last week, all things going well. It would be at least another two weeks journey, probably three and maybe four if they were delayed in Whiterun or bad weather on the road before they returned. There were magical means of communication of course, conjurors and the like could talk instantly across huge province spanning-distances, but they were expensive, untrustworthy and rare. Only the highest ranks of the Thalmor or the Elder Council could afford to keep such skilled mages permanently on their staff. And with the present popularity (or lack thereof, she corrected herself) of mages in Skyrim, such skilled magic users could not be found anywhere in her province, to the best of her knowledge. Nor she would risk the infamy of having such individuals in her court after Sybille.

A gentle rap echoed three times from the door. She commanded them to enter as she steeled herself, putting on her public face. She picked up the heavy weight of the iron and dragonbone crown, and returned it to her head, seating the jagged teeth of its maw around her aching head still running over with the list of problems that assailed her kingdom. Thane Henriette Burghley entered, with hard brown eyes and her brunette hair pulled back into a tight bun as she dipped a neat curtesy with Breton elegance, one hand on her long skirts and the other clutching a large leather-bound documents wallet, a more intimate companion to her than any husband. Her Housecarl Bolgeir Bearclaw skulked in behind her shutting the door.

"Your Majesty, a private supper will be laid out in your parlour, following which we can review the upcoming few week's schedule- your Morndas meeting with the council and discussions of your address from the throne to the new Potentate's deputation."

She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment, preparing herself for the ordeal that would follow. A Queen had to be seen to be believed, and she supressed the exhaustion she felt deep within her, putting on her public face for the court in one last performance for the day. Opening her eyes with a slow breath, she nodded. She swept out the robing room and down the corridor towards the double oak doors which marked the end of the western wing and beyond the forecourt, great hall and throne room. The noise increased with every step, a boisterous hub-bub of voices. Dinner would have been served to much of the court by now, and people would have spilled out from the dining hall into the forecourt and the Great Hall right up to the double staircase to throne room. She could hear light music through the heavy wood. All she had to do was cross the ground floor, go up the double staircases, and then across to the corridor that lead to her private apartments.

She can come to think of being Jarl and then High Queen as arriving as a traveller in a distant land, and walking the markets of some distant city for the first time, like the disguised prince Alahir wandering in the Grand Bazaar of Sentinel in The Romance of Princess Anora. All around her simpered nobles and courtiers like the buzzing crowd of merchants of that story, talking with their hands and making extravagant promises as they offered their wares, promising 'the best of deals for you, my friend' yet in truth they would have the dress off her back without a moment's thought if she so let them. She must be a discerning buyer, guarding her purse carefully, haggling for the best price and knowing when to walk away, and when to deal. She also knew that many a fool was ripped off by those who crowed the loudest for attention, accosting the first into the marketplace when the true value often lay waiting to be explored and discovered beyond, the quiet confidence of those merchants letting their properties value speak for itself, while the loud insecurity of the street hawker pushed their way to the front desperate for a quick deal before the buyer could look over the goods to closely. The doors chased open before her, and the crowded room surged at her arrival.

At her entrance the crowd rippled around her as heard turned and whispered her arrival. They stood respectfully and bowed or curtsied as she swept across the floor, the room light and airy from the high windows that surrounded the high dome far above them. The pleasant chatter quickly resumed, and the soft music of flutes and drums filled the air as a troop of High Rock minstrels played quietly from a corner.

"Your Majesty, will you honour me with a stroll through the gardens this fine evening?"

The foreign lilt to the accent made her pause. She turned and was surprised to see that a sumptuously dressed Breton had asked, dropping into an elaborate bow before her. He was a slender middle-aged man. Auburn haired, with hard brown eyes and an aquiline nose. He could have been a good-looking man twenty or so years ago, looks now spoilt by a deep scar from an arrow wound under his right eye and the unfashionable pudding bowl haircut he sported. Perhaps because of this his clothes were of the finest make. His hose and doublet were cut from the finest woollen cloth dyed a brilliant azure and trimmed with furs of whitest sable. Presumably well-chosen to emphasis the colours of his house. His neck and fingers were heavy with bejewelled rings and an ornately worked necklace of interlinked serpents with ruby claws and eyes. A matching belt sat on his waist. She had known him by reputation since childhood, and his name swam instantly into her mind as she carefully concealed her surprise at his arrival, and a murmur of whispers reached her ears as the court carefully pretended not to watch.

"I'm sorry Duke Tristaine, perhaps another time. You should consider speaking with my private secretary about such matters, she will ensure they are given the time they deserve."

"But you are the Queen, surely it is for you to decide what to do with your time, and your servants to comply."

"Of course, and I have decided that if is for Henrietta to manage my time. You understand the needs for the daily war with administration to come before pleasure, being well versed in the art from your many battles. Not that it is for me to remind as honourable a knight as you of such duties."

"Am I to understand that we are on such a campaign, or on manoeuvres ma'am?"

"Am I to understand you are not?" she dropped her voice in a breathy whisper just loud enough for them to hear, eyebrow raised in mock reproof. He gave a crooked grin and she swept off, taking a care to call over her shoulder to him, as though in afterthought

"My Secretary, my Duke."

She swept onwards, until a man she had never seen in her court stepped Infront of her. He was covered from neck to ankle in loose flowing robes of vibrant green and orange silks, while pointed boots, highly polished in a style she had never seen before scuffed the floor as he bowed, little strings of silver bells tinkling merrily from the trim of his robes as he moved. What little skin she could see was tanned from the sun of his homeland, and his head and brow were covered with a loosely fitted turban or some such similar cap. Around him the air was filled with scent, a strong-smelling cologne that put her in mind of citrus and summer fruits. He kept his eyes fixed to the ground, staying deep in his bow.

"Oh, Majestic One, I have travelled far and wide and never seen a more beautiful city, nor one whose perfection of its arts was fit to match the beauty of its ruler." Elisif felt a little blush warm her cheeks at this over-abundance of praise, and hoped it came from a careful schooling in the courtly poetry of the Redguards.

"Do rise, young man. I don't believe I have seen you in my court before." He rose gracefully, and looked over his youthful features. His beard and moustaches were patchy, and she could make out pimples hidden amidst and around those finely oiled hairs.

"May I present his Royal Highness, Prince Casimir from Sentinel," The man to his back and right put in, a hard, flint eyed man with a salt-and-pepper beard perhaps almost three times his prince's age. Elisif nodded, looking the prince over carefully. Sentinel was Forebear city on the other side of the Iliac bay from High Rock, and a prime trading partner, though far from Skyrim and exposed as the raid upon that fine city by Thalmor agents had shown. To her mind, there was perhaps a whiff of desperation amidst this adolescent's perfume.

"And what was it exactly that caught your eye upon your arrival?"

"Why maybe it was the towering Great Temple to the Divines, which so remind me of the mountains of this fine land as the towers sough to reach to the very heavens themselves. Or else the Dome of this fine palace which so dominates the city which now stands above our heads, architecture so welcome and familiar in such lands far from my home."

"I have heard of the domes of your own country and your fair city, repaired and resplendent as never before. I am glad to hear that our own example makes you feel at home."

"Perhaps your Magnificence could spare the time to tutor me on the divines of your fine country, there are many of your countrymen in my lands now who hold to your gods, and I would wish to hear from a woman of your knowledge and experience how best to accommodate the faith of those newly arrived."

She blinked over the audacity of the man to remind her of the countless Stormcloak deserters and Talos worshippers that had slipped over the borders of Skyrim into Hammerfell, Orsinium and High Rock. Was it inexperience on his part? Arrogance? A deliberately veiled threat? His eyes were guileless amidst his pimped face, darting around the room and unable to look her in the eye for more than a few second. inexperienced then, or just an idiot. Behind his back the face of the man with the salt and pepper beard became rather fixed. Clearly, he was used to these little indiscretions. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Alas, my schedule is filled for the coming days, though I shall be visiting the Great Temple of the Divines myself soon enough. You could accompany me then, and tell me what you have learnt of my people and their faith since our last meeting."

"Your Magnificence is generous, perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me for lunch afterwards."

"Unfortunately, I cannot, the business of state demands my attention, or so my advisors tell me." She shrugged and theatrically sighed as she had seen so many other spendthrift nobles do. He grinned back and bowed quickly as she took her leave. Underneath her good humour was flagging now, and she moved quickly, determined not to be ambushed again as Henrietta and Bolgeir took up their stations to her left and right. The crowd dutifully parted before her, perhaps sensing her mood and pushed back by the formation of grim-faced advisors at both sides. Not to be dissuaded, suddenly a grinning Nord with mercenary blue eyes and dirty brown hair that fell in tangles to partially hide a large golden earing strode forwards and dropped into an elaborate bow. She attempted to sidestep him with a curt nod of acknowledgement, but then he addressed her directly as he stood, resting his hands on his hips.

"Majesty, forgive my intrusion, but I could not stand by as a faithful Nord in your service without offering my aide. Perhaps you would appreciate some rest after you have received our foreign friends and settled the affairs of state? The Bard's College Theatre Royal is hosting a production of The Tragedy of King Olaf, I have a private box that is both large and comfortable and would be honoured if you would join me."

She gave him an appraising look, unimpressed at his intercession. She had seen him skirt around her court once or twice before the last few days, while news had come to her of setting the court to twitter at his bizarre and outlandish dress, one of the many privateers that now crowded port, tavern and prison and now seemed to be bent on beating down the very gates of her own palace. He looked a man so in love with his own image of himself that he had no affection to spare for any another soul. A bejewelled scimitar that sat low on his hip alongside a dirk and a number of daggers thrust into a sash belted around his waist, while from one ear dangled a golden earing like that of the Khajiit, that famously ostentatious moustache and an elegantly trimmed beard in the Hammerfell style. She turned to Henrietta, feeling waspish. Who had dared to bring a man who must be a privateer at best and a pirate at worst to her court, filled as it was with Redguards and Bretons?

"Who is this man?" she asked, confused and gesturing towards him.

Thane Erikur strode forwards hurriedly.

"Ahh…. your majesty. Please allow me to introduce Leif Wind-Walker." He announced in an oily voice and with a neat bow, rising gently he tapped Leif on the back, who dutifully scuttled back a foot or two.

"Ahh" she said raising and eyebrow. She was taken aback and surprised to see him so publicly attempt to catch her attention at court. So, this was Leif Wind-Walker, a man who fancied himself half an admiral, from that ancient but long-impoverished noble line of Eastmarch nobility.

"I had no idea you were a man of culture."

"I am a man of the times your majesty." He shrugged broadly

"Can you read the times well then Leif?"

"Like the tides themselves."

"I fear for your ships then, if you always make your introductions at another's dinner time." she smacked his hand lightly with hers to lessen blow, but he still flinched at her words, and bowed once more.

"I apologise for my impenitence your Majesty." She nodded, and left him behind in her wake.

Her little entourage was not interrupted again, allowing her to reach the sanctuary of her private apartments, where no more foreign dignitaries waited in ambush. The room gave off a grand, slightly austere air. Elaborately worked ebony sconces on pearl white walls and tiled floors of black and white tiles that were far too cold for naked toes. Splashes of colour came from red curtains, rugs, bed clothes and tapestries. A jumble of furniture sat in the room, dwarfed by its setting.

The centre of the back wall of the room was dominated by a large double bed of black wood dressed in cream and crimson silken sheets imported from Cyrodiil. Opposite from a fireplace large enough for her to stand up in made of black Eastmarch granite where a fire fought the room's evening chill while next to it an exquisite dwemer towerclock whirled and chimed seven. A decorated fire screen protected a pair of footstools and a large carpet imported from Elsweyr. The carpet specially as a gift from the mane to the High Kings of Skyrim had been made centuries before and now faded, though far to storied to simply throw away, and far to elaborate to be repaired. A sumptuous dressing table stood between a pair of closets against the right wall. Gilded and with a large mirror, it table space was dominated by endless little pots of cosmetics and a silver water jug and a pair of glass tumblers. In the centre of the room a large desk across which a pair of comfortable arms chairs faced each other. To the right a dressing screen offered modesty, while the wall was pierced by large leaded windows which caught the morning light and a small private balcony, with spectacular views over the Sea of Ghosts.

With thanks, she Bolgeir she dismissed for the night, and he disappeared quickly with a clatter, relieved at the opportunity to remove his heavy nordic plate. Henrietta waited quietly in the evening shadows of her bedroom as Elisif removed the crown once more, along with her jewellery, less the Ring of State. She then shooed her ladies' maids away for a moment. She paced up and down on the ancient Elsweyr carpet, feeling vaguely guilty as she walked a grove into it as she worried over the problems tumbling through her head. She turned back to her private secretary, questions bubbling over. She had been expecting more time, and some warning.

"When did Leif arrive?"

"A week ago, but he has not attended court until today. I am told he is staying at the house of Thane Erikur for the foreseeable future."

"Prince Casimir?"

"Sailed into port very early this morning and came to the palace this morning once unloaded. He's been granted private apartments in the Palace; it would be unfit for him to be accommodated elsewhere. Falk met and welcomed him on your behalf and explained your absence. The Prince behaved rather petulantly at not being greeted in a manner appropriate to his rank, though he declined to visit your open audience himself." Perhaps if he had warned them, they could have prepared a suitable arrival for him.

"And the Duke-accommodated likewise?"

"Yes ma'am. Rode in via the Dragonbridge Road. He's an old warhorse and took the news of your absence bluffly, like a soldier should. He even apologised for not sending word of his pending arrival. They will be formally greeted before the throne next week, bringing vows of friendship and congratulations of your victory from their rulers."

She grew silent again for a moment. The room was not quiet, filled as it was with the soft rustle of the lady's maids' dresses as they locked away her jewellery. The pad of servant's footfalls as they carried tapers, lighting flickering candles in the wall sconces and the crackle of the fire in the grate against the evening cold.

"It would seem the fruits of victory are yet to appear." Elisif forced a bitter laugh.

"Ma'am?" Henrietta looked curiously at her.

"Victory has so far brought me a penniless Duke, an overly-ambitious privateer and a pimpled prince. A disappointing harvest compared to what we wished."

"I don't think we should be so quick to mistake windfall for the autumn harvest." Henrietta replied evenly.

"Then let us hope that the Dragonborn replies soon." She said, tiring of games and metaphors.

"Indeed" came Henrietta's clipped reply, which another might have mistaken as brusque insolence but she had come to recognise as earnest agreement. She turned to the meal that was being laid out on her desk, a tidy stack of reports and councillor papers next to it for her attention.

She shared a private supper with Henrietta as she sought to stretch out hours before her nightly purgatory. It was simple meal that evening for a Queen and her closest confidant and councillor. Roast highland beef with High Rock mustard, served with roasted potatoes, carrots and leeks in a rich ale gravy, without accompanying starters or deserts. Both drank a goblet apiece of warm spiced wine to ward against the chill, which they cupped in their hands as the steam rouse before their tired faces as they sat on the low footstools before the crackling fire. The warmth flowed through to their fingers and toes with each sip, and the rich taste lingered on the tongue. Exhausted by the endless business of the day, by mutual unspoken consent they talked of inconsequential light matters of palace gossip and other such trivial matter. Finally, yawning, Henrietta left for her apartments, and Elisif was dressed for bed, diving gratefully between the warm silken sheet to nestle against a feather pillow, where she waited, anxious for sleep try and claim her and damning the first day, nearly a week ago when the screams had first haunted the shadows of her mind in the lonely darkness of the night.

---

Elisif tossed and turned with sleepless frustration as the late hours of the night of the 7th of Last Seed slowly turned into the early hours of the morning of the 8th, uneasy and trapped between the sheets. It was dark and lonely in the double bed. Quiet for now with a sardonic stillness that only served to unnerve her. The only sound the pounding of her heart in her ears and the soft tick-toking of the Dwemer towerclock that only seemed to be there to mock her with arithmetic as it counted down the sleepless hours until dawn. The fire had been banked, and the heavy curtains drawn, the only light glowing embers in the grate and the thin sliver that shone through under her door, occasionally wavering as the sentry outside shifted on their feet or marched their patrol along the corridor. Whoever it was, they were unalarmed and had clearly heard nothing, and she did not want to ask him in panic, or else rumours would spread that the High Queen was hearing odd things. The room felt safe, cosy, the High Queen's private apartments a warm but slightly airless den of comfort. Yet it did not give her peace this night. So far, her few precious hours of rest had yielded none, for a persistent pressure filled her mind just as it seemed ready to drift away, filling her with nervous energy that left her shaking until it burst like the whistle of a boiling kettle.

Sybille Stentor's pyre-driven screams echoed in her mind like a Banshee's howl upon the moors.

A flame glowed in the dark as she lit a candle with the touch of a magical firestick from the bedside table. Kicking free of the bedclothes that entangled her legs, she wrapped herself in a silken dressing gown richly embroidered in the Akaviri style, tied it tight about her waist and moved to her dressing table where a jug of cool water and a pair of tumblers sat next to the mirror. Her face swam in its silvery cold reflection, cast by flickering candlelight as with trembling hands she filled the tumbler and downed it, then poured and drank another.

She collapsed into the chair, placing the tumbler and candle down before she could drop them by accident. She wiped sweat from her face, and clasped her arms with her hands, taking deep steadying breaths as she tried to regain control of her trembling limbs. She woke sometimes wake at night, occasionally twice or three times in the night. It was not nightmares that haunted her sleep but stress, cursing her with fitful sleep as she was torn back into the waking world at odd hours, her head overrunning with new ideas and solutions to the problems of the day. She kept a notebook and pencil by her bedside to deal with the torrent of ideas that came to her by night. She often deciphered her tired scrawls by dawn's light as part of her morning routine, like some strange form of augury or divination, she though with a wry sense of humour that did not touch her face. This was different. An echo, not of the past, but from the present. Not a dream or a nightmare as it intruded from the corners of her waking mind, keeping her from sleep where such visions gathered. Why did it prevent her sleep now?

Stentor was dead. Stentor was long dead. She repeated to herself. She could remember when she had first taken power nearly two years ago, her court dress still splattered with the blood of her husband as the High priest of the Great Temple to the Divines stuttered over his lines in shock and the ashamed and grieving court acclaimed her Jarl. Then it had been the terrible shout of Ulfric that had ripped her husband apart that had echoed in her nightmares. That voice had faded quickly with time, replaced by another. The terrible screams of Stentor as her body turned to ash at the merest kiss of flame, lashed to her stake by blessed silver chains that burnt her skin with red weals at the slightest touch even through her tar-soaked clothes.

Until that moment, Stentor had screamed of betrayal, of jealous lies and ill-willed whisperers and malicious gossipers, and there had been a number who had believed her. Until all had seen the ivory of her fangs and the red of her eyes as her magics were stripped away and the truth laid bare, first in the prison cell by the touch of a paladin of Stendarr, and again in the execution yard by that blessed silver chain. It had been Elisif, and her trust in her newly found private secretary that had been vindicated, their reputations made by their actions and fired in the ashes of that pyre. Yet just as they had praised her for her actions, they had spoken of those screams, and the blood chilling curses that she had uttered, never to be repeated on her orders, first as Jarl and now as High Queen. Now just the barest memory of them raised a chill on the back of her neck and had prevented her from her rest.

Yet in the empty void of emotions that had been left after being snatched repeatedly from her sleep now rage filled Elisif at the foolishness of a court that had thought her a fool. At her fool husband, and his councillors. At the sheer sense of betrayal and vulnerability that still raised the goosebumps. Falk, Erikur, Bryling, and a number of others had through their wisdom argued and convinced themselves of the benefit of turning their eyes and looking the other way. Some were guilty by opportunity she was sure, offing troublesome meddlers in their private business, others by collusion, convincing themselves that the ends justified the means, and that the great good demanded a little evil. finally, some by passivity, too afraid to ask, suspicious in a quiet manner, or even knowing and yet doing nothing, fearing for the damage of their own reputation, and holding their name higher than the lives of those below them.

She herself had been naïve in her association with that vampire just as she had been with all her advisors in the early weeks of her reign as Jarl. Friendly and unguarded in a way that had sent her skin crawling as she had signed off staggering sums to siphoned into Sybille's private purse, receiving endless assurances of the safety of her city in return. She had through she was doing the right thing, trusting in the proverb 'forewarned is forearmed' and to her magical advisor. A woman of such uncanny skill with magic that like the greatest of the Altmer and Dunmer mages she had stretched her life out many times its natural course, even for a Breton. It had been her and Henrietta, untainted by such issues who had ended it. Henrietta had a nose like a bloodhound for gossip, and a fierce intelligence to use such knowledge to best effect. Meanwhile she had always possessed a humility to take advice, but had also discovered a courage within herself to question established logic and to take action, and when Henrietta had proven the complicity of her advisors, she overturned their advice, and burnt Sybille alive for her crimes.

Her shaking calmed, but still filled with restless energy she stood. Gripping the edges of the dresser with her hands as she started at herself in the mirror. Her brow shone with sweat, he lank hair like red gold untidily framed her fair face where her tired eyes stood out, blue-green, her pale face mocking her with its pallid completion. Those long unguarded hours she had spent alone with Sybille tortured her now.

Elisif loosened the silken robe over her nightshift and looked carefully at her long swan neck in the mirror. There were no scars there that she could see, but still her skin crawled at the betrayal and vulnerability of her flesh, and she continued searching her sweat-sheened skin. Searching the expanse of exposed white flesh of her chest from her collar bones and down to her breasts that shook, rose and felt with uneasy breaths, concealing the thumping of her human heart that lay beneath them. She did not know if she was looking for proof, and she did not feel relieved when she did not find it. She stopped, and returned he hands to gripping the dresser as she studied her face in the mirror. She fancied she could see her pulse beating in the veins of her neck, propelled by the fear that she now felt that set her hair on edge and her palms sweating. Uneasily she raised her hands and covered her neck protectively, breaking away contact with her vampire-like reflection and turning away, unable to bear her gaze any longer. What had Stentor had in mind for her?

To enthral her and force her to serve as the true puppet queen some had alleged until the conquest of her city as an incompetent bungler of the defence? Then kept alive as a jester or some trophy of Harkon's conquest? A queen as jester, kept in a cage with the motley to match? Or perhaps to throw her with her people to be used as blood cattle, perhaps served up upon her own tables at the victory feast as Harkon's personal dish? Some had whispered that the Dread lord would have taken her as a bride, transforming her into a vampiress to participate in her fair city's demise as she devoured her own devoted people. To then watch from the side-lines as another ruled her fallen city throughout the night, until daylight forced her into his embrace. To be raped by that twisted creature through day's long shadows until the moons light's dawning.

Would she have been brave enough to stand, sword in hand? To die before her throne as her previous husband Torygg had, utterly untrained in the arts of war? Or would she have run and hidden from her fate until pulled from her hidey-hole? Perhaps she would have thrown herself from her balcony in a last act of defiance? Or, worst of all, would she have meekly accepted and surrendered to her fate to protect her life and position like her councillors had done with Sybille? She shuddered, cursing how her mind delighted in this savage torture this night.

She remembered well how Sybille had thrown her weight around in her court in those chaotic early days. Dominating them all through fear and blackmail, competence and convenience. How Sybille had lectured her on her Queenly duties at any opportunity-alone, in council and in court-and she had accepted without question her authority and knowledge to do so, for compared to her advisors, what did she know? When Beric had arrived at one Middas afternoon, she had seen the opportunity to protect her people and make a new ally, and made the choice to support and deal with him. Of her advisors Henrietta alone had supported her choice, citing a number of reports from guards, merchants and farmers alike that had too many similarities to be mere superstitious nonsense. And after Beric had returned with news of his investigations into Wolfskull cave that he only half understood, it revealed the limitations and the fallibility of her advisors, and the value of her own insight and instincts. The gross failure of Sybille to detect the threat, and the disinterest of her advisors for inconvenient truths led to them mocking the poor man's honest claims, and the brief spark of pride that had caught and shone for a guttering moment within her was reduced to an ember.

Then, when the catacombs and caverns beneath Solitude had been revealed as flooded by vampires and Draugr in the winter of 202, Sybille had claimed shrilly that they simply could not exist. Even as the court slowly mobilised around her to fight it, she had been blind to the shifting allegiances of the court that she had once ruled. After Beric had returned through the winter snows of the north shore to the capital and had once again saved the city he reiterated his mission in a private audience with her. Of the Dawnguard and the Volkihar threat now confirmed and growing close to her capital, and she had called Sybille before her. Sybille had even then believed herself in charge and safe, daring to snap and argue at being directed her to scry for threats within Haafingar, lecturing her on how she had far too much work to deal with now to indulge these foolish beliefs. She declared her that scrying found none, let that be an end to it. And when Henrietta arrived later that night, with a neat leather folder filled with papers detailing her investigation into Sybille's activities and experiments and feeding within Castle Dour, the presence of a vampire in the heart of her court had been revealed. With the Volkihar so close, a spy in the capital could not be discounted, perfectly placed to topple Skyrim's leadership. She called Beric into another private audience, and sent him back home through the winter snows. Bring me a hero, and I will get you an army she had promised.

Beren had then ridden into the city with Beric and Serana, then as the newly proclaimed dragonborn and she had presented him to Solitude as the saviour of all of Skyrim. Tullius, embarrassed, ashamed and needing to protect his supply lines and base of operations had stumped up the a few of the troops she needed, and the brothers had sailed with the Dawnguard and Imperial forces come the spring. She had not been there to see it herself, to wield the blade in the battle that had destroyed the Volkihar but it had been her victory all the same. The council had fallen into line behind her, the people had been united with her, and even Tullius had been forced to deal with her for once as an equal, rather than one of his lieutenants.

She had saved her people. She, and Henrietta and the Stone-Striders. Beric took fame uneasily, being as dull as ditch water and nervous around the ranks nobility in which he now found himself uneasily elevated, but still more than competent as a soldier and was hailed as a no-nonsense leader. In fact, she found his rather amusing at how uneasy he felt in her presence, compared to the confidence with which he was normally reported to work. She perhaps reminder her rather of Henrietta in his own way, serious and prematurely aged beyond his years. And Beren. The warrior to Beric's soldier. Disarmingly cheerful, Nordicly handsome and naturally charismatic, he had a natural manner which was popular with the people and had charmed her as every inch the Nord hero in the many times they had met over the years. And in the times they had met in private, she had found an equal in personal experience. Someone who felt the isolation of command and leadership, and they had taken the opportunity to share their personal thoughts in a way no one else could understand. Someone chosen by fate to face a burden that humbled them by its magnitude, and the sheer sense of duty that bound them to act selflessly for the best of Skyrim as a whole, rather than the selfish desires of one.

Falk had advised her 'after this war is over, make alliances,' and the implication to marry had been clear. Now she felt the ground shifting around her once again as her newly elevated place and unwedded position attracted opportunistic suitors like wasps to ripe fruit while her conquering army dissolved into the brothels and taverns of a hundred towns and villages. Meanwhile a Potentate ruled the empire until an heir to the Ruby Throne could be identified and appointed. Another unpopular continuity candidate who had come to power through mysterious means, and like her previous self largely unknown to the people he ruled. With a Dragonborn at play it seemed only natural that the Potentate's rule would be short affair, and she would have to secure Skyrim's place within the Empire and the new order, and renew her people's faith it its power. A Nord, and a Dragonborn Emperor could do that. Yet for now it was to her own lands and her own borders that she looked to. Skyrim was divided- in loyalists who had backed her, either through principle, calculation or opportunity, and Stormcloaks who had done likewise. There were also those who had sat out the war uneasily, moderates like Balgruuf or Maven who had been lukewarm to both parties and now sought to prove themselves while exploiting their position. Many of these had hidden and hoarded their power while others had spent men and money to win victories which left them with an uneasy, deflated triumph.

That did not mean she had to surrender all action to her enemies, and a surprise would keep them unbalanced and passive, which suited her very much at this time. Henrietta had done her work on Beren and his companions and had once suggested that she marry Beric once this war was over. But her Skyrim was not Henrietta's High Rock, and birth counted for perhaps a little more than most Nords would admit, or Henrietta would have warranted. Beric was a bastard born commoner of unknown parents to the lowest slums of Whiterun, and so she could not marry him. Whereas Beren was Dragonborn, and therefore ennobled through the same Dragonblood which had elevated countless emperors to the Ruby throne. Besides his marriage to Aela he was a near perfect candidate. Moreover, he was a malleable one in a way only she could work. If he had a fault, besides his anger, it was the urge to power and an inability to rest on his laurels, and that weakness was one she was keen to press.

Once she dangled the Ruby throne as a goal in front of him, he would pursue it to the ends of Tamriel. And she could do far more for him in achieving that goal than Aela and a handful of divided companions could, as he would quickly realise as he kicked his heels in his Whiterun estate. She had a base of operations in Solitude and a country's worth of resources to call upon, and the political expertise for such a play. He had an army that appeared at the sounding of a horn, and the respect of all Skyrim for destroying the three greatest terrors this age had seen. Marrying him would bring what she needed most-a symbol of strength to gather around, independence from those who would wish to entangle her, unity for her people, and protection for her. His thirst for conquest wetted and his responsibilities made clear to a nation of millions of people how could he justify maintaining his marriage to Aela? Her thoughts quieted by this comforting notion as her utterly exhausted brain simply closed down, she finally, peacefully slipped off to sleep.

At first, she attempted to merely ignore whatever soul, spirit or demon that sought to irritate her so persistently like a particularly vexing papercut. She then tried to find sanctuary in a session of confession and absolution from her private confessor, and a potion of sleep after they persisted past this spiritual healing. This, coupled along with a small magical cleansing of her bed chambers by Melaran over the weekend had been enough to drive off whatever malicious spirit had been lingering there away and into the void. The morning of Morndas the 16th of Hearthfire was a glorious one. While a small part of her knew and acknowledged it was the last of the summer sun, she luxuriated in this final golden opportunity, and Elisif felt content for the first time in weeks after her last night's uninterrupted, full night's sleep.

---

The warm light of the morning sun fell upon the exposed balcony where Elisif ate breakfast, carrying with it a dawn breeze cool and salty fresh off the Sea of Ghosts as she careful tapped the top off a boiled egg with a small spoon and dipped a toast soldier into the runny golden yoke. Wearing once again her warm dressing gown over her shift she munched happy as she poured some Canis root tea into her cup to ward off the exhaustion that darkened her mood and clouded her mind, much lifted by still felt. The doors to her bedroom were wide open, and the room was filled with the refreshing morning breeze that set the curtains to gently billowing as she looked out over the bay that stretched out five hundred feet below her. The air was filled with birds, from hawks and sea eagles to the gulls which nested in the cracks and cervices in Solitude's mightily arch. While below the waters of the bay were already filling with fishing smacks which headed out in their schools, trailed by larger ships, amongst which there were a few rotund traders holks from High Rock and a proud trio of Nord longship, early risers taking the morning tide out of the harbour.

She sipped her tea and finished her egg, before picking up an apple and careful peeling it with a knife. The warships were departing on her orders and would clear the headland at Lighthouse point and then turn west, and patrol towards Northwatch to the very borders of High Rock. Likewise, she knew the fishing smacks would return at nightfall, their holds filled with fish and clams. But the trader's destinations were an unknown to her, and she watched with curiosity, wondering which way they would turn. Many had business with High Rock, but it had only been months since the siege of Dawnstar had ended, and merchants were nothing if not quick to sense a new business opportunity, and a silver-tongued Breton was sure to find a good deal there.

There were a quick three raps on the bedroom door. Elisif stood immediately, done with breakfast and returned to her chamber as a pair of servants cleared away her breakfast tray and closed the doors to the balcony. She sat down behind the desk and smoothed out the fabric of her dressing gown, as Henrietta hurried in, carrying under her arm a trio of leather document wallets and a number of individual sheaves of paper. She set he leather documents cases before Elisif undid the leather ties and opened the first of them as Henrietta summarised their contents

"Initial reports and summaries on the three newly arrived suitors. Personal histories, family trees, known allies, and their enemies. Also, likely points of contact within Skyrim and the Court. It is not a co-incidence these individuals arrived in time to winter in Solitude."

"Doubtless." Elisif nodded, taking the point, running a jaded eye over the summary at the top of the pile as Henrietta opened another leather wallet, filled with the day to day business of the Kingdom. Elisif found seal, quill and ink to set her signature on a few administrative document and orders, but was disappointed when the third contains much of the same.

"Today's letters?" Elisif asked hopefully, looking up from the summaries laid out before here

"Here, ma'am." Henrietta laid out a small splash of mail that required a personal response, she quickly looked over the seals on the letters, before putting them down discouraged.

The noble families of Hammerfell, High Rock and Cyrodiil had maintained superficially friendly terms with her court over the past few years, at first disbelieving her reports and then sitting on their hands as they waited to see who would win before jumping in to back the winning horse at the last hour. She knew why deep down, few had expected the then-Jarl Elisif to have any long-term relevance, or to have emerged as High Queen from the Moot against more experienced contenders. Many still saw her as the tipsy, naïve and gullible young girl of Elenwen's party being played like a fiddle by her courtiers, and the embarrassing memory of that day burned inside her like a coal. Now those families were out in the cold in more ways than one, overtaken by the stunning speed of events since the entry of the last Dragonborn into the war. News travels slow though, the story of the great Battle of Blizzard's rest was doubtless still making its way out across Tamriel, and even amongst those better informed many had been expecting the civil war to drag on into the next year, as optimism following that victory soured and the worsening weather seemed set to force an abandonment of the stalemated sieges of Windhelm and Dawnstar.

Now the war was now over, ended suddenly by fire and flood, the enemy cities broken by Thu'um and the threat of dragon attack. Instead of a grinding slog or being forced to barter, her country had emerged victorious without the help of any outside force (less the imperial legion) renewed under a Dragonborn and a young queen, and it was for her formerly distant 'allies' to make amends. It was more than likely those families would start sending their own eligible Batchelors come the spring in the new year to add to the current crop. Perhaps a more vicious queen would label it 'too little, too late,' and enjoy the opportunity to flaunt her newly empowered position and the prestige that a sudden glorious victory brought. But in her mind, there was no need for examples to be made here, the execution of the traitor jarls had been message enough to those who had doubted her strength or determination to rule Skyrim. She pulled the small stack of orders forward for her seal and signature.

Such arithmetic strengthened the hand of the few suitors present now. Those who arrived later did so out of fear and a desire to curry favour which would be hard to hide, while there had been few allies who had come willingly to her court earlier who had been in any way serious contenders for her hand. She knew that these three hoped to have timed their arrival to perfection, alerted by spies within her court and meant to seize the moment, exploiting the harsh Skyrim winter in the hope that the famously empty-headed beauty that was now Skyrim's new High Queen could be over-awed or wooed into taking one of them into the warmth of her fur-covered bed. She had no desire to stand idle and surrender the initiative so quickly to her enemies or allies. She signed and sealed the last document with a flourish and stood, walking behind the dressing screen as Henrietta gathered up freshly signed documents.

"No news from Whiterun at all then?" she called from around the edge of the screen as she pulled the dressing gown off, beginning to feel anxious by the delay these communications forced upon any negotiation. Servants and ladies' maids rushed bearing a selection of dresses, a basin of warm water, soap and towels.

"None yet Ma'am, I am sorry."

She huffed and pulled last night's shift up over her head, goose-bumps pimpleing her suddenly naked flesh at the coolness of the chamber air. She washed with floral soap and warm fresh water from the basin and dried her body as servants brought forward a new one for the day, spun from tundra cotton and fresh and crisp as new fallen snow. Then followed a riot of gowns, jewellery, perfume and inconsequential chit-chat as they joked and enjoyed the cheerful dawns light. Amidst the whirl of activity that surrounded her she found a measure of peace in the steady routine of the servants, the routine a constant companion throughout her life.

It was only Henrietta's presence, hidden just behind the screen that had changed the scene. It had been Bolgeir who had suggested that Elisif take on a private secretary shortly after she had come to power as Jarl. Suddenly alone exposed at court, crushed with the weight of her new responsibility and dependent upon a range of unfamiliar faces she had little trust in and they little respect for her, it had seemed the sensible first step to select and hire her own staff, men and women loyal to her.

Somehow Henrietta had appeared upon her the shortlist for private secretary. A Breton from High Rock, she had been born the daughter of a newly ennobled knight employed by the local count only for a coup to topple her family and their patron from power. Elisif had found her loyal, discrete and a highly intelligent woman, if somewhat paranoid and hired her over any number of her Nord nobility who had been born to the court. She had quickly grown to become Elisif's right hand, winning her absolute trust upon discovering and reporting the taint of vampirism within her own court, and the unholy activities that damned vampire had enacted within Castle Dour. She shuddered away from such thoughts, eager to put last night behind her.

Now wearing sumptuous silken dress of crimson and gold, she strode out from behind the screen where a trio of servants had now appeared and waited before her with opened jewellery boxes. While the Ring of State never left her finger, there was an array of other items no High Queen could be seen without and from them she took a pair of diamond earrings, a golden necklace heavy and sparkling with gems, and finally the Jagged Crown, lifting it high to fit snuggly about her face. She checked her reflection in the mirror, and was surprised to see Henrietta still present. For all that her maids and ladies in waiting were sworn to secrecy, Elisif knew well that that the surest way to leak a secret was to tell them one in confidence. They waited patiently as the servants and ladies' maids filled out of her bedchamber, the door shutting with a click behind the last one.

"You should be prepared for the council to discuss what the arrival of the new suitors means for your proposal to marry the Dragonborn. Six months ago many thought your proposal a flight of fancy, three months ago a dangerous indulgence. Now these new suitors offer an opportunity to save face, and they are panicking at what the Dragonborn might due to a councillor suddenly out of favour and blamed for your decision. They mean to re-open the issue today."

Elisif flinched at the bluntness of this approach.

"You are sure of your sources?"

"Completely."

Elisif pondered this for a moment, and then blurted out into the morning air in a sudden rush of nerves as a slight shiver ran up her spine.

"Do you disagree with my decision, Henrietta?"

"Not at all, Elisif. There is a pragmatic wisdom to it, a hard-headedness which speaks of strength and stability in these unsettled times. But many of the council find the offer to Beren distasteful, and they all have other suitors who they think might be more advantageous and less controversial."

"Less controversial?" she thought aloud, thinking of what the Nords she ruled would make of a Redguard, Breton or pirate consort to their High Queen.

"In the acquisition."

"Henrietta speak clearly." She snapped, tiring of this little game.

"Then you should be prepared for the anger that the perception of an unjust use of royal power to force a man to divorce his wife will cause." She replied, stressing the word.

"It is the promise of a united, peaceful Skyrim and access to the throne that will cause Beren to divorce Aela, not the threat my anger. What threat could I make to frighten the Last Dragonborn? And what man would not divorce their wife to marry a queen for the good of his country? Besides all that, what Dragonborn could refuse when all have been driven by their lust for power?"

Henrietta nodded reluctantly at this, narrowing her eyes in thought as she considered the proposal.

"To which of these natures are we appealing?"

"Why both at once of course, I know Beren well enough…perhaps better than most would guess, I would warrant. I know what drives him and what fears stalk his dream by night, as they haunt my own sleeping hours. Neither of us looked for our titles, Beren was made Dragonborn by Akatosh, as was I by grace of the Divines and twist of fate, made High Queen. Besides that, man or woman, peasant or noble, all desire power for themselves. It is that desire that will lead them to press for their own suitors though they do not solve Skyrim's problems, just as it will win Beren to my side."

Henrietta met her eyes at this, looking hard as her brown-stone eyes darted and searched Elisif's blue-green eyes for an unspoken answer. Elisif kept her face blank and her thought hidden, though she could not bear Henrietta's searching gaze for long, and looked away, awkward at this sudden harsh investigation by her friend. After a pause Henrietta nodded and broke the silence with a sigh.

"Forgive me, your Majesty. I remain committed to you in this, and I believe it the best solution to Skyrim's many problems, but many of your councillors have quicker, easier and simpler solutions to peddle. Just as such a bold move may embolden our enemies. I want to be sure we are ready for all eventualities."

Elisif nodded, thinking as she murmured a reply.

"Then by all the Divines I pray we are."

---

"Come now, you know I don't listen to gossip like that…."

Erikur laughed in the quiet of the council room before his sentence was abruptly cut off. All stood as Elisif swept into the council room, the squeal of chairs and the scrape of feet as the men and women who crowded around the long table bowed at her entrance. She acknowledged their obedience with a nod, and seated herself at the head of the table. She looked around the table, relieved to see all were in place and waiting expectantly for her to open the Council meeting., Falk was seated to her right hand, next to him sat Thane Bryling, then Thane Erikur where they would squabble as only sibling could throughout her council meetings. Viarmo, headmaster of the College of the Arts looked proud and alert in his seat, though perhaps a little uneasy as Bolgeir took up his place next to them, boredom already flitting across his face as he took up his place at the far end of the table opposite her and closest to the door. She had seated the two imperials on her council side by side, Legate Caesennius sat straight-backed beside Bolgeir where the two old soldiers could entertain each other, paperwork neatly stacked Infront of him. Next to him sat Aquillius, a rather grey man much crumpled these past few months and still mourning the tragic accident that had killed his cousin Vittoria, she sympathised deeply with his pain. His council however was invaluable any number of matters as a highly ranked member of the East Empire Company and a good Bellwether for any imperial reaction. The last two seats were quickly filled as Melaran returned from enacting the seals, wards and barriers needed to hide their council from any would-be spies, and Henrietta, who swept in and sat to the seat to her left.

The Council room was hung with large oils on its otherwise barren walls, landscapes scenes of mountains, woods and field in an only partially successful attempt to reduce the oppressive atmosphere of the windowless room. The only air the slightest of breezes that trickled under the door, a necessity as much as it was an unfortunate weak point but one which she had been assured could be guarded against. Its oppressive atmosphere helped focus attention upon her as Henrietta handed over a copy of the agenda for the meeting. She opened it, picked up her quill and read the first item.

"I would first like to update my council about the events discussed at yesterday's open audience. Many of my people reported issues with pirates raiding the north shore to High Rock, along with banditry on the mountain passes. Legate Caesennius, Bolgeir, I believe I left responsibility for this with you."

"Good news, Bad news I'm afraid. Bad news first. I've made preparations to dispatch a squadron of auxiliary cavalry, and a couple of companies of light infantry, but they will take time to organise, a couple of weeks perhaps."

"Why the delay?" she asked, by that time autumn would be fully here and an early snowfall would leave the highland villages to the bandit's tender mercies throughout the long winter.

"Casualties and the recent return from active duty. Many soldiers are missing, presumed drunk. They'll return once they've drunk or gambled all their money in town."

"Can the Town Watch do anything?" she asked exasperated and turning to Bolgeir

"When we find them, we turn them over to the legion. If we can find them." He grumbled. They had been around their argument before, the waterfront was a disorientating mess of warehouses, storerooms, wharfs, quays all jumbled up with taverns, hovels and houses of ill repute all filled to the brim with humanity that rendered even the most wanted murder anonymous. She briefly considered dispatching a squadron of her Royal guard to reinforce the expedition, but discarded it. Stripping out her own protection would unite the council against her.

"You mentioned you had some good news? What of the Longships I saw departing this morning?"

"Ahh yes. We've had a spot of luck with the pirates. the navy couldn't provide any ships at short notice so we prepared letters of marque for privateers." A look passed around the council, and Elisif had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Leif Wind-Walker generously made his ships available in the absence of the Navy taking to sea" Erikur announced as all eyes turned onto him. "his crews are rested and ready, after a few weeks in Solitude. One last sail along the north shore under those letters should help pacify the situation before winter's storms end travel by sea for the season. They should be back in a month or so."

"I wonder if the ease with which he clears out his old haunts will make up for how hard it must have been for him to turn on his old shipmates." Aquillius remarked tartly.

"I don't listen to those sorts of rumours, and a man like Leif doesn't care to hear them. He would say it's probably about as easy it is to talk behind a man's back instead of before his face. Perhaps you should ask him yourself." Erikur shooed him away with a bored wave of his hands, like a particularly annoying wasp.

"Leif did not sail with his ships then?" she asked, puzzled at why he remained behind.

"Indeed not, he remains in Solitude to celebrate his triumph over Dawnstar with his soldiers, sailors and marines. If I may bring your attention to something else your majesty, He is concerned and seeks to press his case regarding the prize money and ransom from the city of Dawnstar, where he was commander of our forces. Many of his men and ships remain in Solitude, waiting his promise to ensure he get them their prize money."

Henrietta stirred beside her, making a series of discrete notes in a small notebook and flipping through its pages, but it was Falk who intervened at this, searching through the papers before him as he spoke in a bored voice. Clearly it was not the first time he had been down this road.

"He didn't take the surrender or seize the city. The city deposed its Jarl and the revolutionaries under Brina Merilis specifically surrendered to Beren Stone-Strider and his Dragons, not the original besieging forces under the command of Leif Wind-walker. The law is clear in this instance, Leif gains credit for his assistance, but was not the man to which the surrender was offered."

"The law states that it is the commander to which the surrender is given, and that subordinates accept the surrender of others on their behalf."

"Clearly a Dragonborn outranks a self-appointed 'privateer' admiral." Viarmo put in

"And where does the law say that?" Erikur asked with a smirk.

"What of the reports that Leif handed over command to the Dragonborn and his brother?" Falk weighed in with the trump card, flaunting said report in his hand, the weather-beaten paper bearing the faded seal of the Last Dragonborn visible upon it.

"There are no records of such an arrangement being made, and Leif has been clear that the brothers unfortunately misinterpreted his words, giving them his permission to take action as was his right to do so as the commander." Erikur replied with a pleasant grin, passing his own report up to the queen, fresh and clean.

"Enough." Elisif snapped at them.

"Leif is free to pursue his case through the Law-Speakers. Until that time the prize money and ransom from the siege remains contested. Take it up personally in the courts if you feel the need to intervene." Or challenge Beren to a duel if you question his integrity, she thought to herself. She did not feel particularly invested in the dispute either way, the treasury had already claimed its share, a small but much needed boost to its dwindling coffers. While she disliked Leif for his peacocking ways and had a soft spot for the Stone-strider brothers, them claiming their stake and thus reducing the share of prizemoney to the common soldiery was unlikely to make them or her popular in the long run. Better to be seen to have washed her hands of the issue and allow the law to be seen to take its course. Though she would keep an eye out and have Henrietta and her agents would keep the jury fair.

"Perhaps my councillors could continue this discussion elsewhere while we address the second item. What news about the harvest?"

Falk shifted a few pieces of paper before him, and summarised the reports before him.

"We are still waiting for news to come in from all of our Jarls, but it is about as can be expected so far. Haafingar, the Reach and Hjaalmarch have reported satisfactory harvests, but there is little grain that we can export. As for those holds formerly held by the rebels or touched by the war, we only know of Winterhold, which should be fine. Balgruuf's report is yet to arrive, but we expect bad news, along with the Pale, the Rift and Eastmarch, where the war fell heaviest. It is likely that Whiterun should be unaffected, able to trade for grain our of its own treasury, but the others?" he left the question hanging in the air for a moment before continuing.

"We should prepare ourselves for famine in the former Stormcloak holds." He stated, and Elisif stuttered, mind whirling with solutions. Surely the other provinces could help make up the shortfall.

"Could we import grain? Cyrodiil, High Rock, Hammerfell or even Morrowind could offer aide. We could send missions to these provinces and have food ready come the spring." She asked Falk.

Erikur intervened at this, speaking from halfway down the table on the right.

"I have received news from Maven these past few days concerning these matters, Maven…Jarl Maven that is, has created a number of soup kitchens, financed out of her own purse for the relief of her ruined city. She seems to be having some success, and the higher numbers of Dunmer in her city makes trade with Morrowind easier. We could use Leif's fleet, and ship food to Windhelm and Dawnstar."

"Nords would rather die than eat Dunmer food or ask one for charity." Bolgeir cut over their conversation with a growl from the far end of the table, to murmurs of support from most of her councillors, and Erikur coloured at the challenge. Falk spoke over the muttering with deliberate care.

"Sadly, your majesty, I fear Bolgeir is right. No Nord would willing eat what the Dunmer call food. Nor is your Court or the Empire on the best of terms with Morrowind after the siege of Windhelm. The Dunmer ambassador is demanding that the legion turn over Beren's report on the siege. The reports of flooding caused by his Thu'um have the great houses in uproar at the drowning of many of their kinsmer in the Grey Quarter. Memories of the Nord tongues and of your empire still linger there. As things stand it is unlikely, we would receive little help from that quarter."

"How quickly the forget the debt they owe Beren for Solstheim." She marvelled in a half-heard whisper to herself. She nodded to Aquillius, who was playing disinterestedly playing with a quill. "What of Cyrodiil? I would assume that they would not be keen to allow the newly won territories to slip into unrest once again."

"We can ask the potentate's ambassador to provide food aid and riot troops, but that would undermine the firm line we wanted to take with them. They will likely be pressing for the return of the legions at the earliest opportunity in the new year." He shrugged and turned to the legate at his side, gesturing in boredom and disinterest.

"He will care little for bread riots as will his ambassador, and with Riften and Windhelm in ruins and Dawnstar cowed by the mere shadow of Beren's dragons we will perceive the threat of renewed civil war as non-existent. The Thalmor have been carrying out manoeuvres across the border in Valenwood. It is too late in the campaigning season and will likely come to nothing, but the legions wills be withdrawn to bolster the Cyrodilic garrisons and the Potentate will see local security as Skyrim's problem..." His voice trailed away as the unspoken acknowledgement filled the air, this was a test for her as skyrim's new ruler. Falk cleared his throat

"Thank you, legate. To add to his points, we should also consider the difficulties of trade. The Pale pass will likely be sealed by winter behind the ambassadors on their return. We would have no aide or answers until the spring."

"Do we have no means of magical communication with them?" She snapped at Melaran, who shook his head.

"High Rock or Hammerfell then. The north road to High rock is not as dangerous as the pale pass, and ship have a shorter journey. We could stockpile food from either province in Solitude, Morthal and Windhelm before the worse of the winter weather, and distribute those stockpiles while new food arrives from the provinces."

There was a measure of nodding and positive noises as this as her council looked around the table.

"That is more possible my lady. However, they will have conditions on a deal such as this. The expense. There are matters of administration that would require the personal attention at the highest levels to react quickly enough before the arrival of winter. We would need to ensure our offer is sufficiently attractive that his is a mutual exchange, and not charity." Falk said carefully, and she felt the air thicken around her as the yet undiscussed topic first stirred the waters. She shifted uncomfortable in her chair.

"They may perhaps make a marriage-alliance a requirement as part of these negotiations." He stated very, very delicately.

"That is unacceptable." Elisif stated flatly in return, stonewalling him.

"It is for the good of all skyrim's people that we should at least discuss it before we dismiss it." Thane Erikur noted, but Elisif swiped the statement angrily from the air.

"We have discussed this for the past six months. In the spring, we shall invite Beren to Solitude, where we will be married and secure Skyrim. Ending the pointless division and civil war we have seen. It is fitting that a war that began with the murder of my husband should end with my marriage to another."

"Hear, hear." Cried Viarmo, turning all eyes upon the previously forgotten Altmer.

"the Elf is right." Erikur rumbled grudgingly, and the 'hear hears' this time were echoed by many of her councillors. Henrietta tried to catch her eye, while Falk avoided hers.

"My lady…." Legate Adventus began, and Elisif raised an eyebrow at this. He usually was happy to spend council doodling in his notebooks and daydreaming, only bring drawn into discussion at the dog whistle like call of the words 'legion,' 'battle,' and 'elves.'

"Legate, I believe you have something to say."

He stood, oddly formal.

"I tend to restrain myself in council to those issues which I understand best- the conduct and politics of war. I have little concern for or understanding of the issues of marriage, and coin, but I firmly believe it is my duty to council against your marriage to Beren Stone-Strider." He paused, as if expecting her to immediately reject this, but when she said noting and gave no reaction other than a slight nod of encouragement, he continued.

"We should consider the character and temperament of this man. Beren has shown little skill in leadership off the battlefield that cannot be placed at his brother's feet. On the battlefield, he has shown mercy unwisely and without discrimination or consideration. He is a man of violent tempers, and given to emotional outbursts. What Skyrim needs most is to locate a man of calm and proven leadership."

Ahh she thought, this is about the Duke, and she shook her head in disagreement, simply unwilling to accept his line of argument.

"How can the man who pardoned 10,000 Stormcloak prisoners on the field of battle be labelled unstable? Or given to violent outburst?"

He nodded, expecting her answer, and answered in a measure, respectful tone.

"Indeed, he did, but what was the price of Beren's mercy? How many of those did he pardon simply return to the colours to fight on alongside the Stormcloak? This council knows well from General Tullius's reports from prisoners that hundreds of the defenders of Windhelm had previously laid their swords before him after the Battle of Blizzard's rest. Beren forgave without mercy, and in doing so sent hundreds of his fellow legionnaires and Auxiliaries to their deaths because he was more concerned with his reputation as Dragonborn that the needs of the war he was fighting."

Henrietta stood at this, matching the legate and looking him square in the eye.

"Beren gave them their freedom, and they exercised their freedom as they chose- poorly. Their choices are on them, not him. By foreswearing their oaths, they dishonoured their cause, and the gods granted us victory as punishment for their impiety."

"Save your sermons for the Temple, Henrietta, we should turn our minds to politics and not pretend to known the will of the gods." Erikur sneered at her piety.

"Then perhaps we should consider why they sent the Dragonborn to us, the last of his kind?"

A pause followed this pronouncement.

"Well we know why. To kill dragons!" Viarmo shouted, and people hurriedly cut him off before he could begin a lengthy recital of the portents, legends and literary analysis of the legend of the Dragonborn.

"Perhaps, Perhaps. However, we should also consider what effect this might have on the average Nord-about-town. Many will question what right the queen has to demand a man divorce his wife, or the morality of a man who would do so for power. This is a very dangerous game to play, and I fear that we may lose the love of the people when they hear of it." Erikur stated.

"I fear he is right. Beren married for love by all accounts. If his heart ruled his head once before, it will again. Beren will not marry you, my Queen." Thane Bryling spoke up, the first words she had uttered all morning, and Elisif was aghast at the simple manner with which she spoke. She had always valued her for her principles and honourable nature, her insight into the minds of the most honourable Nords. Bolgeir rose then, His own chair screeching across the ground. He walked around as a vast bearlike lump, lumbering around the table to stand at her side, a show of force as much as loyalty. He growled at his audience.

"Save us your tragic heroes and your penny romances. A peasant may marry their village sweetheart, but a noble act for the good of his family and the realm. Beren must act according to his rank. His marriage to Aela gave him a pack of half-loyal mercenaries. If Skyrim requires him to wed the Queen to secure the peace, and he shall carry out his duty, just as Elisif and Aela shall."

Bryling flushed and muttered at this, and angry muttering joined at Bolgeir's attempt to intimidate them, and Elisif flushed embarrassed at this ill-judged show of support by the man.

"Why should the Queen marry a Nord at all? There are a number of noble families from outside Skyrim that we should consider. An alliance with other provinces would help improve trade and replenish our depleted treasury, High Rock for example." Falk said carefully.

"Ah yes, an aging Duke whose most valuable asset is his name and victories over the orcs and pirate that are nearly two decades old." Erikur snarked tartly.

"Then perhaps you mean to champion our Prince of the Pimples? He is wealthy enough to buy himself the position if it were for sail." Bryling replied, talking over Falk protestations as she spat poison at her brother, as insults flew back and forth between them.

"Better a prince in the bloom of youth than a Duke old enough to be the Queen's father."

"Age bring many benefits- experience, wisdom, and a certain steadiness of character. I pray that you will live to sample them."

"Enough of all this! No Nord would accept foreign domination! Or a foreign Consort to their beloved Queen!" Erikur shouted, rising to his feet to scream at his sister, who likewise rose. "Skyrim Belongs to the Nords, and by a Nord she shall be ruled! Skyrim belongs to the Nord!" he screamed, and all around them the chamber dissolved into disarray. Falk and Adventus arguing for marriage with High Rock, Bryling and Aquillius of the advantages of an alliance in Hammerfell, while the others screamed for either Beren or a Nord noble.

Overwhelmed, she turned to Bolgeir, who noted the look upon her face and watched as her councillors screamed and shouted around her. Standing in a clatter of mail and plate, he raised a hand as large as her face and brought his palm crashing down like a blacksmiths hammer. The blow rattled the table, sending the councillor's jumping, the chair crashing and rattling the tumblers, goblets and cups arrayed upon it. he rained a series of blows upon it until the councillors took their seats, red faced but restrained. He stopped, crossed his arms and dared the councillors to meet his eyes. None did. He glanced at her, and Elisif nodded her thanks.

"My councillors, I confess I am quite overwhelmed by the…dedication and the excellence of the advice you have shown me this day, and the concerns you have shown for our kingdom. And I would be remis as Queen to dismiss your advice and concerns out of hand. I'm sure your excellent men all have tongues for themselves. By all means let them use them, and demonstrate to the court the value such a marriage-alliance would have. I'm sure that they would relish an opportunity to demonstrate their quality alongside the Dragonborn in competition for my hand."

"Let us therefore leave the issue for the moment as unresolved, and return to the matter at hand."

She looked around the room, and when none complained as this neat little compromise, she returned to the agenda before her.

The meeting stretched throughout the morning, broken only by an hour for lunch, and returned with a vengeance in the afternoon as they returned to the room which felt more and more like a cell or dungeon with every minute that they spent. Even the painting had long lost their charm, their bucolic scenes becoming almost mocking in their presentation of an idealised nature entirely out of reach to the prisoners who beheld them. Afterward the council was finished she lingered and received in her office-library with its large sea views within her private quarters where now grey skies clouded the previously blue sunlight skies. There she again saw her councillors one by one, where they once again attempted to re-open the issue as she and Henrietta reluctantly once again took up the task of defending her choices. Some like Falk and Adventus she was sure had her interests at heart, but others felt more opportunistic. She denied them all.

That evening she took supper with her court in full splendour as drops of rain fell upon the windows panes, wining and dining her disappointed councillors and making a show of mildly flirting and listening with respect to the stories that their chosen suitors told. She laughed at their jokes, teased, ask their advice and generally demonstrated her mastery of the politician's art of using many words to say very little. Finally, she excused herself, pleading the business of state and begging understanding from her gallant Duke, prince and thane as she discretely directed for more wine to be brought up to cover her retreat. She returned to her private apartments with the abstemious Henrietta and the ever sober Bolgeir in tow. There she dismissed them and went directly to her bedchamber, where she and ignoring her desk entirely and called her servants. Stripped of jewellery and wiggling out of her dress she dived gratefully into her bed for a well-deserved early night.

---

Elisif was suddenly jerked awake at the noisy palace around her. There was an autumn storm blowing, and she could hear the rain pelt her windows, and the wind ratting the roof, yet these noises were not expected. There were shouts coming down the halls, and the clatter of soldier's hobnails on the stone and wood floors. Yells followed and somewhere far off in the palace a bell was being tolled. Other bells followed; the sound deadened by the heavy curtains. She hurried from the bed and wrenched them aside, craning her head out as rain splattered on her head and rain whipped her hair to look down the line of battlements toward Castle Dour and the Sacred District where sat the imposing bulk of the Great Temple. There were no burning buildings or fire to be seen, but she could hear plainly the alarm bells ringing from there across her city, as they had when the Emperor had been found dead aboard his ship. The cold wind from the Sea of Ghosts gusted, chilling her and she shivered and pulled back inside.

She could hear Henrietta yelling as she pulled her dressing gown on, and hesitated a minute, before grabbing a sheathed dagger from under her pillow and gripping it uneasily in both hands. Was this a coup? Was it dragons? Henrietta was rapping out orders at a terrifying rate of knots to match the sharp crack of her shoes on the floor of the corridor, marching down towards her chamber door.

"…. Seal the Palace, have the Household Knights stand to. Send runners to the city guard barracks ordering them to bar the gates and prepare for a riot. And finally, find that damned elf Melaran and have him search and secure the palace with his acolytes from top to bottom. Report to me personally when it is secure."

The doors slammed open as Bolgeir burst into the room, sword in hand, lantern in the other. Moving with rapid and determined steps four of her household knights clattered in behind him, followed by Henrietta.

"Come with me your majesty, it's not safe." Bolgeir barked. He moved quickly as he secured the room, putting the lantern down on her desk and checking the windows and balcony door, he quickly closed and locked the window she had just opened.

"I don't understand, what's going on?" She protested with uncertainty in her voice and instantly regretted how petulant she sounded, as fear and hesitation fought with sense and pride inside her.

"I'll explain shortly. Come with me, we need to get you to safety." Elisif hesitated for a moment and then nodded, still clutching the dagger in both hands before her. They marched off in diamond formation, Henrietta and Elisif in the centre, Bolgeir at the tip, her knights around her, weapons drawn. They passed by a pair of weeping ladies' maids, frightened looking servants and hurrying guardsmen before branching down a little used hallway to take a series of secret corridors and hidden passageways she had only once used, cunningly concealed and accessible only via the enchantments woven into the Ring of State.

They took a bare and narrow stone staircase that doubled back upon its as it burrowed down deep into the earth, light by flickering lanterns as they descended in single file before entering a short corridor with a low roof that was so narrow it almost brushed both her shoulders, ending with a solidly built door. Finally, they arrived at the bolthole. Inside, it was a dark, windowless dungeon deep beneath the palace, carved from the rock of the arch of Solitude, the door four inches thick of oak and barred with iron, with a small grated window with a sliding hatch set into it. Bolgeir stood next to the door, Henrietta disdained the to sit and instead leant against the wall, while her knights stood quietly, attentive and watching. The room smelt of dust and slightly of old wine as Elisif sat uneasily for a moment on one of the faded threadbare chairs. Waiting nervously and shivering as cold and adrenaline coursed through her. Unwilling to speak and betray her nerves, trusting that news would be brought to her quickly, knowing that someone was coming, trusting her life to the advisors who surrounded her. The last time she had been here was more than a year ago. They had fled to this dungeon to hide from the mere sight of a dragon, and she felt the same mixture of shame and apathy as she cowered like a mouse from a cat. Then, as now, a hundred feet above her guards had manned scorpions and ballistae as her people huddled in timber framed building, praying for deliverance and remembering the stories of the burning of Riften by the dragon Viinturuth. Ultimately the unknown dragon had simply flown a few lazy laps well out of range of their defences, and then disappeared.

Suddenly there was a harsh knocking on the door, and Bolgeir drew back the flap.

"Where is he?" he snapped.

Something inaudible was mumbled through the grate and she watched as Bolgeir turned bright red with rage, spittle flying as he lost all control and decorum.

"Don't try to fuck me around you cunt! Get him here. Show him to me. Now." He bit off each word as Elisif sat there blushing at the coarse language that fell without effort from his mouth. There was a mummering and a muttering as movement came along the short narrow corridor, and Bolgeir watched impatiently, Elisif stood, and Bolgeir held out a hand for a moment at she cleared her throat.

"Good. At fucking last. Only him, the muscle waits outside, don't need your fuck-ugly mugs scaring the Queen." He snapped the little hatch shut, and drew the heavy bolts back. The door opened, revealing the one man she had not expected to see. Marquis Raynald Masterfield staggered bow-legged into the room as though popped like a cork from a bottle from the packed corridor before the door snapped shut behind him and was locked into place. His auburn hair, usually neatly combed and glistening with pomade was in disarray. His face was browned from the dust of the road, his skin barely distinguishable from his wet and mud splatted clothes and he swayed on his feet as Elisif's mind raced. He must have ridden his horse out from under him, and the next one too, to have made it here this quickly. Elisif straightened up, hiding the dagger up her sleeve as she again cleared her throat. It had been her advisors who had rushed her here for her safety, but she did not have to panic because of that.

The Marquis swayed for a minute, staring at the floor and then looked up at her as if only just noticing her. Eyes unfocused and wet with tears at the corners of his eyes. He staggered forwards, swaying like a sailor newly returned to shore. He dropped to his knees and kissed her hands, exhaustion and despair sketched across his face beneath the layers of streaked dirt from the road.

"You Majesty…. The Dragonborn has been murdered." He muttered.

Elisif blinked. She bit back her first question. He had stated it so simply, so truthfully that no confused confirmation was required. Beren was dead. She could only think to nod uneasily as he began to cry silently. She jumped as the dagger clattered loudly on the floor, falling from nerveless fingers.

"Please take a seat Raynald." She said automatically unable to think of what else to do, gripping him by the arm and offering the threadbare chair. He sunk into it, clinging to her as he gently helped him up from the floor. Tears rolled down his face and fell dripping into his lap. He released his grip, and gently folded his hands in his lap, his usually manicured fingernails broken, his hands dirty and calloused. She gently gripped his shoulder for a second, a reassuring hollow squeeze. She knew why he wept; Humanities greatest hope was dead, his mission failed, and Raynald had plainly reached the limits of human endurance to inform her of it. Yet she did not feel grief yet, only rage, red hot and seething, such as she had felt when Torygg had died that had seen her rip her clothes and tear her curtains down until the tears had come screaming out. It returned now, and she reached out and gripped his hands, at first gently, and then with increasing strength until her fingernails bite into his flesh and her knuckles clenched white and shook as he gasped in pain. Somehow the pain, the effort, and the strength focused her, stopped her from screaming at her loss.

"I want you to…to tell me everything…tell me everything that happened. And then…Then together, we are going to kill whoever did this."

---

Author's note

Hello everyone! I am very sorry how badly this chapter was delayed. By way of apology please accept 16,000 words. My life has been in absolute turmoil due to moving, taking up a new job in work and dealing with a fairly challenging series of issues there over the past few months. Unfortunately, it is unlikely that I will be releasing a chapter for 1st November due to spending a few weeks working in Turkey and Belgium over the next month, but will aim to have the next chapter out for 1st December.

Besides the issues above, writing Elisif was something I found hard to do, as I had not previously planned on her being a POV character. As the story progressed, I realised that her lack of perspective was becoming a bit of an issue, and this required me to do a bit of additional back-ground work to ground the character in my head. This in part informed the awkward time skips from the 11th, back to the 7th and then forwards to the 16th, and if I ever re-write this then that would be my first thing to fix. I hope that I was not to confusing. Please let me know what you like and any work on points you would offer for this chapter, and I very open and eager to hear your criticism and perspectives.

Cheers!

Reviews

Hey Hermit Witch, thanks very much for the very positive review (and the little push to get this chapter away!). The difficulty I had with this chapter was introducing Elisif and the nature of court life. I realised early on that in needed a mature voice that Elisif can trust and bounce ideas off, and ultimately Henrietta provides that- it also offers evidence for how shed development from what we get in the base game. She's grown and matured as a Jarl, but just as she's gotten competent at that job they've gone and moved the goal posts on her!

Glad you liked the descriptions, I've visited a lot of country houses (thanks national trust!) and a lot of stuff there is too valuable to throw away but too difficult to repair, so it has this very lived in 'shabby wealthy' feel to it that I felt would be perfect for a royal Palace.

Elisif's relationship with Beren was a difficult one to write, as I wanted past history, physical appearance and matching personalities to have a weight which was alluded to but not the outright stated main justification. Placing the overwhelming emphasis upon Elisif's political comprehension and decision making, its consequences and the wisdom of it. In the past she was the trophy wife of a puppet king with an ambitious vampire courtier which resulted in assassination and a costly civil war. Consequently, the desire for a physically capable swordsman who can personally defend her and the throne means that in Beren the two personal and political streams are combined. At other times, like his alleged position as a unifier, the personal and political are distinct and the sticky issue of divorcing Aela for Elisif could go either way, and the sensibility of that decision is greyer.

How political sensible her conclusions and how much this is Elisif's retrospective justifications for physical attraction is up to the reader to decide. They are obviously a very young, physically attractive couple with matching personalities, and both have an angry streak and a certain political naivety which they share in common. However, we are already beginning to see a difference between the two- Elisif's chilled anger and resolution to enact a cold-hearted violent revenge against Beren's white hot rage….

Finally, poor Raynald just can't catch a break! Abused by Beren, then Bolgeir and finally Elisif. The poor man probably deserves some gratitude and a win at some point. We'll see what I can do.