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.

7. Chapter 7: the legacy of the Dragonborn

Chapter 7- The Legacy of the Dragonborn

Beric III

Beric had collapsed with an animal roar when he had heard of his brother's death, falling to the floor as his legs gave way under him. Tears fell from eyes, and he screamed of his loss. He shouted for those who come running to leave him, anger and hate forcing magic into his voice as he sent his friends and servant scurrying with an order that froze the air, snuffed out the candles and Hearthfire and smashed in their skulls like an axe with the force of its command. They ran screaming as migraines burst in their brains, and left him cold and alone in the dark. Sobbing and curled on the cold flagstones.

Eventually a nervous servant came, carrying a sealed message from the Jarl, and the assassin's blade. Two guards came with him, bearing Erik's corpse wrapped in a table cloth for his winding sheet. The letter announced the capture and torture of the assassin, and what they had learnt so far. It gave little comfort besides stating that the prisoner was well guarded, the barest of information, and reading the transcription of the madman's ravings seemed like a sick joke. The decision to hide cicero's name, and his motive, to be forever remembered as the man who had killed the Last Dragonborn, and ensure everlasting fame as his killed. He had crumbled the letter onto the floor and ran.

That had been three days ago. Three days since he fled to the office, yelling at servants, writing horrible letters and piling up papers, though his exhausted mind wandered with random torture whatever the task. Ulfric's' skull had mocked him with his grinning until he had thrown it into the fireplace, shattering it. Nevertheless, the thoughts remained in his unquiet head as he slumped behind his desk, on the morning of the third day. His hands shook, splattering a fine spray of black ink on the letter before him, betraying his thoughts to Serana and Captain Volgier as unseeing bloodshot red eyes stared at the ruined letter before him, half-finished. He thought of something else, but the breeze that blew through his window whispered of the cities fall, and he knew that in this dawn air the streets of the Winds District were steaming, wet and shining with blood that puddled the streets like water after the refreshing spring rains, next to the stiffening corpses of those who had been caught out by the mob. Closing the windows did little, even his home smelt of death after the knife that killed his brother had been brought to him, alongside Erik's body. He had thrown that cursed leaf-shaped and bloodied blade into the bottom of his trunk, and had ordered Erik's flesh boiled away from his bones, so that his body could be sent home for burial by his family and clan.

He jerked back, looked down and balled up the letter in sudden fury, his anger boiling over as his tired brain tumbled in a flat spin as he abused himself harshly over the smallest of errors as he compared the neat copy to his scribbled and untidy rough draft. It was headed with the wrong date and with a violent toss flew it into the cold fireplace to join its fellows, ignoring the look Captain Volgier and Serana gave each other, daring them to challenge him so he would have someone to scream at for a few precious moments of peace. He looked down, frowning at the letter. It was the 10th, not the 9th he corrected himself savagely as he picked up the quill to once again resume copying out the letter.

10th Hearthfire, 4E 201

From Praefect (retd.) Beric Stone-Strider to Thane Erikur of Solitude

Greetings,

Dear thane Erikur,

It is with great sadness that I must report to you the death of your beloved son Erik. I know that there are no words that I could offer to dull the pain you must feel as a father, and that any attempt on my part to reduce your grief will ring hollow to you. I must nevertheless offer my heartfelt sympathies to you at this time of loss. It is my intention to inform you of the events of that day, in as honest and as true an account as possible. I therefore tell you now, please, put down this letter and only return to it when you are strong enough to bear to hear of the manner of your son's death at the Dragonborn's side….

A deliberate cough came from across the room, beside the fireplace. He looked up briefly at Captain Volgier's, who was nodding at open door, through which the gently chiming of half past had echoed.

"No denying it now. She's late."

Beric grunted and returned to the letter, having half-forgotten why Captain Volgier was here in the first place. It was too late now to regret the commanding tone of the letter-cum-ultimatum he had sent Aela, almost taunting her down from her lair in Jorrvaskr. Not that he was the only one on edge, the energy of all in the house was manic, filled with fits and starts. Serana fidgeted with her hands in her lap as she sat at her desk, exhausted. Her favourite book lay open before her, but she left it unheeded as she stared of into space, and he wished he could be alone with her and pull her close. Her gaze was distracted, watching Captain Volgier with catlike disinterest. Doubtless the smells carried by the breeze were as distracting for her as for him.

Beric felt vaguely guilty that he was not putting in more effort at entertaining the Captain. But this was not a social call, and he was in no particular mood to entertain. Volgier for his part seemed happy to wander aimlessly about the office, looking with curiosity at the clutter of stacked papers on Beren's desk. His eyes ran over the dagger Nettlebane, sniffed at fragments of Ulfric Stormcloak's skull that lay in pieces in the fireplace and ran his eyes across the titles of the books on the shelves, esoteric works on the Elder Scrolls, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons and Daedric Cults that unnerved and intrigued him in equal measure. In his hands he carried a document pouch, on which his fingers rapped some half-remembered marching tune, a tick which did little to improve Beric's temper. Aela was late, how dare she be late for this.

"Perhaps she's just delayed, the unrest has left the streets filled with knifemen, barricades, to say nothing of the debris from burning houses…." Serana murmured awkwardly, trailing away at her awkward attempt to fill the silence died.

"No rioter or looter dared get within a hundred feet of Jorrvaskr. No one was stupid enough to cause trouble within eyesight of that place, and no one would think to stop a party of Companions in the street." Beric snapped, throwing down his quill to splatter black in across the letter, ruining yet another copy.

"For what good it did the city. Did they try to calm the unrest? No, they just bolted their gates and hid behind them even when we came pleading for aide. Had we posted a member of The Companions to each street corner and crossroads then all this nonsense would have burnt out like an ember in the rain." Volgier grumbled before sitting on the little writing desk beside the cold fireplace. They ignored him.

"She's upset Beric, she's just lost her husband, and The Companions their Harbinger. Besides, The Companions live and die by their traditions, they have no master but themselves. Who would order them out to stand guard?" Serana replied in a kind, even tone that nevertheless betrayed her irritation at the way Beric and Aela always managed to see the worse in each other.

"Imagine that. We're all upset and tired and…. whatever…Serana." he finished lamely as she crossed her arms and looked away with a disappointed shake of the head. silence descended for a long moment once more.

"How long should we wait?" He asked no one in particular, pulling a rough literary of his brother's funeral before him, before pushing it away and rubbing his eyes.

"She has custody of Beren's body, we can't plan a funeral without the Companions agreeing to release it. They will want to carry out their own ceremonies beforehand most likely." Volgier sighed, and Serana nodded in agreement.

"They burned the previous Harbinger's body…Kodlak? Yes, Kodlak's body in a private ceremony, why should they release Beren's?"

"Because he was the Dragonborn, the city is filled with veterans and refuges from the dragon crisis and the civil war. The Companion owe it to all of Skyrim to let them say goodbye to their hero."

"I suppose so..." she said uneasily, though Volgeir looked unconvinced.

There was a quiet knock on the door and grateful but frustrated for the distraction Beric looked up.

"Aela has arrived." Cassius Gallenus announced smoothly.

"Well?"

"She's waiting in the Hall."

"Is she now?" Beric said to himself, before responding to the Steward in a clear firm voice. "Well then, invite her in. And the others- Durag, and Lydia. They should be here for Beric as well." Gallenus hesitated for a moment. Beric glanced up, and he paled when he caught the tired feral look in Beric's eyes. With a nodded "sir," he vanished down the corridor. There was silence for a moment, and then drumming feet and the door crashed open.

Aela the Huntress had arrived, with that pair of dumb muscle twins in tow behind her, the two of them clattering and crashing in their richly etched ceremonial plate armour. But it was at the sight of Aela that Beric was stunned into silence, and he concealed a sob of shock. She still wore her feasting finery, the linen now brown and soaked with blood from where she had cradled Beren's dying body in her arms. There were deep bags under her wild eyes, and blood still caked under her fingernails.

"How dare you summon me, to my home! How dare you send servants to fetch me before you like a dog for a stick. How dare you order me in my own house!" she screamed at Beric, eyes flashing.

"Aela, I'm sure Beric meant no offence. Now that things have calmed for the time being, there are things we must attend to…certain decisions that must be made…." Serana trailed away awkwardly at Aela's enraged stare.

"This doesn't concern you."

The door opened again, and Lydia appeared, sleeves rolled and hands raw from polishing Erik's armour in a last farewell to a brave man, followed by Durag, lost and aimless. Beric had not seen much of either of them, he had been too busy missing meals and hiding in the office or his chamber.

"Oh…I'm sorry, were we interrupting?" Durag asked in a voice that was all tired pleasantries, looking at the angry faces that filled the room.

"No Durag…We were just getting started." Beric replied after a pause, ignoring Aela's glare. He gestured to Captain Volgier, who stood quietly by the fireplace, a leather document case clasped in his scarred hands. Aela turned and noticed him for the first time since entering the room. She blushed and offered her forearm in a warrior's embrace, which was enthusiastically accepted by the Guard Captain in a rush of words that had a half-practiced ring to them.

"Aela, the Jarl extends his sincere commiserations and deepest sympathies, he would be here himself, were it not for the business of city and hold that keep him in Dragonsreach. He directed me to ask your forgiveness, and hopes you understand, in the circumstances-"

"Aye, Volgier Aye, I understand, my thanks to the Jarl. Tell him I have always respected his strength and leadership."

Captain Volgier turned to look at the hulking twins that flanked her nodding to each in turn.

"Farkas, Vilkas, I am honoured to meet such fine warriors."

Farkas grunted ignoring the little man's praises, and Vilkas shrugged at his brother's response. Meanwhile, uneasy amongst the Companion twins who crowded the door, Durag who had been ignored in all this pushed through and clapped a gentle hand on Beric shoulder, for a moment of silence. He then turned, leant and pulled Serana into an awkward hug before he standing against the wall of books with a tired sigh. Beric looked around at them, Serana, Lydia, Durag, Aela and him. The if Rihad and Beren were here then it would have been just like it was before the war.

"Now that the pleasantries are over and dealt with, maybe we can get to work?" Beric asked tartly, his voice cutting through the tired babble of friends and acquaintances. He gestured at Captain Volgier, who was quickly becoming overwhelmed with greeting and meeting so many famous names in one place, his enthusiasm and good will quickly becoming wearing amongst the grieving.

"Ah…certainly Sir." He opened the pouch and drew out the will, having been witnessed and signed by the Jarl and members of his court, the original copy had been left for safe keeping in Dragonsreach. Hands trembling a little despite himself, Volgier began to read.

"This being the last Will and testament of Beren Stone-Strider…"

In a grave, clear voice he read the terms of the will to the assembled men and women. Aela was made executor of his estate. His closest followers were all to receive 10,000 golden septims while he and Aela would receive an additional 10,000, leaving them with richest that outstripped some jarls. It would doubtless be a good day for Balgruuf when he learnt how much his coffers stood to gain from levying his 'lawful and just' death tax. Beric suppressed a snort, hating the twisted sense of humour that filled his mind, gripping his hands so hard his nails bit into the flesh of his palms as he thought of how many of the beneficiaries that had been named were now themselves dead. He fidgeted awkwardly, too distracted and too tired to concentrate.

"…In addition to my other bequest, I leave to my dear friend Durag the Dwemer Centurion we recovered together from the ruins of Nchardak, for his future research..."

He tried to settle himself, folding his hands and leaning back in his chair as looked around the room at the little band that Beren had assembled make his destiny reality, remembering the last time the whole party had gathered together in this room. Almost half those who had been there half a year ago were dead or missing how. Lydia was still here, tears in her eyes and muscled arms folded as she stood proudly to the left of Beren's desk. She had been the first to join them, the original housecarl, and had been with him every step and walked out unscathed. Now her last duty was to polish the armour of her thane and his squire for their funerals. Doubtless she would remain in Whiterun, find that good man she always promised herself, buy a house, and then train a new generation of warriors in sword and shield and spear. Durag was also still here, still leaning against the wall, still smelling of burnt hair and alchemical agents. It would not last. He would doubtless return to Solstheim, come the spring, to help his father on their mad quest to rebuild that Dwemer airship found. He wished him well. Jordis was missing but alive and well in Solitude. Argis was pensioned off into retirement with one leg, drinking himself to sleep every night in a forgotten swamp-town. And then his eye wandered over to the empty table by the fireplace. Rihad was missing and long dead, as was Valdimar and Rayya. and now Erik and Beren had joined them.

"…to my loving wife Aela, I leave my set of Skyforged steel greatsword, arming sword and dagger, to ensure such weapons remain in hands of a warrior worthy of their martial legacy..."

His eyes meander over to Aela as she accepted this princely gift with calm gratitude. It would be Aela who would change things. He had left Beren with her for protection from the skooma dealers and gangsters of Whiterun who had forced him to flee for his life to Winterhold. Aela had though little of him running to save his life then. He had thought little of the woman who had mostly ignored his brother's affection until he had become dragonborn. And when she found that out, she had then exploited his impressionable younger brother by recruiting him to the circle, and turning him into a werewolf. He had hatred her for that, and when he had persuaded Beren to rid himself of that curse she repaid that hatred with the threat of a duel. Things had only been settled when Beren revealed he had chosen as his wife and ordered that they would get along, and that order had maintained a superficial politeness between the two of them. Now she sat pregnant with their unborn child, a child whose birth would be toasted by all as the continuation of the Dragonborn's line. Perhaps the child would help keep things civil between them, and he would be uncle to a new Dragonborn, the man who had bounced them child on his knee and taught them swordplay and courage. Doubtless their child would one day wield his father's weapons.

"…finally, is my wish that my three Elder Scrolls be turned over to the College of Winterhold for study, for the benefit of the empire and its peoples..."

He felt a flicker of surprise at the mention of Winterhold, of his warm memories and perhaps a future with Serana there. For now, she sat impassively, arms and legs crossed, shoulders slumped, a curtain of dark hair hiding her face. She had joined them during Volkihar uprising when Beren was a rising star and he just a mage serving in the Dawnguard without two septims to rub together, and had served as their magical advisor ever since. What would become of her now? Would she hide away in the frozen north again, travel to Winterhold and its famous college, immerse herself into studies and disappear as she had promised Beren and Aela whenever talk had turned to the future. She had always begged him to join her, to forget the world and politics after this 'damn fool war was over.' He looked at Aela. She would be happy to see forgotten in the frozen north, and he remembered well how her vision of the child's life had no room for him in it.

"…thus concludes my last will and testament." Volgier finished, and rolled up the densely scripted parchment in the silence that followed. No one knew what to say, or had anything much to say to anyone. Beren was dead, and never coming back. These past few days it had been easy to half imagine he was still alive, just off somewhere on an adventure, braving the wilds of Skyrim by himself. They knew that was wrong, and that fiction was harder to maintain day by day as Beren slipped away piece by piece. But there had been a feeling of reversibility to it, as though with the strength of gods and men he would come back if they just tried hard enough, worked hard enough than that loss could be undone, would be undone through sheer skill and rage. But now, there was a finality to it all. With the reading of the will a piece had fallen into place, a bolt thrown shut behind him on the gate that stood between life and death and Beren was irretrievably lost.

"There is however one final issue, the funeral of the Last Dragonborn." Volgier ventured in that silence "the Jarl wants to know your funeral plans. There are issues to be discussed, given the unrest his death provoked." Beric thought for a moment. Beren had never mentions how he wanted to be buried, what young man does? There was no family crypt for the stone-striders in the many Whiterun halls of the dead. Their mother had died and been buried in an unmarked pauper's grave, like generations of their family before.

"…His body should be laid to rest as all other Harbingers that have gone before, in the flames of the Skyforge. There is no reason to break that sacred tradition now." Farkas stated dutifully.

"Aye. A private funeral in Jorrvaskr then. As is traditional for the Harbinger, watch over by his shield-brothers and sisters. Behind our walls he would be laid to rest with all honour, and to meddle with convention would tell the rabble we care for their opinions." Aela muttered, looking at the floor. Beric was enraged at this casual barring of him from Beren's funeral and the sour words he was thinking slipped, half-conscious from his lips.

"if Beren cared for traditions or conventions, he wouldn't have married you." he muttered just loud enough for Aela to hear.

"Do you have something you want to say, ice brain?" She twisted like a kicked dog and spat at him through clenched and bared teeth, an act he found more amusing than frightening, even as hatred kindled within him for this woman.

"I said that Beren was more than just the Harbinger of the Companions. He was the Thane of five Holds, he was the defender of Whiterun, the man who raised legions by his mere presence. Thousands flocked to this city just to walk the same streets as him, to live in the city that slept under his personal protection. His veterans crowd every corner. Would you keep them out? Would you keep us from saying our goodbyes?"

Durag nodded in agreement, but it was Serana who added her voice to his.

"Beric's right, I don't think you should do this Aela. You can't hide away Skyrim's hero and not let people see him one last time."

She laughed harshly as Serana's last words, and pointed at her.

"You expect me to believe that you care for the people? even if I did believe it, that you care for those mad men who have run riot these past days? You would desecrate your brother's funeral with their presence! They cannot be trusted to pay the proper respects, and Volgier said, given the circumstances a more understated funeral might be sensible."

Serana opened her mouth to respond, but Beric jumped up and yelled over her.

"Because Beren was the one man who brought Skyrim together! Before Ulfric broke it again. He is the Last Dragonborn Aela! The divines will send no others, and ever man and woman will want to be there to tell the story of how they passed by the body of man many of them look on as near a god. If you hide Beren from them, they will never forgive you."

Aela brought up her arms before her, splattered with the brown stains of old blood as her voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes even as anger and rage burned her face as red as her twisted mane of hair.

"What do I care? You can't even bear to look at Beren's body. Look at his blood on my hands. Look at his blood! Would you have the Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns come and stare at his body? would you have that demented jester brought out? Would your turn him over to the mob for justice."

She snorted, and threw her hands up, waving them away like annoying flies and the gesture seemed to calm her for a while. She spoke again, in a calmer, sweeter voice.

"Look at the pair of you. Beric, retired from the legion after a single campaign, still calling yourself a Praefect as you order a patrol around the fence line of my house. And you Serana, siting in this office all day plotting, thinking yourselves so clever as your surround yourself with these books. Leave this to those who know how these things work. I planned Kodlak's funeral, I don't need your help in planning my Husband's. Who knows, you two might learn a thing or two."

Serana smiled at Aela tone, and replied in her own voice, mirroring Aela's own sickly-sweet voice at first, though it quickly became as cold and harsh as the moons themselves.

"It would seem to me the Companions could stand to learn a thing or two themselves. It would seem to me that to lose one Harbinger to assassination is unfortunate, but to lose two looks like incompetence."

A scream of rage filled the room, as Aela swung across the desk at her, and the office descended into an anarchy of flying paper and screaming as people pulled the two apart.

---

It took hours for a plan to be approved after Serana and Aela were separated, though they sniped at each other through written message and words screamed through slamming doors, but in the end, it was settled. Tomorrow, Beren's body would lay on a bier half way up the causeway to Jorrvaskr for Whiterun to pay the appropriate respects, with space in Jorrvaskr forecourt for the crowd to gather. At midday a eulogy would be performed by the Jarl after neither he or Aela was willing to share or give up the honour. Then, carried on the shields of the Circle Beren would be taken to the Skyforge for a private cremation. They sent word with runners for the news-readers, and the city slowly as the funeral was announced.

Work done, Aela left under the guard of Farkas and Vilkas to Jorrvaskr. Meanwhile, Beric sat alone in the library late into the night, staring into the unlit fireplace nursing a half-drunk potion of calming. The potion ticked his throat, he felt thirsty and regretted he had not thought to hunt down a servant for supper before settling into his chair. He chided himself for his foolishness, but he was too tired, and it was too late now to go through all that effort now. A thought niggled at him, and he had spoken of it privately to both Durag and Serana. Durag had shaken his head, rejecting the theory out of hand. Serana had listened calmly to his reasoning, to how Durag had disagreed with him, and was surprised when she had agreed with Durag, and asked if he had been sleeping well. Of course, he hadn't! how could he sleep when his brother had been assassinated? Serana smiled calmly. He was looking for explanations, for a reason why this had happened. Sometimes there is none she answered sadly. She had read the guard reports. The jester was sick, and the madman had decided to kill the dragonborn for the sheet glory and thrill of it. and somehow, he had succeeded. No one would have hired a mad-man as an assassin, no one serious about the job anyway. Had Beren has a single second of warning, he could have shouted the man to pieces.

He or Serana could get the secrets out of him, he was sure. They were both skilled in Illusion enough to break any man. But he knew that would never work. the Jarl would take it as an insult that he would think he could get more from the man than his interrogators could, and would not trust them to restrain themselves. Their magics would likely destroy the man's broken mind, and any confession would be as reliable as dirt. He sighed, and drank the rest of his potion. Perhaps they would get the answers he needed. Perhaps he was simply wishing, and angry, and in his inactivity imagining an alternative preferable to the unpleasant truth. He fell away to a restless sleep, Bloody nightmares haunted his dreams, and when dawn came autumn sun burned his eyes, waking him with the dawn.

The next few hours passed in a blur, he dressed, fed and shaved and pulled himself together as best he could, pushing his nagging suspicions to the back of his mind. The house was busy, and when they left, he walked in a trance as he squinted in the bright sunlight, having left behind his broad brimmed hat as to provincial to wear to a funeral. Serana walked next to him, so close she could place a gentle hand on his elbow from time to time. He barely acknowledged the mourners, the men and mer who threw flowers and shouted prayers for him and his house. He gripped his hands into fists so tight his nails pierced his palms and scabs formed, crusted with blood. He had always known this day would come, but had never expected it to be so soon.

The noise in Jorrvaskr forecourt was incredible, as prayer and hymns and crying filled the air. Beric's other senses were assault as well, for the first time in days the smell of fire and blood was hidden by the floral scents of funeral bouquets, burning incense from votive offerings and the less pleasant odours of a forgotten, rotting feast crushed underfoot into the cobbles and the ranks smell of sweat from the massed citizenry of Whiterun. The square had been cleaned as best as time allowed. Even so, many of the feasting tables and benches remained, and now groaned under the mass of mourners. There were even a few enterprising merchants, who having done a brisk trade before the ceremony began were now selling spaces to stand on their carts or barrels. The mourners were packed tight as apples in a barrel as they watched and waited, or else queued to pass in procession around their hero. Suddenly Beric's feet found the steps, and they began to climb.

People moved out of their way wordlessly as they ascended up the causeway, murmuring their prayers and apologies, and Beric unable to face were they were going looked at them with curiosity. Imperial colours were much in evidence, and here and there a few Stormcloak veterans had come to pay their respects. Here a Breton legionnaire carrying an amulet of Talos in his spare hand patted his shoulder as he went past, murmuring his respects in a solitude accent as he placed the talisman to dangle from a sword hilt thrown at the Dragonborn's feet. Then an Imperial, braver than most in blades armour but trapped behind a mass of mourners handed Beric his sword over the heads of crowd, for Beric to place upon the bier. Finally, a Nord with warrior's rings in his beard and a tattered blue cloak broke his sword under his foot and placed it upon heaped tributes that lay at Beren's feet, as he fell and begged forgiveness for him and his comrades reneging on their oaths to the gods. But these simple tributes from former allies and enemies were outnumbered by the mass of common people. Merchants and citizens and farmers in yellow and green and brown homespun wool whose homes and businesses they had saved mingled, throwing pouches of copper and silver coins, and bouquets of flowers, as sacrifice and memory to Beren. They were joined by the thanes of Whiterun hold, wearing fine spun tundra cotton coloured with imported dyes as they came bearing their tributes. Amren came bearing his family sword and placed the heirloom blade upon the pile, it was joined by a necklace of golden rings and a large torc, of two serpentine dragons entwined. Nazeem came next, and piled gifts around the bier, leaving pots of burning incense from Hammerfell, chains of silver and weapons with gold etched blades and hilts heavy with garnets. It was expected that mourners make a show of their family's wealth through the value of a funeral gift, but he never did have good taste.

They were here.

He looked up, over the massed piles of weapons and shield and armour left as a warrior's tribute by Stormcloaks and Imperials alike. Of gold and silver coins thrown in mourning by merchants, of lilies and all the flowers of the forest gathered and heaped about him by those who lacked wealth to spare. The mound of tributes grew, and as it grew it pushed the mourners further and further away. But still, they piled up, yard by yard until half the landing was filled. It was difficult to see him now, but there Beren lay. Clad head to toe in the ceremonial armour of The Companions, elegantly worked with scrolling nordic designs, reinforced by layers of furs, boiled leathers and mail. His hands were folded upon his breast, atop the great axe of Ysgramor that he had ordered forged anew, his head pillowed by Ysgramor's own shield. Beric looked up at the face of his brother, his face at rest, his eyes closed in sleep. With his face in profile, he looked like a king of old, graven onto the wall of a temple or tomb, or stamped onto a coin. He remembered how Beren used to run in the streets of the Shambles, barefoot and in a tattered tunic, waving a stick and proclaiming it the great axe Wuuthrad as he ran after boys twice his age through the mud and piss and shit filled streets. He had been big for his age, but he would always come back bleeding and bruised and he would cast his spells and heal him, vanishing the cuts and bruises with a murmur as he scolded his brother for his foolishness. The high neck of the armour hid the dreadful mortal wound, the killing stroke and Beric was grateful for that. He could not see it, did not want to, and at Serana's soft touch to his elbow he looked away, blinking away tears.

He placed the sword the imperial had given him, and added his own tributes, carried by eight servants from the treasure room hidden beneath the estate. Harkon's Sword, followed by Miraak's were thrown at Beren's feet. Then Ulfric's own war axe, followed by the claws of scales of the great dragon Mirmulnir, the first to fall, then trophies from Sahloknir cut down at Kyne's Gove, and Nahagliiv, killed by Beren and Rihad at Rorikstead. Then loot from Aldiun himself, scales black and shining like jet or obsidian, and claws and teeth as long and wicked as Daedric blades, retrieved from Sovngarde itself, where Beric's soul now dwelt. All this was thrown down as tribute. There it would stay, until the ceremony had ended, where it would be gathered up, and together with Beren's ashes entombed in newly-built mausoleum. Then they would stay on display alongside tapestry and wall carving commemorating his victories, a reminder to Skyrim and all of Tamriel the legacy of the last Dragonborn.

Their respected paid, they left.

Standing before the statue of Talos in the area reserved for the jarl and his guests Beric took the best wishes from the finest families of Whiterun hold, carefully ignoring Aela's presence. She stood closer to the podium where Jarl would make his speech. Beric attracted legion veterans, merchants and the common man, but he did not miss how more and nobler families came to search out Aela, the wife of the dragonborn. He knew that Aela was a legend in her own right, and had been famous before either of them. It was not for nothing that she had won the title of the huntress, famed for spear and bow across the province. By comparison his fame was a minor thing, he had spent much of the last two years skulking and researching. It was true that he had stormed the gates at Windhelm, but most Nords disapproved of the sneaking and double dealing that had led to the fall of the city of Riften, and as a magic user he was automatically suspicious.

The companions took up their station around the body, and pushed the last few mourners back down the causeway. A line of guards arrived around the podium as Balgruuf took his position, while more stood at the bottom of the causeway as Jarl Balgruuf began his speech. Beren barely heard it and from the snatches he caught did not care for it at all, aggrieved into boredom and disinterest. His eyes wandered up, and he watched the slow tread of the bow armed Companions who patrolled the walls of Jorrvaskr. His tired head consumed with half-formed thoughts as the sight of the Jarl filled him with doubts, and he wondered what information Balgruuf's torturers had extracted from the jester. By all accounts the man was still babbling away about his mother and flowers and horkers and other such nonsense. And that bequest to the college itched like a fleabite.

Balgruuf's speech by now had become background noise, and there was a bored air about the crowd. Having been pushed back from the body, many of them still carried their tributes, and the large crowd soon became restless. A few enterprising merchants started hawking their trade, and after a long day standing around, they soon gathered a boisterous air around them as they toasted the Dragonborn's life with overflowing horns of Black-briar mead. Here and there men and women lost interest and trickled away at the outskirts, while others pushed forward, arguing with the guards to be allowed to place their own trophies while the Jarl spoke. His speech was not good, filled with platitudes of loss and sorrow and he wondered why he had ever agreed to this compromise. Others muttered resentful remarks as they grew bored and angry. Many of the noble families began to edge away and make their excuses as the speech dragged on, and Beren's war exploits began to be extolled. Those clans who had suffered from supporting the losing side were now much in evidence by their absence, while the Grey-Manes had never appeared at all, opting to send servants and squires to pay their respects and deliver their tribute as the majority of the family left for their country estate, only Olfina and Vignar bravely opting to remain behind.

The Jarl finished, and there was polite applause and scattered cheers, and all eyes turned to the eight members of the companions. There was an awkward pause as the chosen eight stood around trying to find a clear path through the mound of tributes, which now stood pile a spearlength deep and rising from ankle to shoulder height around the body. A few wags in the crowd with their tongues loosened by drink called out sarcastic encouragement. A number of others started to laugh at how easily the companions, never renowned as the smartest of fighters, had been defeated by a dead man with a bent sword and a bouquet of wilting pansies. The line of guardsmen looked uncertain, as their captain tried to steady them, to ignore the calls of the crowd.

Eventually, one of the Circle, and from this distance Beric could not be certain who, waded in like a swimmer. Frustrated and embarrassed by the taunts they decided to set an example to the rest of them, unwilling to bear the insults a moment longer. Anger and embarrassment lent their arms a callous strength, arms pushing the piled tributes away, legs kicking weapons and trampling flowers underfoot. The crowd rumbled its disapproval at this, and the many turned and shouted something, but whatever it was, it was lost in the noise and the screams that followed. The treasured, piled like snow and ice upon Skyrim's mountains began to slip and slide over each other. Just as an avalanche is started by a single footfall, so did Beren's treasures slip away, first one by one and then in a wave, a surging flow of flowers and weapons and gold and silver and amulets and talismans, more treasure than many had seen or would ever see if they had lived for a hundred lifetimes. The Companion fell, losing his footing to disappear amongst the flow. Sword and weapons came clattering down the slope. Dragon's claws, followed by a golden circlet heavy with rubies and emeralds, bouncing on its rim.

The crowd surged with a roar as the wealth slipped away, the line of guardsmen utterly overwhelmed. Many carried their own tributes, and they hurried up the slope to catch those which had been left others came forward empty handed, either of their own will or Bourne forward by the crowd. An Imperial, almost as big as Beren had been burst through the struggling line of guardsmen. He was bald, and wore a red bandana and tattered red tunic which stretched across his broad back as he picked up the circlet, before standing and waving it over his head as others followed the gap he made, holding it aloft as the hands around him surged up to grasp it, and he hurried up the slope to the body, grabbing coins and other treasurers. Beren did not know if it was loyalty or greed that led him to distance himself from the crowd, that inspired his speed and determination.

An arrow crashed through his eye to burst in a spray of pink and brain through the back of his skull and he fell dead upon the steps. The crowd quieted, screamed and then roared forwards, towards Jorrvaskr's battlements, now lined with archers levelling bows and nocking arrows. The scream of 'Murderers!' went up, enthusiastically taken up as a crowd of tens of thousands baying for blood. The line of struggling guardsmen disappeared into the crowd, pulled down and ripped apart by the crowd. Arrows zipped down from Jorrvaskr. One of the companions picked up Beren's body and ran up the stairs, covered by the other members of the circle. The gates swinging shut behind them.

The crowd surged up the steps, headless in its desire for wealth and revenge. Beric looked around him, the screaming and the yells as arrows found their mark and javelins flew from Jorrvaskr settled old certainties about him. He knew the sounds of battle well, and that clarity cleared his mind. He looked about him. It was just them, the jarl and his guard. Looking over the surging crowd he saw that there was never going to be an option for them to slip away to Kyne's Rest through that. Jorrvaskr was besieged, and they maybe had seconds before the crowd descended upon them.

"Quickly! To Dragonsreach! To the Palace!" he called, grabbing Serana, pushing and pulling those around him who were to shocked by the scenes before them to move as they watched the treasures of the dragonborn disappear into the hands of beggars, veterans and apprentice-boys. Balgruuf turned at his words, and after sparing a glance at the scene before him, nodded and issued his own orders. The Jarl and his guests, surrounded by a small party of guards turned and ran for the safety of their citadel, and left their city to the madness of the mob.

---

Whiterun was burning. It had burnt all night, and Beric was sure it would burn all day too. Some of the homes that now lay in ashes had belonged to former Stormcloaks, put to flame by demobbed veterans. But many were the homes of the innocent and nervous, who had picked up bow and arrow as rumour ran riot, and in losing a shaft at passing shadows had picked a fight with the mob, and were been burnt alive for their trouble. Some were simply the victims of opportunists, settling old feuds. Other buildings burned, storehouses and tax offices, protesting the Jarl's indecision and the companion's brutality while the starving and the drunken looting granaries and taverns. In the absence of news, people created their own truth, and fought to the death over the lies they told.

Beric counted every single death and arson as a personal failure. It did not matter to him that there were not many fires in comparison to other cities he had seen looted and burned. Whiterun's formerly tense days of peace were now once again filled with panic, looting and murder, the nights with fire and blood as Beren's pyre relit the countless feuds of Whiterun. It smelt like Oblivion too, as the fitful autumn winds that hurried from distant icy mountains across farm and moor stirred the standards that hung from Whiterun's towers now swept ash and ember across streets filled with groaning wounded and still corpses. The winds had raced up to him that night, carrying these scents of a faltering city; smells of ash and blood and roasted human flesh. But he did not need the scents carried on the freshening breeze to tell him what had happened this past night, he knew already, had seen it with his own eyes as he stood from the highest tower of Dragonsreach, watching the houses burn. When he had looked out over the city, it had reminded him of the fall of Windhelm, and he felt his brother's peace ebbing away.

Their flight to Dragonsreach had been a close-run thing, only the discipline of the Jarl's personal guard in executing a fighting retreat and the promise of easier treasures for the mob elsewhere had allowed them to get away. For much of the afternoon the mob had been content to attempt to carry Jorrvaskr by storm, and Beric watched from Dragonsreach's ramparts as The Companions massacred the mob from their walls while the circle hurriedly cremated Beren's body upon the Skyforge. Aela, looking down from the battlements had demanded a bow to defend herself. Balgruuf told her she could have the one he had given her husband.

In the early evening it seemed that the city remembered it had a jarl, and a mob of nobles, merchants and peasants alike gathered outside Dragonsreach's gates, loudly demanding justice from the Companions for their dead and injured and that the archer be handed over to them. The Jarl had appeared and through half-opened gates had addressed the crowd Nord to Nord, promising an investigation and that justice would follow its course in due time. The crowd would not be dissuaded. They wanted blood, they wanted it now. Then they demanded that the jester be handed over to them immediately, that surely there could be no doubt about his guilt. Balgruuf refused.

The crowd had surged forward with a scream to storm the palace and Balgruuf closed his gates quickly and ordered most of his guards off the walls, hoping to calm the situation behind tough oaken gates and stout stone walls, which the crowd, lacking axes, ladders or a ram pelted the walls with stones and rotting vegetables, and the carcasses of slaughter animals. Jarl Balgruuf suffered this indignity with quite indifference and the crowd and especially the clans amongst them, grew bored and tired and retired to their homes. There they called their veterans and warriors to their halls, while much of the mob left for the plains district. It had been in those quiet hours of the dusk that Beric had left with Serana, Aela and fifty of the Jarl's Guard to return to Kyne's Rest in a dense fast-moving pack bristling with shields, spears and torches. All the great families had barred their doors to wait out the storm turning the formerly pleasant district into a winding nest of fortresses that passed an long an uneasy night, the streets that surrounded the estates darkened lanes that none ventured into unless the bravest of their houses, and even then under heavy guard.

Down the hill, the streets of the Plains District were abandoned to the mob as drunken roving of knifemen, retired legionnaires and Stormcloak returned home re-armed with looted weapons from Whiterun's numerous Blacksmiths and Artificers, and a few from Beren's own bier. Bloodthirsty band, encouraged by the absence of the guard which had retreated to their towers and guardhouses pulled families from their beds and put them to the sword according to their perceived loyalties. Many rounded the corner of a street with their blades out and ready, preferring to cut down their neighbour by accident rather than be caught unawares, while archers sitting in the top floored loosed at shadows. Dawn would reveal many a lonely drunk left to die in the gutter with an arrow or stab wound in their belly. In the days to come stories would spread throughout the city of the best and worst of that night. Of the Dunmer servant turned thief who been released from Balgruuf's and mercifully granted his life. He had killed his neighbours with an Akaviri greatsword forged of precious ebony, and had last been seen fleeing on a stolen horse into the night. Or the Altmer champion in gilded armour standing guard over a chapel of Akatosh filled with the faithful seeking sanctuary from the mob. He stood alone in the doorway night and day, defending it with a blade that shone like starlight and a shield that burned like the sun.

Nor was such bravery and brutality limited to the Plains district. The Battle-Born blamed Vignar for Berens murder and having rallied a small army to their cause they rushed the Grey-Manes estate. With thrown torches and a few enchanted fire arrows they put the house to flame, and cut down the gate with great axes. That night both families suffered heavily. Jon Battle-born was last seen cutting down Vignar in hand to hand combat and leaving him bleeding out on his doorstep before running into the burning building, vowing that no Grey-Mane would escape his blade. In the days to come would be found headless and handless amongst the burnt-out ruins of his estate. Vignar's, bloodied and dying was castrated and crucified to the doors of his burning hall, his manhood stuffed down his mouth to gag his screams while Olfina disappeared like many others that night, presumably raped, murdered and hidden in a shallow grave. As the great families watched the estate burn, they passed even more brutal orders onto their watchmen.

Having returned home Beric felt like a rat in a trap as he paced nervous and adrift in his chamber, the smells of the burning city filling his nostrils. As he changed out of his sweaty and ashen clothes, throwing them onto the floor before opening the lid of his trunk to reveal the semi-organised chaos that lay within. The site distressed him, he had become used to regimented life yet these past few days he had simply thrown his dirty worn clothes in with his clean ones, lacking any energy to drive as he wallowed in bed or lolled in the office chair, apathetic, lazy and pathetic in his mourning. Frustration filled him, as he stared at the tangle of clean and dirty clothes that filled his trunk. At least this is something I can fix myself. Separating clean and dirty was simple and easy work, and would distract him for a while. He pulled out a new jerkin, placed it on the bed and dug to find a fresh set of legging, he grabbed a balled up old shirt wrapped around something hard, pulled it out and threw it away to join the pile of dirty clothes. He paused.

Something had fallen out of the cloth to land on the floor with a hard, metallic clatter, startling him into pausing and turning. It was the dagger that had killed Beren. He had thrown it into his trunk and forgotten it for the past few days, but now it sat, glinting on the floor. He bent, morbid curiosity filling him as he picked the weapon up, turning it over in his numb hands. Its scabbard was black, some sort of leather with a large Daedric letter mounted upon it which, along with the chape and other fittings, were of finely worked silver that sent his skin itching. He drew the dagger and found that some kind soul had washed his brother's blood clear from the blade, and it glinted in the candlelight as he stood, hating and admiring the leaf shaped ebony blade. Razor sharp edges and a fine point suited it to both slash and stab, while the large black pommel stone could be used to bludgeon in the tight spaces of a melee. It was undoubtedly a priceless weapon and made with peerless workmanship for slaughter over display. This is no wandering penniless madman's blade. And where there had been confusion and doubt cold fury and resolution filled Beric. And this was not accident, no chance murder. He sheathed the blade with a snap.

Acting without orders Beric donned his old Dawnguard armour, slipped the dagger into a pouch on his waist and left his home with Durag and Serana, who had not questioned his orders or resolve. They marched down the centre of the streets, cut down the few rioters who dared challenge them with brutal spells or cold strokes of their swords and mounted the inner curtain wall. There he ordered the gates to the Winds district sealed, overriding the gate guards' complaints through sheer force of will and presence. Disdaining the chances of any messenger getting through the red and orange sea of fire below him, he signalled with a magical signal lantern to the legionnaire cohort quartered outside the walls of the town, relaying his identity, the situation and his orders. Knowing the dangers of a night attack, and the time it would take to ready the troops, he left the plains district to burn through the night, trusting the isolated garrisons of the guardroom and outer wall towers to fend for themselves, little pockets of safety to their tiny garrisons even as the town around them burned and laid his plains to strike at dawn.

And after a long night of chaos the collected response of the Empire was being brought to bear. With the coming of the dawn, the cohort marched out from their winter quarters, relieving the besieged garrison of the guard house and front gate as Beric led Whiterun's forces down from Dragonsreach. In the light of the dawn they advanced, fighting with pickaxe hafts as truncheons as they overturned barricade after barricade that had been erected to block their advance street-by-street. Beric had appointed himself overall commander with the jarl's approval and neither the cohort's Senior Centurion or Commander Caius refused him, co-ordinating the city's response as city guard and legionnaire rallied to his Brother's standard, standing under it bareheaded for ease of recognition and reassurance to the startled and confused troops and citizens of Whiterun.

And in that morning light Beric now found himself where he was most at ease, commanding troops and with an enemy to his front. To his left Quintus Strabo, the Cohort's standard bearer hawked and spat phlegm from scared lips onto the road as he leant on his standard alongside a bored looking Whiterun guard carrying Beren's old banner, the pair of them marking Beric's position for the endless runners that relayed messages from neighbouring forces. They stood at the entrance to the Meatmarket, by an abandoned fruit stall. Many of its baskets lay overturned, its produce smashed to pulp beneath the hobnailed tread of issue boots. It had once stood in front of a small inn, now burned to the ground, and simply a pile of charred beams and shattered roof shingles.

They had pushed the rioters back into the shambles, back from Plains-Gate road and Iron-monger street, whose shops now stood with shattered windows and splinters doors, if they stood at all amongst the ashes of their neighbours, as they stood on the edge of prime Stormcloak territory. For most of the morning they had advanced well, their pincer movement from up and down the hill catching a disorganised enemy between them. Guardsman and legionnaire alike had been shocked at the damage to the city, a city that had only just begun to recover from the Stormcloak siege and the civil war. Their forces had linked up quickly, but their advance had slowed as they had turned off the main roads and down side streets which quickly narrowed, and their formerly dispersed and disorganised enemy had concentrated itself. Now the rioters had cleared the houses of their former occupants and stood atop the roofs. There they threw shingles and stones down upon the advancing troops in the streets below, or else made use of slings to snipe centurions, musicians and standard bearers. Casualties grew, and pick-axe hafts were increasingly dropped in the melee for a dagger or sword, but such close-in fighting was murder on their unarmed bodies, and if a barrier could not be breached then Beric was usually able to outflank any barricade through a side street, or use a burst of magic to breach hole in the wall of a neighbouring house. Now, with Meatmarket square between them and the imperials, they commanded elevated positions and clear lines of fire to engage any advancing legionnaires.

Those legionnaires stood before him, leaning on their kite shield and chests heaving as they panted clouds of breath from sooty faces in their formed ranks, three centuries deployed in line abreast across the western edge of the Meatmarket, having been thrown back by unexpected fierce resistance, leaving a number of wounded scattered across the square before them. Beric peered over the four rank that stood before him, squinting peevishly into the burning light of the morning sun at the rough line of the barricade erected across the eastern edge of the square, occupied by a rough line of rioters now more like would-be warriors, hastily re-armed and armoured, while their families stood on the rooves behind them where they could rain down missiles upon his forces. He then looked down the sketch map crudely drawn on a loose leaf of paper, the streets he had drawn with a blunt pencil burned into his memory from childhood. His finger tracing the position of troops on neighbouring streets. Push them back into their own homes, put the riot down. Simple orders. But behind those shops that edge Meatmarket's square was the rat's nest that he used to call a home. Filled narrow twisting lanes and back-streets it would force his troops to wander in ones and two around blind alleys overhung by closely built houses. Overall was a perfect ambush spot, and that forced him to pause. Their previous assault across the square at the barricade had failed, and Beric was loath to throw good money after bad. He stared at the map in thought, mind whirling away with tactics and manoeuvres half formed as he dredged up the memories of his lectures in Castle Dour and the fighting at Windhelm. If it had been a simple siege against an enemy it would all be so simple, he though. Just give me a handful of ballistae, a century of archers or a pair of battlemages and that barricade would have been half an hour work to close with, breach and clear and disassemble the barricade. But here and now? He pondered his options. No good wishing came from wishing for what he wouldn't get.

He shifted his weight, and was surprised when his foot kicked something, and he looked down curious. An apple, one of the precious few which had escaped being crushed underfoot. He shrugged, bent and bit deeply, ripping a large bite out of it with his sharp teeth. Munching it tastelessly and without pleasure he turned at a shout from behind and was surprised to see Durag and Serana walking up the road towards him. Her eyes were red and puffy from the ash, and he was not surprised when she gently placed her hand on his arm. He felt the reassuring pressure of her grip through the hauberk and gambeson of his old Dawnguard armour as she spoke in a low calm voice.

"Aela has returned from Jorrvaskr, and I know you don't want to hear this, but she wants to talk about the funeral."

"Not right now." Beric snapped, turning back to his sketch map. Serana's hand fell from his arm and she stood awkwardly.

"All right then." She shrugged, standing awkwardly and turned to look back down the street she had come. He took another bite out of the apple, swallowing the woody, sweet core of the fruit and munching the seeds without a thought. Serana looked at him curiously, eyebrow raised and then turned away with a small shake of the head.

Durag cheerfully greeted Quintus Strabo, the Legionnaire Cohort's standard-bearer, a veteran of Windhelm and bent and after a minutes rummaging picked up trio of apples, handing one to his friend and another to the guardsman. Absentmindedly polishing one on his sleeve he took a bite listened as a newly arrived runner breathlessly rapped out his report.

"1st and 6th Centuries had pushed forward on our flanks on the left and right respectively, and 5th is now formed up in reserve having put out the fires on Iron-Monger Road."

"Good."

"What are you orders Sir?"

Beric thought. His previous attempt to storm the barricade by direct assault had failed. They had attacked hurriedly and without preparation an enemy that outnumbered them, had solid defensive positions, firm flanks and had grown tired of retreating, opting instead to stand their ground. 1st and 6th centuries were now in position, giving him new option. He could attempt to push up the side streets, hoping to win through on a narrow front where the quality of his troops would count for more. Or perhaps they could feint, draw the rioters away from the square and then punch through here with three centuries as their undisciplined forces ran to reinforce what they thought to be the main threat. The problem was that with the barrier cleared the rioters would be pushed back to their homes, and there they would be sure to fight to their deaths rather than stand down, and Beric was in no mood for a massacre on the lanes of his former neighbourhood. That was the rub of the problem, the cohort and town guard had encircled and pushed back the rioters to trap them in maze of the spittals behind Meatmarket square.

Shouts and jeers range out, and grateful for the distraction Beric looked up, across the square and the two hundred yards or so of open ground to where a disorganised band of blue-rag wearing rioters stood on the barricade of piled furniture, shattered stalls and upturned carts, shouting abuse into the sooty dawn air. A pair of legionnaires had fallen out of formation, running across the square to pull their wounded back one by one while leaving the dead behind, while their friends inspired by their action advanced in short rushed and covered their comrades from the hail of thrown rocks and stones with their bulky kite shields. The recovery of the imperial wounded was greeted with cheers and shouts of encouragement from the imperial ranks. And as Beric watched a few more, emboldened by their example joined them. When the Imperial troops ventured out again and carried back a number of abandoned wounded civilians, the blue-wearing rioters slowly stilled their tongues and stood in silence, watching as the square was slowly cleared of bodies. Grimley awaiting the assault that would follow as they watched the legionnaire across the square dropping their truncheons and pulling out their swords, slashing and swinging them in glittering arcs through the air.

A ripple of motion came through the century of legionaries before him as the wounded slowly trickled through the rear of the formation. One man was carried on the shoulder of another, hollow pain filled eyes staring at nothing through a mask of blood that caked his face. He was followed by another, his thigh smashed into pulp by slingshot, his arms wrapped around the shoulder of his comrades as they carried him out between themselves. Shouts came from behind Beric as Lady Isabella and a small team hurried forwards, a mix of priest and healers, together in with her small adventuring band, her Breton spellsword lover, her squire, a friend of Erik's and her Altmer grandmother the sorceress, all carrying satchels stuffed with poultices, bandages and potions. The wounded were quickly lined up side by side in the street as Isabella's party busied themselves around them. A few disappeared into the ranks carrying a stretcher to go forwards into the empty space of the square. A minute or so later the last of the wounded appeared, pale desperate hands clamped across his belly where blood dark as wine trickled slowly from his belly. He whimpered desperately in pain, and bucked, threatening to bounce clear off the stretcher.

Beric tucked the map away and took a step forward, into the path of the stretcher team, who slowed and stopped, beside him.

"It fucking hurts sir." He whispered, looking up at him with terrified eyes, his words rasping out between bloody teeth. Up close Beric could see a pair of broken air shafts sprouted from his chest and belly, while he seems to have torn out a third arrow, as a handful of his buts hung out of his belly, permeating the air near him with the smell of shit. Wounds he would be very lucky to survive, even with magical help.

"I know lad." He answered back, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, casting a simple spell which put him into a painless deep sleep. The legionnaires looking over their shoulders nervously at him and their wounded friend turned away at this display of magic, uneasy even in their gratitude. Beric looked away and turned as the bearers murmured their thanks and hurried him away.

Lady Isabella then appeared before him, wearing the simple robes of a priestess of Mara. The vivid orange cloth now stained with soot and blood; her silver-blonde hair messily tied back in a simple plait. He was relieved to see her, to know that the wounded were in her good care, and the morale that this would offer the troops who would know that they if they were injured, they would be well carried for. He turned away to give his orders to the runner, a planning forming in his mind, but then something tapped him, and he turned annoyed at this interruption. Lady Isabella reached out and grasped him by the shoulders, looking up into his eyes with concern, before attempting to pull him into a hug.

"Beric I'm so sorry I-."

"Not now." He broke away awkwardly, pushing her hands away. he did not want to be reminded of anything.

"Beric?" She said, startled and hurt. They had never been friends, but he had always been polite and respectful to the paladin who had been blessed by each of the hearth gods in their turn.

"Not now."

"Yes now."

"Isabella we've all lost friends today. And right now, I've got 6 centuries of legionnaires and 10 companies of guards deployed around the spittals…See to the wounded." He turned to leave and walked away.

"Such a busy man. What are you planning to do while I'm stitching up all the people you seem so determined to injure in the first place?" she snapped back, standing in the street were the groaning wounded lay with their minders, she stood ignoring them, daring him to turn back, and to his shame he turned over his shoulder and replied.

"Keep you in business. It's a simple plan: clear that lot over there from the barricade, break up this riot, then head home, then drink myself to death." He stated simply and without humour, Isabella looked at Durag and Serana, and both shook their heads.

"Have you heard any terms? Any conditions from them?"

"No."

"Have you made any attempt to contact them? To offer them terms of surrender. It may help."

"No."

"I have already spoken to the rioters today. They're just a frightened as your troops are. They don't know what's happened, and they're jumping at shadows. I could reassure them, and they would return to their homes."

He disliked her calling his troops afraid, and there was rumble of anger amongst the ranks as they could not help but overhear this argument. Many growled to disprove, but fear was there all the same. They all felt it, all denied it, but to acknowledge it was to give it strength, and it was fear of death, not death itself that broke armies.

"Then why don't you just go over there and tell them to fuck off?"

"Would you like me you use those words exactly?" Lady Isabella replied evenly in her calm low voice. After a beat Beric felt a blush burn his pale cheeks, and he turned away. Isabella sniffed at this and shook her head in disappointment.

"If your troops go forward once again, they will fight for their homes, their families and their lives. They won't run. They think that the imperials blame them for the Beren's death, that the rest of the town does. They think this is the end, and they're prepared for it. Let me slip through the lines, reassure them. If you vouch for them, then they will take you at your word. They know you are a good and honourable man."

She reached out once more, and held him by the shoulders, and he felt the burning heat of her palms through his armour, shocking him to his core at her fiery touch, but then the pain faded, and he felt the warm embrace of the divines once more on this chill and ash swept autumn morn. Instantaneously, the strain and stress which had filled his head and hardened his heart melted away like ice in the sun. This was far beyond simple restoration magic, he wondered as he felt the barest shred of the love of a goddess suffuse his being, even as he rebelled against it in his pain and hatred at himself and the world. Even though he felt the hesitation in the goddesses' touch and presence, he allowed it to calm him, soothe his worries and fears as he basked in the warm glow of her loving embrace. She removed her hands, and though the warmth fled, his head was clear and calm. With a nod she slipped past him and squeezed through the ranks of the legionnaires.

Some tried to stop her, but they seemed slow and sluggish in their movements compared to her, and the light of the sun caught her silver-blonde hair, giving it a glow all of its own. Others called out to her, thanking her for the care she had shown to their comrades, and their families and friends. She laughed, and they laughed with her as she walked out into the gap between the two armies. Straight-backed and as calm as if walking through a summer meadow she picked her way through the dead bodies and burned stalls towards the piled barricade, standing six feet high and growing by the hour as rioters milled around it like ants in their nest. Jeers and cat call rouse from their ranks at her approach, calling her mule and knife ears and blood-traitor. but others rebuked them, and an uneasy silence fell upon them as they slowed and stopped their work and stood, watching the approach of this lone woman.

He could see that Isabella had gained reached the barricade ahead of him, and was carefully climbing up the piled furniture. Carts, merchant's stalls and trestle tables and benches, together with what spare furniture that could be found had been thrown together into a barrier that now rouse to head height, and made for unsteady footing. She climbed ungainly, and a number of hands reached down to pull her up. She was quickly pulled into the massed ranks of the rioters and vanished down the back side of the barricade.

The slow minutes ticked by, and Beric ordered the cohort to stand at ease. Water bearers and a ration cart came forward, and still no reaction was seen from the barricade on the other side of the square. Finally, a ripple in the ranks of the rioters, a flash of orange amongst the blue sashes and brown homespun. She stood upon the barricade and waved at the imperial forces, but made no move to leave, but instead stood amongst those scared and proud peasants.

Suddenly insane inspiration filled Beric, and he turned to Quintus and Durag, and issued his orders.

"Durag. Send a runner to Senior Centurion Maxius of the 1st Century. He is to report to this location and take command of the Cohort in my absence. Should I not return or be captured and held hostage, he is to attack without regard to any hostages held by the rioters."

With that he pushed through the ranks, the legionnaires looked surprised at his passing, but quickly moved out of him way and stood to attention at his passing. Men and women, he recognised from Windhelm nodded, eyes downcast in respect and a low murmur of recognition followed him as he pushed out into the empty square, beyond the safety of the massed ranks and their dragon banners.

It was a long walk across the open ground, the cobbles of the square filthy with the discarded food mashed to paste underfoot. Lost items of clothing, drapery, bunting and assorted detritus, to say nothing of the bodies that now littered the square. Here a mother and her child lay dead, stab wounds to the neck and body much in evidence as they lay in a pool of drying blood, matching the red of their sashes and scarves. Further on, an arm lay, abandoned by its owner and hacked off at the elbow amidst a pile of smashed wood that used to be a merchant's stall.

The rioters pointed him out, and a ripple spread through them. Up close he could see the scattered red clad bodies of legionnaires that littered the ground before the barricade. There had been no chance to rescue the bodies this close to the wall and those who had not died of their wounds had had their throats slit. A small group of swordsmen appeared on top of the ungainly wall at his approach, mail hauberks and thick gambesons pulled over their normal clothes. The one in the centre stood with his face hidden under a horned helmet, his chin and mouth bristled by a thick beard and elaborate moustache. he raised his sword in his direction, staring down its blood-stained length at him.

"Stop! You stay right there!"

He halted and held his hands up slowly, bored and unconcerned at the arrows and javelins aimed at him. He wondered how much restrained the imperial troops would show if they tried to kill him here and now, loosing all their arrows and javelins in a single massed volley at him. Or, perhaps the rioters would attempt to grab him, hold him hostage to negotiate more favourable terms.

"Who are you." The unknown man called.

"I am Praefect Beric Stone-Strider. Are you the leader of these people?"

This immediately provoked a reaction amongst those standing on the wall. Scattered amongst the Stormcloaks he could see women and children, the young and the old, and a dozen or more faces half remembered from his childhood. Amongst them Isabella stood, unconcerned and calm. The man pulled his helmet off with a hand heavy with the black iron of warrior's rings.

"I might be. Why do you want to know?"

"To parley."

Shock split his face, and he looked up and down the line of the barricade, before turning back to Beric, grunting his response.

"Then put your case to them, not to me. And if they don't like it, then its them you'll answer too, I'll not take responsibility for your words or your safely."

Beric shrugged, unconcerned. He walked forwards again, closing the distance, before he was standing just a few feet from the bottom of the barricade. Here the blood was old and sticky on the cobbles, and the footing dangerous amidst the splintered wood and hacked off limbs

"That's close enough." The warrior grumbled, and now Beric was close enough to see the warrior rings on his fingers, one for each and every finger and thumb on both hands, the steel of each ring a kill in honourable single combat.

"I though you weren't concerned about my words or safety." Beric replied unconcerned, strolling forwards and beginning to pull himself up the barricade, hand over hand.

"Say your piece then." The man grumbled, hesitating for a moment, before sheathing his blade and offering him a bear like paw of a hand, helping to pull him up the barricade. There was a ripple of noise behind him in the imperial ranks, and a sharp clamour of orders before silence was restored behind him. The Man grinned through his beard and moustaches, and nodded towards the Imperial troops, impressed in spite of himself at Beric's bravery and his troops discipline.

"Loyal and disciplined troops like that are hard to find, no wonder we lost." He grumbled.

"The Stormcloaks were much the same." He replied. Looking around him now on his ungainly perch. The houses behind the barricade on either side of the road into the shambles had been stripped of their shingles for throwing, which had been piled for easy reach, and further down the street, over the massed ranks of the citizens of the city he could see another barrier was being built before the tight lane turned and hid the rest from view. He could spot children running through the crowd, sooty and ragged, and grandparents seated comfortably by the windows with a supply of rocks on the upper floors of barricaded houses where they could drop stones onto troops in the streets below. It reminded him all too much of Windhelm. He swallowed nervously and cleared his throat.

"Friends…Fellow Nords. You all know me, by name, by face. Hear my words as you would your own neighbour's." He began, uncertain of what to say or do, and damning this madcap foolish idea, wishing he had Beren's natural charisma and good humour.

"I would ask your patience, for I know you all to be true Nords. We have no liking for speeches or fancy talkers who think themselves too clever by half! It would seem you are in luck, for I am no great speaker, like the Bretons, or the Imperials or those damned High Elves, but a Nord, born and bred amongst you. You stand here as defenders of your home and the streets I walked as a boy. Amongst you all I can see men and woman I played with as a child. Had fate been different and the Divines wished it so, I would stand amongst you now, and it is to that bond that I call you to stay your swords and listen to my offer. I pray that you will hear my words, and I put my soul in their hands."

He looked around the crowd, there were a few murmurs here and there, but most stood still and quiet, interested and exhausted in equal measure. Isabella stood amongst them, standing out like a flame on the ice. Inspiration took hold of him, and he pointed to her, and the crowd rippled around her, staring at the woman who stood unmoved by his pointing.

"Lady Isabella, the thrice blessed by the hearth goddesses has come to you. She stands blessed by Dibella, By Kyne and by Mara, and swearing by those gods for you to come to no harm. Pledging that you will be unharmed should you put down your swords and return to your lives. This she has already told you. I swear to you now, before you all and by all the Divines. I wish that were enough for you to trust me. but I know that it is not enough. It is not the Oaths, but the man which you wish to see. The only man you would trust with such a noble offer. Beren. Your Dragonborn."

And now he slowly began to slip a small stream of magic into his words. It was a subtle magic, this sort of spell, and he allow it to permeate every syllable and sentence he spoke, and undertone of calming, soothing magic that wormed its way into the ear of every listener, like a poisonous snake slides between the bedsheets unnoticed by the sleeper.

"Yesterday a single word from Beren would stop the world. Now? Now there is not even a whisper to be heard. There are no more Dragonborns to come, and the Dragons are gone. It is to the words and promises of mortal men that we must now all place our trust. I would have it otherwise, I would have the gods send us a hero. But that was how we did things yesterday, and this is today, and Beren will not come, nor any other hero…."

"…And if he cannot, I shall have to play his part and take his place, though I know I cannot replace him. He was my brother. And a more honourable, and faithful man I have never met, and I will honour his memory today, and place my trust in you as he did. And I make this offer to you now, as I know he would do if I was dead instead of him. I know why you act like this; I do not blame you. It is out of fear for yourselves and love for him. And to that memory I call you, put down your swords and return to your lives, in honour of Beren, The last true Nord!"

At this there was an angry muttering in the crowd, as a few of the Stormcloak turned and spat at the very idea of respecting the Dragonborn. But Beric carried on, and his voice, magically pitched washed over them, making the nay-sayers seem harsh and vulgar in the speech even as his words were carried, pitched to fill the listener with

"Do not deny it! Who here is brave enough deny it? who here would look me in the eye and wish he had died in dragon's fire?! The man who hunted and killed every dragon, who save our world from Destruction! You all loved him once, for he was your hero, your protector, who led the Nords of Skyrim against the mad vampire Harkon, and the crazed Miraak, and defeated Aldiun in Sovngarde itself! What cause forces you not to fight your fellow Nord? What cause stops you to honour and mourn him? Is this how you would remember him? Would you undo all he did for you? Would you have this be his legacy?!"

He held his arms up wide, palms up begging as the magically infused words eased into their heads, shaming them. All the while the spell whispered to them, making it so easy for them to agree in their tired, emotion state. Here and there he could see people slumping against the walls of the houses, and a few of the grandparents in their upstairs rooms where already asleep, so powerful was the spelling of pacification he was weaving into his voice. Only Isabella seemed unmoved, her eyes narrowed slightly the only change in her expression. Beric was careful not to overdue the magic, unless his spellcasting become too obvious as to cause another riot, and he dropped his voice, pulling them in closer to listen to him.

"I do not know what happened yet, but I know I do not hold you responsible for what happened in Jorrvaskr last night. It was a night of fear and violence, born out of the love you feel for your own families. I call upon you now to look to your families, think of your sons and daughters, your parents and neighbours, for if you continue this battle, all of them will be lost. The choice is yours."

He was exhausted, and could not maintain the spell anymore. And for a moment his vision swam and he swayed on his feet. The crowd stood still and awkward. He turned and left them in silence, and made the long lonely walk back to imperial line. Behind him he heard a low muttering and the scrap of furniture.

They were all going home. In the days to come Beric's speech was often talked about by those who had listened. But they found that they could seldom repeat his words, or agree upon exactly what it was that he had said. And when they did, they wondered at the calming effect that it had had in at that time, for now little power remained in those words, though they lacked the wisdom or knowledge to understand. All that they remembered was that it was a delight to heard that calming and melodious voice speak, which made agreement seem so wise and reasonable, and how those who had disagreed had seemed so vulgar and unnatural in their speech.

---

Beric's footsteps fell light upon the floor even in his heavy armour, so it was only when the door to the office crashed inwards that the occupants became aware of his presence.

"What the FUCK do you mean he escaped?" Beric asked in a voice thin and chilling as lake ice, as Commander Caius stood before Aela, now installed comfortably behind Beren's desk, a folded piece of parchment in her hands. All three of them still in armour and covered in blood, mud and ash.

"…ah Beric, you-"

"Answer the fucking question." He cut off. Aela turned red with anger but said nothing, Caius gulped and began to explain.

"It would seem that at some point during the riot cicero…. that is, the prisoner picked the lock to his cell. He then jumped his jailor, stole his weapons and then killed two guards on their patrol routes before escaping in a looted guard uniform." Commander Caius delivered in a voice he struggled to keep clear of his nerves as he stared at a point directly over Beric's head, unable to make eye contact with the man.

"So just to be clear, the man the jarl promised me was the most heavily guarded prisoner in all of Whiterun hold, in all of Skyrim…. walked out the fucking front door. Is this what you're telling me? Am I getting all of this right, Commander?"

He nodded, miserable.

"Why wasn't he stopped at the door?" Beric asked in a chillingly calm voice, beginning to pace slowly back and forth before the fire place.

"He seems to have escaped while the guards were changing their watches, he just joined the off-coming guards."

"Oh, and how did he know when the watches changed?"

"…. Because there was a copy of the guard list hidden in his cell."

"And how did that get there?"

"We don't know."

An icily silence filled the air at this last pronouncement.

"So then, what's your plan to get him back?"

The commander looked calmer and slightly more confident now,

"We will send alerts to all the hold guard garrisons, and notices to all the Jarls. We will post reward notices and call adventurers to hunt him down. It shouldn't be too hard to track him down; he can hardly move fast without any toes, and the Companions have vowed to the last of them to hunt him down before the elect a new leader." At this he nodded gratefully at Aela, who ignored him and looked with extreme displeasure at how Beric was interrupting her private meeting. He ignored her in turn and snorted at the commander's ideas.

"The man has been tortured for two days now. And yet somehow, he stole a guard rota, hid a lock pick divines know where and the moment, the very moment your back was turned…he broke out of his cell, killed three people and disappeared without a trace, all without his toes. You'll have to me forgive me if I don't share your optimism or feel inclined to put my faith in your capabilities." Beric sat down in chair with a sigh, and pointed at the commander, exhausted with this argument for the moment.

"I want your full reports on my desk tomorrow."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, that is for the hold guard only-"

"You had no problem with me taking command earlier. Be aware I will be writing to the Queen, and General Tullius on this issue. My letters can be informed by your reports, or written without them, and right now, I rather imagine you need all the friends you can get. Now, shut the fuck up and stand in that corner. If you're luckily, maybe I forget about you for the next hour or so."

"Now." He said, turning onto his main target as he began to count points off on his fingers. She stopped playing with the piece of parchment and looked him full in the face with eyes that were red and puffy and yet filled with a cold hard anger and the promise of violence that flared at the sight of him.

"Aela…One, you will hand over that damned archer tonight. Two, The Companions will pay wergild to that man's family, and three, you will apologise for what they did to Beren's funeral."

Aela gave a bitter laugh at this.

"Unless you're thinking of challenging me, I shall do none of those things."

"Oh, and why is that?"

Aela spoke, in a voice dripping with distain.

"You're not in charge of me. I'm not one of your soldiers to salute and march around at your whim. I am a Companion, a member of the Circle, I have no equal and no master. And this is my house, Beric. Perhaps you've forgotten that, and I don't want you, or Serana in it anymore, you filthy little snakes."

She held up the folded parchment, and by the seal and writing he recognised it as Elisif's marriage proposal. Beric's pale face went white at the sight of it.

"Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in privacy…in the Map room." He rambled, caught off guard and not liking this at all.

"Make it quick; I have other concerns tonight."

Beric stormed off, but Aela took her time to arrive, looking around the room and the large map that dominated it with a measure of interest, having rarely opted to join their councils in the past, before shrugging and throwing the marriage offer across the room at him. Beric snatched the letter out of the air in shock.

"Is this what you get up to when I'm not here? I know you never approved of my marriage to Beren, but I never though you would stoop to something as low as this."

"I assure you I had nothing to do with this!"

"Then you should be able to explain why she had the idea in the first place, or perhaps you not as well placed, not as well informed on how Elisif's empty little head works as you might think."

"What?! I don't know! By the Nine I don't know!"

"I don't believe it." she snapped, shaking her head, tears of anger and betrayal in her eyes. "Why didn't Beren tell me of this?" she asked, almost half to herself.

"I…I don't know" Beric was shocked at this

"Unless…unless he meant to accept it." she said lowly, wiping away the few tears which had fallen with a shaking hand.

"No. he wouldn't' do that." He shook his head, he could imagine the possibility, the scandal that would have ensued. Had Beren been free to marry, he would have urged him to accept, but Beren had been entrapped by the Huntress's fame, and his new found position. He had decided to marry Aela, and there was no changing his mind.

"So, you urged him to reject this weak queen who would steal my husband."

"…No. No, we did not." He sighed, exhausted and tired of arguing with this woman who had spent the last few years avoiding all mention of politics, only showing interest when the time came to kill some new monster or army of men.

She laughed bitterly at this "Cowards. Such loyalty you showed Beren."

"Loyalty? What do you know of Loyalty? What has it ever cost you? What have you ever given up for Beren compared to me, compared to what I sacrificed for him, for Skyrim and his victory? I lived every day since our mother died just doing my best to keep him alive until he closed his eyes. I told him to wait, and that was the best option. We didn't know if the letter was real or not, it seemed impossible, it made no sense! Why send a letter like that? It could have been her courtiers who wrote it, to stir up trouble, or a Stormcloak agent, or Thalmor spy."

"Cowards!" she barked, and she clawed the air in front of her as though waving away his words likes flies.

"No." he denied it automatically, but he did not feel the truth of it in his heart. It may have been the sensible option, but Beren had never been one to sit and wait, and since when had he cared for convention?

"lies… you always told him he should have married better, married for wealth, for power. Here was your chance, why wouldn't you take it?" Aela hissed, and despite himself he could see the truth his thought in her words. Beren had carried himself like half a god and had increasingly left petty rules to bind lesser men, and he could see similar thinking flicker behind Aela's eyes, fearing that perhaps, with time he would have left her. They both knew too well that urge to power itched at Beren's mind like a rash, how it had called him out to fight Ulfric. Beric now regretted how he had advised Beren to treat the civil war as a personal feud with Ulfric rather than a war against the Stormcloaks, as Beren had increasingly treated the war as a squabble between champions as he sulked in his tent outside the walls of Windhelm, repelled by its ancient walls and arcane charms.

"Lies. Plain and simple. You plotted this with Elisif, in those letters and reports you so love to write! She gets an army and a warrior, and he gets a wife of rank, and a country to lead. Dare you deny it? Why would she send such a letter, unless there was a spy here to make sure it would be well received? It's what you always wanted for him isn't it? I remember how you counselled him to toss me aside that winter when you came crawling out of the north, more monster than a man, and with another monster at your side. Beren should have killed you and Serana then and there, and he would have been within his rights to do it!"

She was screaming at him now, tears streaming down her face. Beric felt his anger fill him, his blood lust rising and his sharp teeth biting as he ground his teeth. He answered in a low voice, chillingly cold.

"And I remember well the monster you turned my little brother into the moment my back was turned. You and that cosy little club you had in the circle. I got Beren to end that, do you remember that Aela? Remember how all your little friend turned their back on your little 'gift.' Do you? Do-"

she slapped him, and he rocked on his heels, shocked. I can't believe she hit me. He raised his own hand, palm up to and shaking with fury. With a slap to temple he could crush her head, a punch to the chest her lungs and heart. He forced his hand down, shaking with embarrassment at the effort it took.

"I will not hit you, at least while you carry Beren's Child. Like it or not, it is me you have to thank for keeping Beren at your side. And I am not leaving." He turned away.

"Ha. Yes, you are." She laughed, but there was no humour in it, only victory as she closed in for the kill.

"Calm yourself Aela, think of the child." He snapped without thinking, without looking over his shoulder.

"Do you want me to smack you again?"

"How brave of you to punch a man who will not fight back."

"Ha, I don't need hands of bows or swords to drive you out. I did learn one thing from my dear Beren, that words are power. And I know exactly what words to use." She purred, and Beren turned, ashen-faced as she moved into the kill. "let me put it in words you can understand." And with this mocking she held her hand up and began ticking points off on her fingers.

"How will the people see it? The stern and scheming older brother, overshadowed and overlooked, or the power-hungry uncle, squabbling with a mother and her duty. What would it take for me to say? For me to ask? Why does he not join the others in the morning sun? Why does always wear that hat outside? Why does he never seem to eat and only drink? Why do his eyes seem to cut you like a knife taken to flesh, carving red and deep to the marrow?"

They had only ever rarely spoken of the scale of the cost to his humanity Beric had incurred to visit the soul cairn, and only then in round about ways and whispers.

"Now, you will go, you and Serana. I give you this evening, and tonight, and tomorrow morning you will go, to Winterhold, or Solstheim or to the very ends of Tamriel. And if you are still here tomorrow, or if ever see you again, then I will take that elvish bow, and kill you all. And who could blame a mother for it, after all, I was thinking of my child."

She turned and opened the door, before pausing on the doorstep to turn and look down the corridor towards the Library.

"Serana, come to the map room. It's time for you and Beric to go Winterhold." She gave a mocking smile and left satisfied footsteps disappearing down the corridor towards the main hall.

After a moment Serana appeared, a puzzled look on her face as she stood in the door.

"Um… do you mind telling me what all of that was about?"

---

Serana had the good grace to listen in silence as he relayed the news, listening impassively as she heard the argument, the threat and the outcome. How she blamed them all for trying to sabotage her marriage to Beren, and her threats, to reveal them, and to kill them, and he saw how fear, anger, guilt and excitement warred within her as he told her of their destination, the college of Winterhold. For dignities sake they agreed to let it be known that they were leaving to carry and protect Beren's bequest of three priceless Elder Scrolls to the College before winter snows closed the passes. While people would talk that it was not decent to travel so soon after a funeral, the time of year and the nature of the present would make sense, and the Nords were nothing if not a pragmatic people when it came to the dangers of skyrim's winters and honouring the wishes of the dead.

The information had come spilling out of him like a dropped waterskin, until silence once again filled the room as Serana sat, her brow furrowed in deep though. But it was not the sense of defeat or loss of his home that itched his mind like a flea bite, but an unsettled feeling that there was some other factor at play, and the fear that exhaustion was turning his tired mind to paranoia. He could tell Serana, she would hear him out, and if he was raving then she would be polite and kind enough to tell him. He looked around the walls of the map room. Safe and secure. If there was a place to discuss his thoughts, his suspicious, then in it was in this room. Resolved, his voice broke the stillness of the room, startling Serana.

"I'm just a bit confused at the moment, why did he give the Elder Scrolls to the College for free when he refused all money that they offered to buy them?"

"Did he never tell you that he had changed his mind, or added it to his will?"

He shook his head in answer. Serana cocked her head to the side and thought for a moment.

"…. I suppose he felt it was useful to keep hold of the dragonborn prophecies while he was alive. After he was dead, he must have felt that they would be of more use to the empire being studied then staying locked away in this place." Serana sniffed, clearly still a little bit annoyed at how 'her' Elder Scroll was included in the bequests so casually. He shrugged and continued, thinking aloud in a constant stream of thought as the utter exhaustion he felt pushed him to unburned himself to Serana, feeling the need to fill the silence as he worked up the courage to discuss his suspicious.

"…At least people's curiosity will be reduced as to why we're traveling…. Or is might be increased, not often people travel with three scrolls on their knapsack. Either way, it gets us away from here, from her." He babbled thoughtlessly, distracted as things turned over in his mind.

"uhh…sure Beric." She looked at him with concerned eyes, uneasy at his babblings.

"Serana…there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

He took a deep breath, suddenly nervous and uncertain of how to begin.

"I need to talk to you about Beren's death."

She nodded, and reached out and gently pulled him into a hug, resting her head on his shoulder and gripped in her gentle grasp as she pressed her body against his. She disliked public displays of affection by others, and hated being touched, but in the privacy of the map room she did not fear to hold him close, or allow such tenderness to linger. The smell of her perfume filled his nose as she rested her head on hear shoulder, and after a moment as she turned her head and whispered quietly into his ear, her hand gently cradling the back of his head, her fingers ruffling his hair as she spoke.

"I've been so worried about you. We've not talked about it at all. I've never seen you like this Beric, and it's scaring me. You're so restless and tense, I can feel it right now in your body. I know we're leaving home, but I'm here for you, and I'm not going anywhere. Ever. And if you ever want to talk about him, just tell me, and we'll find a quiet place. I know how much he meant to you, and I know how much you loved him. He was proud of you Beric, he loved you. Never forget that."

They held each other for a moment longer, and then with a sign and a sniff they broke apart. Beric rubbed his eyes and coughed to clear his throat.

"Thank you, Serana. I…I don't know who else I would go to. Everyone else knows him as the Dragonborn. I think we're the only people who really knew him as a man. But there's something else about his death I wanted to talk about. Something that was troubling me."

She nodded, saying nothing and he continued.

"But does…does any of this make sense to you? I mean, think about it, a mad-man just happens to infiltrate one of the most secure location on Tamriel and kill the dragonborn and his squire. Then when he's taken for questioning, he reveals nothing of value? And then he breaks out and disappears to the nine knows where? and look at this dagger!"

He pulled the knife out from his pouch and handed it over to her. She turned the dagger over and over in her hands, looking at it with narrowed eyes where distasted warred with curiosity.

"There's some sort of enchantment on it that I've never seen before, and a powerful one at that. Oh and that is the Daedric letter 'Oht…'O' in Tamrielic.' she added at his confused look "….and it reeks of Daedric power…Daedric prince power, one of them definitely had a hand in making this weapon, I'm sure of it." she handled it carefully, fearful avoiding the silver. The mention of the Daedra intrigued him, and he noted that she did not shiver at its touch like she did when they had handled artefacts which carried the taint of Molag Bal. She handed back the knife and he replaced it in his pouch.

"Urag should be able to help. The library at Winterhold will have all sorts of books on Daedric princes and their weapons."

"What are you going to do Beric?" she asked quietly, her golden eyes carefully searching his.

"I don't have a plan yet. I just…I just want some answers. That would be enough. For now." He said grimly.

"For now?" he caught the worried tone in her voice and looked up, her brow knitted in concern. "Be careful Beric."

"Weapons like these don't end up in the hands of people by accident, mad men least of all. If someone put it in Cicero's hands, it's because they wanted Beren dead. I'm going to find them. I'm going to learn why, then I'm going to kill them, and send their souls screaming into Oblivion."

She sighed, and he knew that it was not the answer she had wanted. But it was the truth, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. For the first time he felt cold certainty.

They emerged from the map room to find that it was late, that dusk had pasted, night fallen and Aela had gone to bed. Never the less she was not one to make idle threats and they roused their servants, stable-boys and porters, knowing there would be little-to-no sleep for any of them tonight. He had a spare trunk brought up, and packed his armour away quickly, both the old Dawnguard set and his new ebony spell plate. The dagger, his mace and his bastard sword were packed, carefully wrapped in oiled rags, and his servants were about to carry it down stairs when he stopped them. On a whim, he raced downstairs to the library, where Auriel's bow hung on the mantlepiece. While Aela had used it in the battle with Harkon, it had been he and Serana who had bled to recover that weapon, and to leave such a bow in the hands of a woman who carried the title of the Huntress seemed the height of lunacy. He threw it into the trunk, along with a sheaf of sunhallowed arrows. Buckling under the weight of the trunk, the strong pair of stable hands carried it out of the room to be loaded onto the cart.

He then filled his own truck, with clothes and assorted books, grabbing his old college robes from the bottom of his wardrobe, before throwing a few choice documents into a small satchel for safekeeping, taking Elisif's marriage letter which he saw no reason to leave in Aela's hands. Next, Beren's will he took as proof of the bequest, and to satisfy his own suspicions. Finally, he packed his dwemer timepiece and a few purses of gold septims, hoping that Durag would send the rest of his money on, as well as Beren's bequests. Suddenly packed, he looked around his small chamber. It had always been a rather impersonal room, and his meagre belongings had always given it a rather transitory feel, like a rented tavern room. He looked around, shrugged and left, helping the porter lug his trunk down the stairs to join the other trunks. They would wait a few hours, while their servants slept a few hours until they roused them early in the morning. Serana joined him, having rushed back and forth from office to library to trunk, bearing books, pouches of alchemical ingredients and a small lock box filled with documents which were too sensitive to be left behind.

With much grumbling and fumbling of torches and lanterns, First his trunks and then Serana's were loaded, and despite the time and the early hour she was hoping from foot to foot with barely concealed excitement that they were finally off to the college, a dream she had been chasing for more than a year. After they carefully supervised the retrieval of the elder scrolls from the locked safe that stood in the basement storeroom and their packing into a trunk which was chained and padlocked. Standing in the forecourt of the estate while he waited for the horses to be saddled and the last of their supplies to be loaded, he could see that the dark skies of the east were brightening pink. Durag was there to see them off, and he hugged them goodbye and wished them well. promising that he would visit the college in the spring.

They left, three carts loaded with their trunks and spare supplies, ten guards and the two of them on horses picking their way through rubble and ash filled streets, their every move watched by suspicious legionaries and town guard detachments stationed at every intersection, while heavily armed patrols marched their routes down every street. Given the early hour their party attracted considerable attention from the curious onlookers, though none dared to question their journey as Beric rode at the head of the party, proudly wearing his old legion cloak. Once they had left the city, they made good time, though the sun's light was muted behind heavy low clouds, and as the sun rose those heavy clouds began to sleet upon the party, first lightly and then in increasing curtains. Despite the misery it brought their little party, he was glad to see it. At least a proper soaking would ensure that there would be no more fires in the city for a while, and Beric was lost in thought as they road past the bulk of the city, past farms and orchards which still bore the scars of the Stormcloak attack on the city.

After an hour or so they stopped for a break, and he and Serana watched as the small party broke their fast on water, salted pork and bread, huddled under the carts canvas covers at the side of the road. Sleet fell from the dawn-dark skies onto Beric's lank, sweaty hair as he trotted his horse onto a small rise and looked back over at the city for a long moment, alone and lost in thought. Whiterun lay crouched upon its hill under a sky of smoke and cloud. Here and there he could make out the lights and fires of the peoples of his former home town, and his mouth filled with the bitter taste of defeat and failure.

Serana trotted her horse up to him, her hood pulled up against the rain, saying nothing but her gentle eyes and face full of concern for him.

"Beric…what are you thinking?"

"That this is the second time I have run for my life from my home."

"You know what I mean."

He shrugged, and looked away from the city that had been his home, unwilling to discuss his thoughts and spoil Serana's dreams. He turned his back upon the city and kicked his horse forward to re-joined the party as they finished breakfast. They set off once more, their horses' hooves and wheeled carts splashing upon the cobbled road where puddles grew as more sleet felt from the skies. It fell upon the North road that went from Whiterun, through Heljarchen towards the crossroads town of Nightgate, and would eventually take them towards Winterhold, and exile.

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Author's Note

Happy new year everyone! This project of mine started one year ago as a new year's resolution to kick the can of world building disease, with me resolving to try to post one chapter a month as an exercise in writing, characterisation and plot building. Unfortunately, that proved over-optimistic. However, I have managed to post fairly reliably, and in the future, I will look to post more regularly. My plan (and new resolution) is to post chapters of 8,000-10,000 words, which is more achievable and easier to edit then the lengthier 18,000-20,000 word monsters that I've been writing the past few months. This should also hopefully make it easier to arrange my writing around work, which will promise to be very busy for the next few months.

As it stands, this story is now as big as the first harry potter book, and will probably take another 2-3 years to finish at current pace. I would like to thank everyone who has read so far, and whose honest and specific criticism has been always there to guide and develop this story. Thanks to all of you, and good luck with all your own endeavours in this new year.

Cheers!