*IMPERIAL CITY*
CYRODIIL
"There it is."
Llewellyn Dragonborn took in a sharp breath through his nose as he caught his first glance of the Imperial City, the capital of the Empire.
"Have you ever been to the Capital before?" he asked the robed woman who rode beside him.
"I played Oblivion."
Several Blades shot questioning looks towards the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, but Llewellyn only grinned in understanding at his fellow Traveler from Earth. Sarai Gellarus smiled back at her fellow Traveler and lover, but then her face fell, and she lifted her chin to point at the road ahead.
"And there she is."
A large group of horsemen were coming towards the party at a full gallop. Several hands strayed towards their sheathed swords or gripped their lances, but Llewellyn waved them down as the two figures in full Daedric armor could be made out at the head of the ebony-clad column. Even more striking than her armor, the lead rider was astride the skeletal figure of a spectral horse. She reached up to remove her helmet as the two parties came to a halt.
"Your Majesty," the High King of Skyrim greeted with a slight bow.
"Your Majesty," the High Mother of the Vodahmin Covenant greeted with a matching bow.
"I see your army has already made a full encirclement of the city," Llewellyn observed admiringly, gesturing at the plateau beneath them, where a ring of tents and trenches could be made out, just beyond catapult-range of the city's walls.
"It wouldn't have been much of a siege otherwise," Tala Niwot shrugged. "But my forces are stretched thin to occupy the siege-works all the way around. If it is agreeable to Your Majesty, I will pull my forces from the eastern circuit of the works westward, as your own forces move to relieve them. In that way, we can make the best use of our troop strength."
"A sound plan indeed," the Dragonborn nodded. "We will have to coordinate our troop movements very carefully to make as efficient a siege as possible."
"On that note," Tala replied, honey and charm dripping from the smile she gave to the tall armored man, "May I invite the Arch-Mage and yourself to a private conference?"
The Witch-Queen of the North inclined her head at the very small tent that had been pitched close by. Llewellyn blinked in surprise as he noticed it for the first time, and then and took a deep breath.
Might as well get this over with.
"That sounds delightful," he answered slowly, knowing that the conversation that was about to occur was most likely to be nothing of the sort.
*SOME TIME LATER*
"ARE YOU STARK RAVING MAD?!
Lewis Heron of Texas steeled himself before the sheer and unveiled rage of Tala Niwot of Wyoming. Taking another deep breath, he forced a smile on his face, and toyed with the goblet in front of him, thankful for the sound-proof enchantment that shrouded the small tent.
"I don't think so," he replied calmly. "No more than usual, at least."
Tala's fist came down on the table with a bang.
"Don't you DARE be glib, you moron!"
She whirled and pointed a thin finger at the figure seated in the corner of the tent.
"That goes double for you!"
Sarah Gellar of California started at the force of the scorn directed at her.
"What did I do?" she replied, wincing internally at the crack in her normally authoritative tone.
"Oh, don't think I don't know exactly who would have needed to come up with something like gunpowder in Tamriel!" Tala retorted. Her eyes burned with a fury she didn't even try to conceal.
"And neither of you assholes bothered saying anything about your… your… muskets the last time we spoke, despite the fact that you HAD to have had them ready by then!"
'Fire-lances, actually," Lewis said almost sheepishly. "thought the army has started to refer to them informally as Thuums."
"Oh, HOW ORIGINAL," Tala groaned, rolling her eyes at the obviousness of the term. Thuum was the Dovahzul word for the magic of shaping the draconic language into a power that could be projected or channeled. It also happened to mimic the sound the weapons made when they went off. "And entirely beside the point."
"And you said nothing about any plans to subvert the entire Aldmeri Dominion to your side," Sarah stated pointedly. "Just so long as we're talking about keeping secrets from one another."
"Because I knew that you'd never sacrifice your precious Northern Valenwood," Tala snapped, "even if it meant getting a quarter of Tamriel on our side."
"You're DAMN RIGHT I wouldn't!" Lewis snapped, half-rising. "They are my friends! They trusted me! They are…"
"EXPENDABLE."
He paused mid-rant, shocked into silence at the vehemence of the word. Tala pointed a finger at him.
"They were the price of doing business with the Aldmeri Dominion," she hissed, "And the Altmer have still lost Elsweyr for good, no matter how much of northern Valenwood they manage to re-secure. And I suspect your friends amongst the Bosmer are going to make that process long and painful for them."
"The question still remains," Sarah said, trying to move the conversation forward, "What are we going to do when we storm the palace?"
"Kill the miserable son of a bitch, bastard of a jumped-up mountain warlord who thinks he's qualified to sit on the throne of Tiber Septim."
Sarah made a deliberate effort to not rub her temples in frustration.
"I was more thinking of after that," she replied in an even tone.
"Well, I know Tullius and all his ilk will be stumbling over their erect dicks to put the Imperial crown on this asshole," Tala snorted, jerking a thumb at the armored man on the other side of the table.
"No, they won't," Lewis cut in, wincing at the crudeness of the word picture. "I won't let them."
Both women gave him looks that told him how much of that they believed.
"I can hold the Pact together precisely because I'm the military leader in time of war," he explained. Otherwise, I'm just the High King of Skyrim. If I tried to overreach and be Emperor, I'd lose Argonia all over again, and any chance of convincing Elsweyr to join the Ebonheart Pact."
Tala nodded slowly, processing the validity of the points he'd made.
"And I'm Public Enemy Number One in the Dominion," she said at last, "not to mention general, all-around boogey-woman in the rest of Tamriel. I've got a firm hand over the Covenant, but I can't make myself Empress, however much I want to."
The three occupants of the tent seemed to relax ever-so-slightly, and Sarah looked back and forth at the other two.
"What do you propose then?" she said finally.
"We can't afford to leave a strong, unified Cyrodiil on our borders," Tala answered, and her voice was firm with resolute decision. "Even with the end of the Mede dynasty, some other warlord or noble is going to step into the void. Maybe the Vici family, or the Motierre clan. But regardless, at some point, somebody is going to crawl to the top of the dung heap, and start imagining themselves the new Emperor."
"So how do we prevent that?" Lewis asked, agreeing at least in principle with the various points made.
"Break Cyrodiil into a series of smaller buffer states between us and the Dominion," Tala stated simply. "And between each other, let's be honest. Skingrad and the west are already in my control, and I don't doubt that several nobles are going to request to formally join the Covenant."
"I suppose you don't' intend on telling them 'No'?" Sarah sighed with a wry smile, and Tala didn't bother answering the obvious question. The Arch-Mage paced slightly before continuing, "Bravil and the east can more than support themselves via the trade-routes between Elsweyr and Morrowind, or Skyrim and Black Marsh. They will even most likely request membership of their own in the Pact."
"That will ensure peace, in the short run," Lewis nodded slowly, and then turned back to Tala, "But in the even shorter run, we're agreed to work together to capture the town, and when we capture it, we will share the occupation duties?"
"I can live with that," shrugged Tala. "As far as the details of that go, have your steward get with mine, and we'll hammer out an agreement that everyone's equally unhappy about."
The two rulers and the Arch-Mage of a college of magic grinned in mutual understanding.
"And don't think we're done talking about your little muskets, or whatever stupid name you've come up with them," Tala snapped, "Do you want to create a level playing field in which the common people can challenge the best-trained fighter on equal terms?"
"Actually," Lewis shrugged. "Yes."
"Then, speaking as one entitled royal to another, you're a supreme idiot."
"My Lord?"
Llewellyn Dragonborn looked up see Lydia at the door of the tent.
"Yes?"
"A flag of truce has come out of the Northeast Watchtower," the housecarl said. "It would seem that young Medeborn requests a meeting with you. Alone."
"Does he think I'm stupid, or just naïve?" the Dragonborn replied, and Lydia gave a small smile.
"The messenger asked if you would give him safe conduct to come out of the city to speak with you. Supposedly, he will be alone."
"Hmmm… that is a horse of a different color," Llew replied, and then nodded. "Very well; instruct the messenger that we'll meet at the edge of the moat, an equal distance between the two armies."
"Are you… sure that's wise, my Lord?" the housecarl asked, unwilling to question the orders of her liege outright. "Shall I fetch the Arch-Mage, or perhaps General Tullius to accompany you?"
"No," came the answer. "If he has anything important to ask or offer, I'll deliver the message to a full War Council before I actually agree to anything. As far as my personal safety goes, I'm not especially worried about an Imperial milk-drinker overpowering me or trying to knife me at a parley. Oblivion, part of me wishes the little bastard will try something, just so we can shorten this war."
"As you say, my lord," Lydia bowed with a grin. "I will send the messenger back with your answer."
.
.
.
.
"So," Titus Medeborn stated a few hours later, peering through the thin light yielded by the torches both men held, "You're the northern barbarian to whom father wanted to leave the Emerald Throne."
"And you're the spoiled brat who rules with the subtlety of a Destruction-School Mage," Llewellyn Drgonborn retorted, "and with the delicate political machinations of a two-year-old."
Even in the dim torchlight, Llew could see the Imperial turn an impressive shade of puce, but the younger man apparently swallowed his outrage and said nothing.
"Now, did you want to actually talk, or just trade school-yard insults at each other for the next few minutes?" Llewellyn asked.
The would-be Emperor of Cyrodiil collected himself, and then motioned for Llewellyn to join him across the delicate camp table that had been set up between them. Llewellyn copied him in placing his torch atop the tall pole designed for that purpose and then sat in the opposite folding camp-chair.
"I… regret invading Skyrim," Medeborn began with a sigh.
"I bet you do."
Medeborn glared at the jibe, but doggedly continued, "What I mean to say is… I may have been… hasty in my actions to escalate matters between us."
"Oh, do you think?"
"Fine," the younger man snapped, "I underestimated you, Dragonborn. In my attempts to preserve my father's legacy, I have weakened, it. I admit that, fully and completely. And what's more, I want to work to rectify the problem."
Llewellyn Dragonborn bit back the third smart retort on the end of his tongue and opted to settle back in his chair silently, making a small, dismissive hand motion.
"The Covenant and the Pact can overwhelm the Imperial City's defenses eventually, of that I have no doubt," Medeborn went on, taking the silence as an invitation to continue. "But it won't happen before potentially years of siege, and only after you lose the majority of your army in the attempt. Not to mention the civilians inside the walls. Something tells me you would prefer to save those lives if you could."
Llewellyn again said nothing, except he did bob his head in a silent nod.
"I propose then, to open my gates to you and your army, and publicly swear fealty to you as High King of the Ebonheart Pact. In return, you will allow me to rule the Imperial City in your name. Note," he said, before Llewellyn could interrupt, "I only referenced the Imperial City, not Cyrodiil as a whole. No doubt you've already made promises to your allies."
Llewellyn had gone very still in response to the completely unexpected offer. He sat up a little straighter in his chair, and steepled his fingers in front of him.
"Putting aside exactly how much or little I am willing to trust your word at this point," he stated slowly, "there is still the matter of the murder of the High Priestess of Kynareth, during the… chaotic events immediately following your father's death."
"That is true," admitted the would-be emperor of Cyrodiil. "I have anticipated exactly this issue ahead of time."
A basket was placed on the small table.
"I'm afraid Imperator Moro planned and executed, if you'll pardon the phrase, that part of the plan entirely on his own initiative, and certainly not on my orders."
Titus Medeborn then reached over a gloved hand and opened the basket. Caius Moro's unseeing eyes stared up from his severed head.
"I think you'll find that all of the guilty parties in that unhappy affair have been sufficiently punished."
*SOME TIME LATER*
"I hate literally everything about the situation," Tullius grunted, the old Imperial shifting unhappily in his seat. Llewellyn wasn't sure if he was unhappier at the prospect of leaving Medeborn alive or being robbed of the chance to kill Caius Moro himself. Probably both, he decided.
"I don't trust him as far as I can throw him, Sarai Gellarus stated, the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold stamping her mage's staff on the ground. "And Tala will absolutely reject this plan."
"There is much to recommend taking the city without so much as a single life lost," Councilor Morvayn countered, the Dunmer stroking his red beard with one hand.
"Forgive the obviousness of the question," Kailev-Tel shrugged from his place at the table, "But what's to stop us from accepting his surrender, and then just arresting the whoreson after we've disarmed all of his troops?"
Tullius leaned forward with a grin at that suggestion, but Jarl Balgruuf cut him off before he could say anything.
"Our personal honor," the Jarl of Whiterun retorted, the Nord almost physically recoiling from the idea of going back on an official promise or agreement.
"Honor will be a poor testament to the soldiers we've lost already," the ruler of Black Marsh shot back, and the scorn in his voice was palpable. "Not to mention the soldiers we will lose if, and I do mean 'if' not 'when', Medeborn decides to double-cross us, and we have to fight our way across Cyrodiil again. But ancestors forbid we risk anything as inviolate as 'our sacred honor'. It will be of great comfort to the widows and orphans of the war."
That caused the meeting to devolve into countering roars of disagreement and fresh protests. These continued for about twenty full seconds before the High King's open palm descended on the table's surface like the crack of one of his guard's fire-lances.
"ENOUGH!" he shouted into the almost instant silence. "We will not accept the conditions offered."
Those who had come to their feet during the argument slowly sat back down. No one challenged the Ebonheart Pact's military leader, but a few questioning looks were sent his way.
"First of all," Llewellyn Dragonborn began, "We cannot trust Titus Medeborn to keep his word, or to not break faith with us, the second our backs are turned."
Nods and grunts of agreement went around the room at that.
"Second of all," he continued, "I will not break faith with our Covenant allies. They have broken not one, but two full Imperial armies sent against them, as well as negotiating the defection of the Dominion to our cause. I intend to negotiate with the High Seeker on behalf of our allies in North Valenwood. But that is a problem for later."
The High King of Skyrim and military leader of the Ebonheart Pact looked around the room, making eye contact with each of its occupants. Each of them were friends and allies, and yes, some had been his enemies only a few months ago. He felt a glow of pride as he looked into the eyes of… his son, yes, his son, who had snatched victory from defeat at the Battle of Bruma. Alesan nodded with approval at his adopted father's choice.
"It is a problem that we will address," Llewellyn concluded, after a long moment of silence, "After we take this city."
Author's Note:
Well, everyone: 2020 has been a witch of a year. And a half. I hope this chapter finds you and your families all well and safe. Thanks for the supportive PMs and reviews! You lot are what motivate me to continue writing!
In case no one has told you this today, you are awesome and never let anyone, including yourself, make you feel like anything less.
ROCK ON, my friends!
Tusken1602
Reviewer Responses:
osterreicher97 – Yeah… Cats, man. What are you going to do? *shrugs
tylermech66 – Yeah, that's what I think is missing from most medieval RPGs: the ability to charge somebody in full armor, on the back of an armored horse, and just watch the rag-doll physics take over from there!
Guest – You are absolutely right, Alesan IS a Redguard, according to the game-code. I had to go back and look after reading your review!
Wiwerse – yeah, I'd say the greatest weakness of the Covenant right now is that fact that's it's all centered around the Person of Tala Niwot. She's gonna have to work on securing the line of succession if she wants to hold it all together beyond her own lifetime.
Kaiimei – I mean, WHAT exactly about this story makes you think I don't like happy endings? ;P No, seriously, I'm glad you've liked the Tala/Serana angle, it's something I've had a lot of fun with as well.
Guest – At this point, Lewis and Sarai are BOTH unaware that Miraak is still alive. OR rather, that he is alive AGAIN. And while they're unaware of where the masks are right now, if they ever meet the Covenant leaders, it's going to be pretty obvious to all involved.
DanielK31 – Glad to have you join us! :D
badkidoh, jdboss1, VanillaPuddingCup, Artekha - Thanks so much! Appreciate all your kind words!