(AN: So here we go. This story is going to be another long one, but I feel that it will be adequately long: not too short and not too long [like the first one]. Already I'm looking towards the future [which may or may not see a series set in an alternate universe of Skyrim, with one or more of my non-Eirik alts].)

(For now, however, I will attempt to set up something that is very near and dear to me from Lord of the Rings, which is essential to the plot of this story.)

A Conspiracy Beyond Time

Whiterun was in chaos now. The hold guards, now under Eirik's command, were sent to the battlements to defend the city. Eirik, meanwhile, was not ready to assume a defensive position just yet. He had spent the last sixteen days waiting in Windhelm, and he refused to stop his advance now that it was moving again. On the top of the wall with him now were Aela and Sigrun. Jonna, Lydia, and Mjoll were waiting down by the gate with a handful of the Stormcloaks.

"We have a better chance of withstanding them from behind the walls," Sigrun told her Father.

"I don't want to wait out a siege," Eirik replied. "We've done our fair share of waiting in Windhelm; now is the time for action. If we let them prepare a siege, they'll only have to wait until more reinforcements arrive and then we'll be done for. Aela, what think you? Could we perform a sortie?"

"Likely," she replied. "But you'll be better suited for these matters. I'm not a soldier."

Eirik stroked his beard pensively. "Well, we'll need every shield we have. I can open the attack with the Voice, and once they've scattered, we'll charge in."

Presently, the Imperial force was already approaching the first steps of the causeway: it was rather small, only fifty men. Hold guards of Whiterun hesitated, their hands upon their bows. Their new lord had told them that enemies were coming, but some of them were still undecided, weighing the heavy words they had heard in their hearts. At length, the commander of the Imperial band spoke towards the walls of Whiterun in a loud voice.

"Bring out the rebels! We know that a band of rebels entered into Whiterun just a few hours ago. Bring them out and let us deal with them. If your lord refuses to comply, then we will set fire to your little town of huts."

A murmur echoed from among the guards along the wall. Doubt entered once again into their hearts and minds. There had been rumors that a town had been put to the torch early last year, but few believed such things: they thought that it was merely Stormcloak propaganda. Yet now they were being faced with an enemy who was demanding just that. Some said that the Dragonborn had put forward that same ultimatum, while others challenged those words and said that he was only bluffing.

"And then maybe they're bluffing as well," some suggested.

But Eirik stood up from the walls. "Who are you?"

"I am Legate Quentin Cipius of the Imperial Red Legions," the Imperial commander replied. "Tell Balgruuf to bring out the rebels that he let into the city."

"Balgruuf is not Jarl of Whiterun anymore," Eirik replied. "I, Eirik the Dragonborn, am Jarl of Whiterun."

"Dragonborn?" Quentin asked. "Surrender the rebels that have entered Whiterun, or we will burn it to the ground to get to them."

"Whiterun is free of the Empire, now and forever," Eirik replied. "Leave now or we will fight you now."

"So be it! Whiterun will burn for your defiance!"

Eirik said nothing, but hurried to the marshaling of his sortie. Mjoll, Aela, and Sigrun went with him, along with the small group of Stormcloaks. Each of them had spears and shields, and Aela had her short sword and bow, while Mjoll and Eirik had their great-swords. Eirik gave the command and the gates were opened for them; with a shout of "Sovngarde saraan!", Eirik charged out of the gates and down the causeway: and the sortie followed with him. Once they passed down the still-open drawbridge, Eirik approached the Imperials.

"Fus...Ro Dah!"

Sigrun was blind-sided by how loud and powerful her Father's Thu'um had become. The sheer intensity and the loudness seemed as though it would shatter the earth around them. The blast of unrelenting force pushed into the Legionnaires and they were scattered. With a shield in one hand and a spear in the other, Sigrun shouted and charged into the fray with the others. There were only fourteen of them, almost half their strength, but Eirik's Shout had scattered their enemies' ranks. Now they were throwing themselves upon the Imperials, slaying them one after another. In this sudden, shocking attack, they had lost a fourth of their men before the Imperials regrouped.

Now the sortie gathered together in the shield-wall, with Eirik and Mjoll at the vanguard. Sigrun stood between Nords she had never met before, her fingers gripping tightly to her shield and spear. She wished that Jonna were here, but she hadn't been part of the sortie. Now the Imperials charged them, and they held firm the shield-wall. It did not break, but erupted into a brutal melee. The mail and lamellar armor of the Stormcloaks was greater than the leather armor of the Legion, and so they lost no men and obtained few injuries. One by one, red-garbed Imperial by red-garbed Imperial, the sortie was winning. Sigrun felt invincible next to her brothers in the shield, thrusting her spear over their shields and into the unprotected parts of their lightly-armored foes.

Suddenly there was a profound pain in Sigrun's chest. She feared that she had been hit, though she remembered no spear, blade, or shaft passing through the shield-wall. She grit her teeth and looked up, but she had fallen behind the shield-wall. Those nearest her kept their shields up and started closing the gap she had left; picking up her shield and spear, she charged back into their number, shouting against the pain and thrusting her spear into the nearest Imperial.

The battle was soon over. Eirik ordered that all Nords of the Legion were to be stripped of their weapons but not slain. These he permitted to leave to homes, even to return to their own garrisons. This met with mixed reactions from the Stormcloaks; some saw them as puppets of the Empire, sell-outs, and so deserved no mercy, while yet others commended Eirik for sparing their brothers and sisters, their kinfolk of the Fatherland. All others were slain and their bodies despoiled. But through all of this, Sigrun was very concerned. For one thing, the pain did not cease as it had done before, but instead it remained in her chest. She asked for leave and went off to a secluded place behind a wooden tower and, as quickly as she could, removed the belt, lamellar surcoat, and hauberk of chains. Once these were off, she pulled open her tunic and examined her stomach.

Not a wound or sign of injury could be seen upon her body.

After the battle, Eirik returned to the city of Whiterun with his small band of soldiers behind him: Sigrun had covered herself back up and fallen in line at the rear. The city was looking with trepidation and uncertainty at the man who was now to be their new leader. Olfrid Battle-Born loudly cursed him and publicly declared that he and his entire family were to be leaving Whiterun.

"We take no responsibility for our actions," he clarified. "Let it stand that this godless heathen has driven us out, by reason of his intimated threats against my family, both he and his band of murderers and rapists. All the suffering that my family will endure, and that all of you will endure by lack of the commerce and industry provided by the great Clan Battle-Born, is the fault of no one else but this thug!"

But not all those who spoke were angry. Some were more or less indifferent: mostly the shopkeepers, who had less to lose by being impartial. But there were some who were indeed pleased with the change of leadership. Clan Gray-Mane were most ecstatic, and Vignar Gray-Mane, the patriarch of the family, followed Eirik on his way through the Plains District. Chief among those who sang Eirik's praises the loudest was Heimskr. All the way from the middle of the Plains District to the steps of Dragonsreach, he followed Eirik and cried in a loud voice:

"Praise Talos, people of Whiterun! Behold, our deliverer has come! The one who's breath brings victory! We are unworthy to bask in his glory, and yet he deigns to grace us with his presence and his prestige!"

This and other such things he said, but Eirik was not concerned with this talk. In fact, now that the first blow had been struck and the Empire's retaliation blunted, he was feeling even more desirous to be about the next stage of his great task.

To Dragonsreach he went, along with the Stormcloaks and Clan Gray-Mane. There was much feasting in the hall that evening, for the soldiers had come long and were weary. But as for Eirik, he stayed with Vignar and talked about battle-plans and what would happen next for Whiterun: Sigrun sat at her Father's side and listened intently to what was going on. It surprised her to learn that Eirik would not be settling down here, as she had heard before. Instead, he would be leaving Vignar Gray-Mane in charge of Whiterun for him as he went ahead with the war.

"Will you not spread yourself too thin?" asked Vignar. "Moving so swiftly will mean our forces won't be able to secure the holds."

"I'm here to end the war," Eirik said. "When the people of Skyrim see that I have won them the war, they will believe that we can be independent. And the Empire will be forced to make a choice: to recognize their own impotence and make pacts with Skyrim and Hammerfell to stand together against the Dominion, or continue to sue for peace with the enemy of man and hope that the Dominion kills them last. But there is another reason for acting swiftly."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"The eradication of the Thalmor," Eirik replied. "The longer we wait, the more time they will have to act. And if we prevail, moving slowly will give them time to erase all trace of their deeds. They must be brought to light, so that the people of Skyrim will see what the Empire has suffered upon us. Now then, how soon can you take command of the city?"

"Very soon," said Vignar. "Things may be rocky at first, but with a handful of Stormcloaks at my call, I'll be able to keep things in order."

"A handful?" Eirik asked. "That's troubling. We came with a small force, not enough for a garrison. We cannot wait for more forces to arrive, or else our assault will be blunted."

"Then blunted it must be," said Vignar. "Better to wait and secure what we've taken than go in haste and lose all behind us."

"No no," Eirik said, shaking his head. "I judge that the time to strike is now."

"Then you must go with fewer men," Vignar replied. "It cannot be helped."

Eirik sighed, rubbed his temples, then spoke again. "Very well. My men will remain here, but we will have to deal with Falkreath and Hjaalmarch first before moving onto Markarth...and Solitude. Our blow will be halted, and I fear the Empire will have time to regroup and strengthen their defense." He turned to Sigrun. "I need your help."

"My help?" she asked.

"I was made Thane of Falkreath by Jarl Siddgeir," Eirik said. "Perhaps my recent victories can cow him into submission. Can you ride north to the succor of the forces in the Pale? We must have Morthal taken swiftly, to make up for time lost as we wait for reinforcements to arrive here and build up strength for the assault on Markarth."

"Of course," she replied. "Don't worry about me. I'll make sure all goes well."

Eirik smiled, then turned back to Vignar. "Today is the twelfth day of Sun's Dawn. I'll send messages to Windhelm about reinforcements. But I fear we won't see any additional men for some ten days. The main strokes are here, and in the north and south. We will return with victory in ten days, or else we will not return at all. In the meantime, I want you to keep any messages or visitors I might receive. I'm expecting Rayya the Bright to return from her hunt some time ago. Also I need you to investigate the Reach: find out what the Forsworn are doing, which roads are open for us, and if the Jarl of Markarth is willing to negotiate."

"You can count on me, Dragonborn," Vignar said, nodding his head.

"Ten days?" Sigrun asked. "That's not a lot of time. A siege may take ten days."

"There won't be a siege in Hjaalmarch," Eirik said. "I've been to Morthal before. If you can take the road that runs north of Labyrinthian from the Imperials, you can approach Morthal from the south: the city has no walls, since the swamp is its barrier. There will be no need for a siege."

"So how do I begin?" she asked.

"I sent Erik, Serana, and your giantess friend to the Stormcloak camp on the shores of Lake Yorgrim. They have orders to take Fort Dunstad about this time. If they've succeeded, you'll find them there. Just head north on the road out of Whiterun, past Korvanjund on the right, and follow the road into the snow till it forks. Then..."

"I've been to Fort Dunstad before," Sigrun said, a wiry smile upon her face. She was now going back to the place where she had left her old journey to begin this one.

"Good," Eirik said. "Then you'll have no need for me to tell you of the dangers that way."

"No, I...I won't," Sigrun abashedly replied. "But, if I may make one request, can Jonna accompany me?"

"She may go with you," Eirik said. "And keep her well. She's been invaluable to the planning of our campaign."

"I will," Sigrun answered. She seemed a bit stung by this fact, that her sister was getting between her and her Father. She felt the desire to have her away from him, almost to punish her for her reaction to her revelation. But then it dawned on her: if Jonna had been this useful to the war effort, wouldn't taking her away from Father be an act of sabotage? It would be self-sabotage at that, for it was her plan to see this war through to its conclusion with a Stormcloak victory.

After excusing herself, Sigrun went in search of Jonna. She found her on the Dragonsreach Porch, in a heated argument with the Dunmer huscarl Irileth. Their conversation seemed to be about the gods, which drew Sigrun's attention.

"I've heard the voice of Kyne and seen her power at work," Jonna said.

"Hmph!" sneered the Dunmer. "What you've seen and heard were nothing more than the natural way of the common wind. So tell me, little child, how does it feel to know that you worship dead gods? That your prayers will go unanswered? That you cry for their help in an hour of duress and that no help will ever come?"

"You lie!" Jonna retorted. "And if it weren't for the Dragonborn's word, I'd fight you here and now!"

"Ah, always held back by this and that," scoffed Irileth. "Just the way your priests carry on about your dead gods whenever they don't answer your prayers. You are pathetic and weak, bound to the honor of a brigand who plays on the fantasies of the ignorant, the hopes of a dying bastard race. You will see, when the Empire comes in its full strength, to drive you rebels into the hills, and you face death at the last. Where will your gods be then? Where will your Dragonborn nonsense be then?"

"Nonsense?" Jonna interjected. "Nonsense?! I've seen what he can do. Have you?"

"B*tch please, I was there from the beginning," Irileth retorted. "The stoutness of Whiterun's guards slew that dragon, not the thug you've whored yourself out to."

"What did you say?" Sigrun interjected, standing before Irileth. "What did you call her?"

"You heard me right," Irileth retorted. "Or perhaps you need me to say it slower? After all, your kind are especially dim-witted. Little better than Orcs, so they say."

"You say that our gods are dead and that you don't believe in the Dragonborn," Sigrun said. "But that 'thug' you so easily deride saved your city time and time again. I saw the breath of Kyne breath new life onto the isle of Solstheim. What do you say to that?"

"Tch!" dismissed Irileth. "The hardiness of good Morrowind soil."

"Solstheim wasn't a part of Morrowind."

"It is now, and as such lies under the watchful blessing of the true gods, the only gods that actually live and walk among us: the New Tribunal."

"The Tribunal?" Sigrun laughed. "Weren't they all slain two hundred years ago?"

"Why you impudent little b*tch!" Irileth sneered.

"You have no problem mocking my ancestors' gods, but you take offense to the truth?"

"The Tribunal are gods, and what is divine can never die! You will all see: the Dunmer gods are alive, and your human gods are dead. Soon we will triumph against you, as we did in times of old!"

"And how do you plan on doing that," Jonna asked. "When Athal Sarys is dead and your people are being driven out of Skyrim?"

Irileth put her hand to her sword-haft, but suddenly the voice of Balgruuf called her to the far side of the Porch: they needed her help with packing their supplies for their departure. The Dunmer scowled and walked over to the departing ones, muttering curses upon them in the tongue of the Dunmer: the language of the Daedra.

"What was that about?" Sigrun asked.

"I came out for some fresh air," Jonna said. "I've been cooped up in Windhelm for too long and miss the open air, free of the smell of the sea. They were hauling ass to get their things together for their departure. I said, 'Kyne's breath has come to Whiterun', and that Dunmer huscarl practically leaped down my throat, telling me that I was wrong to trust in 'dead gods' or something."

"Elves," Sigrun said, rolling her eyes. "I've had just about enough of them for one lifetime. You know, they put us in prison when we were on Solstheim."

"Yes, I know," Jonna replied. "You told me, remember?"

"Yes, I did," Sigrun nodded. "And how did you get Da to drive the Dunmer out of Windhelm?"

"That's quite a long story," Jonna replied. "Maybe I'll tell it to you later."

"You can tell it to me on the way north," Sigrun said, a smile on her face. "We're going to the Pale, just like we planned before."

"Hmm? Oh yes, before." Jonna nodded. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow," Sigrun replied. "By the way, what do you think about this armor?"

"It's rather nice," Jonna stated. "You know, it was my design. Um, I'd really love to talk about everything that's gone on between us, but like you said, we can talk on the way north. I'm going to the Jarl's private courier. Hopefully I can find something useful to us before the Jarl's lapdogs burn it."

Sigrun went back to the main hall, while Jonna went to the top story of the Dragonsreach Porch. Up here she found the aviary, where messenger ravens were kept. At the top of the aviary was a lone pigeon with a little writ tied to its leg. As she approached, the bird cooed at her and gently pecked her her hand as she reached down. Rather than pull away, she held her right hand out and let the little bird leap into it. With her left hand she removed the writ and held it in her hand. After feeding the bird, she placed it back on the cage and then turned her attention to the scroll. Inside was a small message written in a tiny but legible script.

To Eirik the Dragonborn,

The Legion is preparing Solitude for your arrival. Dragon Bridge has been fortified against ground assault, and Servius Crixus is arming the walls of the city for an attack from the air. I ask that you do all that you can to prevent the deaths of more of Skyrim's sons and daughters, even if it means a truce with General Tullius.

Talos guard you,

Legate Rikke.

Jonna gasped when she heard this. It seemed now that the tides of fate were turning against them. How could they hope to take Solitude, especially if Eirik was moving so swiftly? But if they waited to gather more men, then they could not defeat the Empire. Solitude was built in such a way that the only approach possible was from the main road. But then another thought came into her mind. She turned to the pigeon.

"Come here, little one," she said. "I have a message for you to send back to Solitude."

Night passed in Whiterun without incident. Balgruuf and the Battle-Borns left as loudly and dishonorably as they had intended. Aela went back to Jorrvaskr to flyte with the Companions and upbraid them about their behavior. The rest of them slept in Dragonsreach around the great fire-pit. Sometime after everyone went to sleep, Jonna made her creeping way down from the Porch into the great hall. Here she went in search of Sigrun and lay down next to her. She was not angry with Sigrun, despite what she had done: she was the older of the two women and felt some obligation to protect Sigrun, despite being shorter than her. All things considered, she hoped that Sigrun would come to forgive her. She hated how often they had been apart - three times already: and now she wanted to share with her, when they were awake, how she had fared with Eirik and the Stormcloaks.

But there was another reason she sought Sigrun out. Sigurn had not been as careful at hiding what was going on with her as she had thought: the vacant stares, forgetting whole moments off-hand, and then there was both Whiterun and the incident at Fort Dunstad. Jonna guessed that something was wrong with Sigrun: and when she told about why she had slept with Erik, Jonna's fears were now justified. Jonna dared to hope that Sigrun wouldn't go so far as to hurt herself or someone else just to make whatever was happening to her go away. She hoped now that she might discover something that might be the matter, and see if there was anything she could do to help her.

All that night, there was not a single sign of any malady upon Sigrun. The fire died down and Jonna left to put a few cords of wood upon the blaze to keep it going. Balgruuf had taken his servants with him when he left, and therefore there was none to do the work of the Stormcloaks but they themselves: though Whiterun was not Windhelm, even so high up on the tundra there was more than a nip in the air. When she returned to Sigrun's side, Jonna was growing drowsy: her limbs felt heavy as lead, her eyelids even heavier, and she yawned so widely that she could have fit her whole fist inside her mouth. The last thing her eyes saw was Sigrun's brown head rolling onto her lap. Jonna smiled, then inclined her head onto her shoulder, and shut her eyes.

Jonna was jolted awake. Sigrun was convulsing on the floor, her head still on her lap and her hands gripped tightly to Jonna's body. She heard her mutter words under her breath, though she knew not to whom they were meant as she spoke no names. Something was certainly wrong.

"N-No, I didn't! I...didn't mean to. It's not fair. I want to li...no! St-Stop looking at me!"

Jonna shook Sigrun awake with a gentle nudge of her hand upon the younger one's head. Like a dreamer shaken out of the land of Vaermina, she moaned and unceremoniously rolled her face into Jonna's hand. Jonna stifled a look of disgust from her face as she felt hot drool on her hand. Sigrun was in distress, and Jonna cared not for her condition: her sister needed her help.

"Sig, it's okay," she muttered. "It's alright. I'm here."

"Wha...?" Sigrun asked. "What happened?"

"It was just a dream," Jonna replied.

Sigrun mumbled something, incoherently attempting to describe her dream. But Jonna merely kissed the top of Sigrun's head.

"It's alright," she said. "Go back to sleep."

Sigrun let out a sigh, then her head drifted back into Jonna's lap. Jonna sighed, but said nothing. Whatever Sigrun was going through, she had to be there for her whether she understood it or not. That was her first instinct, though not her first mission. For her, she knew that saving Skyrim was tantamount, but she also had her own future to worry about. Her birthday was the 21st day of Sun's Dawn: only eight days away from now, if this was the morning of the thirteenth, as she rightly guessed. Her mind suddenly dispersed all such thoughts when she went to wipe Sigrun's drool off her hand, only to realize that it wasn't drool.

It was blood.

When Sigrun and Jonna awoke, the thirteenth day of Sun's Dawn was already well underway. Eirik's voice could be heard outside Dragonsreach Hall, as he addressed the people from the bottom steps of the Cloud District. Jonna had no time to ask Sigrun about the blood, for they were being hurried away on their next assignment. Faster than they could catch their own breaths, they were given food for the journey and told to head off north even as Eirik was declaring an end to the Marukhi doctrine of 'guilty until proven innocent.' Even as they were off southward to the stables, Sigrun looked back towards the Cloud District, towards the sound of her Father's voice. She thought she could see a small cloud hovering somewhere in the clear sky directly above Dragonsreach. Or was it above him instead?

Immediately they mounted up onto horses that were prepared for them and started off northward at a trotting pace. The morning was growing old, but they wished now to talk among themselves. Jonna asked again about Sigrun's voyage to Solstheim, though telling her to leave silent what happened between Erik and she: Sigrun was more than happy to oblige. Once she had finished, Sigrun asked Jonna about what had happened. She told her what she knew, both about the Butcher and what little Eirik had told about what happened at Valtheim.

"Ever since then," Jonna said. "He's been acting very strange. He seems to be, I don't know, more focused. Like he's afraid something's going to happen if he doesn't end the war today."

"Do you think we're going too fast?" Sigrun asked.

"Maybe not fast enough," Jonna replied.

"If he had dragons with him," Sigrun said. "Then maybe he wouldn't have to worry about anything happening."

"He wouldn't," Jonna replied. "He has no desire to be a tyrant."

Sigrun sighed. "Then we'll have to win this war quickly."

Jonna said nothing. The letter she had intercepted seemed to prove that such a cheap way to victory was now sealed. The stories that Eirik had told them growing up mentioned how Servius Crixus had also managed to slay dragons himself: slay them permanently, the way a Dragonborn could. She feared that such a one could prove disastrous, especially if Eirik changed his mind and flew a dragon into Solitude. Into her mind another thought began, which she hoped to act upon sometime soon, especially if they were to be taking Morthal within the next ten days.

They rode on swiftly, following the road as it went first east, and then turned about northward along the western banks of the White River. Slowly but surely they passed beyond the massive shadow of the Throat of the World, standing like a guardian tower over the land of the Sky's children, and left Whiterun on its lofty, lonely hill behind them. The hills and golden plains of the tundra of Whiterun rolled around them as they followed the main road. They passed Whitewatch Tower on their left, the northernmost guard-post of the hold of Whiterun before the snows of the Pale devoured the amber tundra. Before them the road ran straight for a good mile before turning right around an outcrop of stone that jutted forth from the golden grass. The two women made their way thither, singing at the top of their voices. Neither of them were very good at singing, but they were feeling cheerful with the high sun above their heads, a westward-blowing wind sending their hair - golden and brown - rippling like banners in the wild, and a good journey ahead of them, that they cared not who heard them or if they were off-pitch.

Suddenly Jonna's singing halted. Before them they could see, just at the bend of the road, several figures walking out from behind the rocks. They now stood in the road, hands on their weapons. Highwaymen, like as not. Jonna gripped her spear and Sigrun her sword, as they now brought their horses to a halt. The bandits were now coming in closer: Jonna could see two of them who seemed to be their leaders. One was an Argonian with green-scales, but the other was a Nord: less than average height, with little in the way of muscle but a handful of pudge on her hips and face: her head was almost completely shaven bald, save for a handful of black locks on the top of her head that were tied back. Jonna recognized this woman, and a fierce fire built up within her: that was Anita Black-Lock, the sewer of discord, the one who had deceived - nay, seduced - Lucia with her lies and convinced her to renounce Eirik and Mjoll and run off into the wild. Sigrun may have been too young to remember her, but Jonna knew her. She had even walked in on her and Lucia in their private hours.

Sigrun, on the other hand, couldn't keep her eyes off the Argonian. Her lips quivered with fear, and her knuckles glazed white as she gripped tightly to her sword-haft. She had seen that face in her dreams many times over. Now to see it in the waking world, it filled her heart with dread.

"Clear the road!" Jonna shouted in challenge to the bandits. "Or are you all blind as well as stupid? We're heavily armed."

"You're also outnumbered!" Anita returned. "There's only two of you and fifteen of us."

"I've had worse odds," said Jonna with a grin. "You'll get nothing from us but the tips of our spears."

"We're not after your money," said Anita. "You see, we're the defenders of this land. We hunt rebel scum. And we can see the shields on your horses' saddles: you bear the badges of the chief traitor Ulfric Stormcloak. So we've got a problem...as long as you're alive."

"Is that it?" Jonna challenged with a laugh. "Well, you'll soon be seeing quite a few more of us around Whiterun. This land has been liberated from the Empire. You'll not be very welcome in these parts."

"We have powerful friends," Anita replied. "We're untouchable."

"A group of bandits untouchable?" Jonna asked.

"What's wrong with your friend?" hissed the Argonian. "She doesn't seem to be very pleased to see me." He hissed at her and flashed a mocking smile. Sigrun shuddered in revulsion, which sent the bandits into peels of laughter.

"There's...something familiar about her," the Argonian muttered.

"We'll figure that out after we've had our way with them, Tavris," Anita said. "Give the order."

"Hyah!" Jonna shouted, digging her feet into the flanks of her horse. The horse charged the ranks of the bandits. Most of them broke rank and scattered, going this way and that. She turned the horse around and came around to give them another round, when she saw Sigrun sitting in her stirrups, stunned and immobile.

"Sig, do something!" Jonna shouted, as she turned her horse towards one of the fleeing bandits, driving her spear into his back and digging her feet into the stirrups. But Sigrun remained still. No sooner had she struck down the one bandit, but Jonna thrust out her spear and brought her horse around to the succor of her companion, scattering those who had attempted to pull her off her horse. One broke and rolled to the right while Jonna bore down upon the second, pounding him with her horse's hooves. Turning about, she saw that Sigrun's horse hadn't moved, and she was still looking this way and that, fear in her amber eyes. Something more was wrong: perhaps she was in the midst of another vision and couldn't act? She had to do something.

"Kyne, save her!" Jonna muttered beneath her breath.

No sooner had the words passed from Jonna's lips, but a cloud passed over the sun. A wind blew through Jonna's golden locks and a sound of thunder echoed far in the sky southward; in the general direction of the Throat of the World. A hawk soared overhead high above, following the gathering clouds like a storm-crow, screeching loudly. The sound jolted Sigrun out of whatever stupor she was in, and now she roared in wrath, spurring her horse onward and drawing her sword as she glared at the Argonian. The two of them now circled around the scattering bandits, hacking and stabbing with sword and spear. Meanwhile the storm raged around them furiously: for the bandits, the wind howled and blasted them about, and flashes of light exploded here and there, filling their hearts with fright and sending a madness into their hearts, sending the retreat into a rout. But for the women, they felt the wind in their hair, drops of rain on their cheeks, as the hooves of their horses beat upon the ground like the hammer upon the anvil, sending sparks in their wake.

One by one, the bandits were cut down in droves. Fifteen became ten, and then seven, and now five. The last three were now running northward, heedless of their losses and eager only to get away with their lives. Jonna heaved her spear like a lance and skewered the third bandit in the back. Only Anita Black-Lock and Tavris the Argonian were now left. The two galloped after them, Jonna now drawing her axe in exchange of her spear. Coming up behind Anita, she swung her axe at her back: the blow missed her neck, but struck her hard enough to bear her down to the ground. Sigrun, meanwhile, overtook Tavris and trampled him under her horse's hooves. The storm subsided, and the two women now checked their horses and dismounted. Jonna came to Anita, her axe in hand, and Sigrun bringing up the rear; she thought that she had quite trampled the Argonian to death.

"Here she is," Jonna said to Sigrun, as they approached fallen Anita. "You may not recognize this one, but I remember her."

"Recognize?" Sigrun asked.

Anita rolled over, groaning as her back ached from Jonna's blow.

"Yes," Jonna nodded. "This is Anita Black-Lock. Does that name ring any bell to you?"

"Yes, it does," Sigrun said, as a revolting memory of Lucia's affection with a rotting corpse came to mind. "And I curse the day she ever laid eyes on Lucia."

At this, Anita noticed that she was at the mercy of two women and all of her bandits were slain. Weakly she held up a hand and spoke to them. "Please spare me!"

"Spare you?" Sigrun asked.

"Yes, spare me," Anita begged. "We're women, yes? We need to stick together, band together, fight together. It's men who are the real villains."

"Is that a fact?" Sigrun asked. She pointed with her sword at the bodies around them. "And who are these, then? These who fought and died for you. They don't look like women to me."

"I use men, the way women have been used by men through the ages," Anita replied. "They fight and die for me, and I get the gold."

"You sounded like you were waiting on orders from the Argonian," Sigrun stated.

"He's an ally," Anita snapped. "Been one for years. You wouldn't understand it."

"What wouldn't I understand?" Sigrun asked. "I'm a woman, aren't I?"

"Yes, yes, you are," Anita replied. "But you're also woefully attached to men. I can see it in your eyes; that's why you can't understand what we do. But you could...in time."

"Is that right?" Sigrun asked. There was something in Anita's words that filled Sigrun with disgust. She noticed that Anita was looking up at her with a ravenous hunger: the way that Bjorn or Jonna would look at a cooked piece of boar meat on the spit before dinner. She scowled and tightened her grip on her sword.

"Yes, yes," Anita said, nodding eagerly. "Two such fine...strong women such as yourselves would be very nice indeed: very lovely. Just get me on my feet and we'll have more good things to say to each other, hmm? Fine things, good things."

"What things?" Sigrun asked. "You were going to rob us."

"We don't rob from women," said Anita.

"You liar!" Jonna retorted. "You were begging your Argonian friend to have at us!"

"He was under orders," Anita returned. "He hates Stormcloaks, he wanted to attack you. I had no inclinations of the sort."

"You really think we'll buy your lies, even though you say them again?" Sigrun asked.

"It's the men who are the evil ones!" Anita roared.

"Is that so?" Sigrun asked. "And how many times have you told those words to broken women, to young, impressionable young girls, and broken families with your lies?"

"Families deserve to be broken," Anita hissed. "A man has no right to ruin a woman's body for his own ends."

"Deserve it!" Sigrun shouted, looking quite angry now. With that, she drove her sword into Anita's thigh so forcefully that the blade dove into the turf. Sigrun looked about, her hands held out at her sides and open, looking for something less sharp to strike down Anita with. Her thoughts were towards Lucia and the Sisters of Strife: she had been with them and had deceived many of them. This woman had corrupted her stepsister Lucia and broken her family. A quick and clean death was too good for her. At last she found a mace with a steel head: taking it in her hand she ran back towards where Anita was pinned. Jonna realized what was going to happen next and stepped back out of the way.

"You'll never destroy another family ever again!" Sigrun cried as she swung the mace down onto Anita's head as hard as she could. One blow after another she rained down, until there was nothing left save for a bloody mess. The mace dropped from Sigrun's bloody hands, which were trembling heavily: striking hard bone repeatedly had given her hands a violent tremor. Her hands and face were splattered in blood, and her chest was heaving. She had quite made an end of Anita Black-Lock, though now she was feeling awfully tired.

At that moment, the storm broke upon them. A rain, neither heavy nor light, fell upon them. Sigrun gasped and stood still, feeling as renewed with the rain pouring down upon her, washing away the blood, as she had been on the shores of Lake Ilinalta. Jonna also welcomed the rain, though she was not so shaken by Anita's death. Something looked to be moving among the bodies. Drawing out Sigrun's sword, she ran towards the shape and stood over it, blade drawn.

"Sig!" she called out. "This one still lives."

Sigrun was stirred from her euphoric haze and jogged over to where Jonna stood and gaped in horror. The one she was standing over was the Argonian Tavris.

"You!" she hissed, taking her sword from Jonna and pressing it against the Argonian's throat. "Who are you? What do you want? Why do you want to kill me?"

"I don't know you," rasped the Argonian. "And what I want is the answer to your third question: to kill the false Dragonborn Eirik."

"Why?" Sigrun asked.

"He stole my wife," the Argonian replied. "It is my duty to kill him and save her from the spell he cast upon her to ensnare her heart and steal it away from me."

Sigrun didn't buy his words. "You're a liar. You've been haunting my dreams for weeks, always taunting me: daring me, threatening to kill me."

"I've never seen you anywhere in my life," the Argonian said. "But I'd certainly not want to, especially if you're a Stormcloak. Your kind are wicked, malcontent, war-mongering savages making things bad for the Empire, ruining their plans."

"Plans?" Sigrun asked. "What plans?"

"The Empire's plans to rebuild their strength," the Argonian replied. "Not that I care much, anyway. My allegiances lie with the Hist, and with the High Justicar."

"High Justicar?" Sigrun asked.

"Yes," the Argonian nodded. "An old friend of mine. He hates the Stormcloaks, and so do I. It was he who told me to intercept the Stormcloaks here."

"Really?" asked Sigrun. "And what's the name of this High Justicar?"

"Thelgil," was the response.

Sigrun and Jonna turned to each other in horror. Into their mind now came the words of the now lost letter from Bjorn. They had failed yet again, and if Eirik's stories were indeed true, this might have been the worst calamity yet.

"You ally yourself with an enemy of all life!" Sigrun retorted.

"Maybe to your kind, snow-back," hissed the Argonian. "We care nothing for the petty squabbles of elves and men...save for one type of elf. But that's why the true Dragonborn is come: to kill the Stormcloaks, wild Nords, and dark elves, and save the world from all woes."

"Wait..." Sigrun asked, a laugh creeping up her throat. "You think that you're the Dragonborn?"

"Yes I am," replied the Argonian.

Sigrun burst into laughter. "If you're the Dragonborn, Shout at me right now. Destroy the evil Stormcloak b*tch!"

The Argonian scowled. "Your horse crushed my stomach when you ran me over. Foul creatures, worth nothing more than the meat on their wretched bones."

"You can't, can you?"

"I can!"

"Then do it!"

The Argonian hissed. "I'm not your singing puppet, and I won't perform for you, as though I were your boat-loader!"

"You can't!" Sigrun returned, and laughed. The Argonian hissed at her again, but did not Shout. Sigrun then turned back to Jonna. "What should we do with this upstart charlatan? I say kill him: charlatans deserve to die before they cause any further mischief."

"I'm not so sure," Jonna replied. "This lizard knows more than he lets on. I want to find out how he came to know Thelgil. Let's bind him and take him with us. Once we're done with him, we'll do what we wish with him."

"Cruel snow-backs," hissed the Argonian. Sigrun, still fearing the glare of his yellow eyes, struck his head with her pommel and sent him back to the ground.

But their battle hadn't been unseen. Not too far away, eyes from a certain cave had noticed the battle and came out to see what was afoot. Only one strode out from the cave and now walked into the field of battle: a figure clad in a blue-gray hood and cloak wrapped tightly about its body. The storm that gathered in the sky above filled the hooded figure with fear, and she came not close to the two women nor spoke a word to them. Instead, she knelt down at the body of Anita Black-Lock and touched her shoulders. She that was lying dead was the only Nord whom the three witches considered anything close to a 'friend', if not more than that. She was known intimately by each of them, and had been part of their conspiracy.

"I'm so sorry, Nita," Tiraa Vilenis' voice whispered softly from beneath her hood.

But she now disappeared back to her cave with Arvela: a scowl was upon her face. The last time she had seen Anita, she was in a private conversation that she had overheard between her and Arvela. Many things were spoken between them that Tiraa did not at the time understand. But from what she had gathered, Arvela had received a message from 'herself from the future' who advised her and gave her the book which was now their study. There was something now going afoot which even Tiraa was not supposed to be privy to. Yet again into Tiraa's mind came other whispers, things half-spoken which now came to mind. At last, however, she discerned the awful truth, a truth which she wondered if even Sedris had been oblivious to when she went to her death.

There was never going to be a return of the Tribunal's power, divinity shared equally between the three women apotheosized. Divinity and ultimate power would only be held by one of them, and Tiraa was certain now that Arvela had been playing both of them since the beginning. It angered and saddened her to think such a thought, but there it was: Arvela had let one lover die in her pursuit of divinity and was ready to sacrifice yet another. Tiraa realized now that she was nothing more than an accessory, a tool, a step for another to achieve apotheosis while she was denied it. Tiraa frowned and paused, unwilling to go back. Now that she knew the truth, there was no need to go back to Arvela the arch-traitor. Instead, now it was time for Tiraa Vilenis to leave her erstwhile lover and betrayer and take matters into her own hands. Whether these women were indeed from the future or not, it was not for Sedris Ulver, Arvela, or even Anita Black-Lock to solve: none of them had solved the riddle of The Voyage of the Red Dog by Servius Crixus. Only she, Tiraa Vilenis, She-Who-Walks-Both-Ways, the future friend of the false Emperor, and soon-to-be mantler of Seht the Clockwork god.

"Yes," she said. "It is time."

(AN: Quite a bit happening in this chapter: originally it was going to be much longer, but I was running out of energy [and the desire to give up writing was getting very strong], so I stopped it where it was. Also someone will be bound to tell me that I got Jonna's birthday wrong: if I have, let me know and I'll adjust it.)

(My thoughts for this story have mostly been towards the endgame, as well as what will happen sooner or later [but I won't say what it is, only that it involves Markarth]. Unfortunately, I did have to bring the Anita/Lucia/Tavris story to a close, which I ended up doing in this chapter instead of what I had planned instead.)