(AN: I mentioned Og several chapters back in one of my author's notes, and it's interesting to note that there's an invocation to Og found on an inscription at Byblos in Lebanon, as well as many dolems - giant stone tables/tombs - in the region of Bashan, where Og lived and ruled. When I heard this, I envisioned in my head the idea that ancient giants were worshiped as gods [see also the Greeks identifying Japheth as the brother of Cronus and the father of many notable Titans, among them Prometheus]. So I had the idea that the ice titans, or the "ancient giants" as Talvi calls them [which is a reference to Elder Scrolls Legends] were revered by their "shorter" descendants.)

(That's the back-story of the significance of the head, which you shall see in this chapter.)

Dunstad and Its Aftermath

When Sigrun opened her eyes again, it was evening. A warm fire was lit somewhere, and her friends were about her. Erik was warming his hands by the fire, while Jonna sat next to her. Talvi, on the other hand, was using the broken shard of a sword to whittle down a mammoth's tusk: next to her was the severed head of the monster they had slain.

"What happened?" she asked. "Where am I? What time is it?"

"Hey, relax," Jonna said, laying a hand on Sigrun's shoulder. "Take a breath; it's alright. You lost quite a lot of blood there. Erik went to the camp and tried to get help, but they've already made the march west. Healing will have to wait until we take Fort Dunstad."

"What time is it?" Sigrun asked. She felt tired, but not as weak and lethargic as before. The pain had returned.

"Almost night," Jonna replied. "The day hasn't passed yet. We're going to have to camp in for the night until you're well enough to travel."

"I can travel," Sigrun protested. "We'll be just...just fine..."

"What is it, Sig?" Jonna asked. "Another vision?"

"I...I think so," she said. "Something's happening. I don't know what, but it...it feels like victory is slipping out of our grasp."

"Don't say that," Jonna returned. "We're going to win this, yeah? We took Riften and Whiterun with little difficulty. Once we take Fort Dunstad, it'll be a short walk to Morthal."

"A short walk through giants," Sigrun muttered.

"That's why I have this," Talvi interjected, patting the severed head. "The ancients were revered by my people; they were our gods, before we knew of the All-Maker and His benevolence. When I present this head to them, they'll be willing to help us."

"You...you seem so calm about this," Sigrun noted. "So sure of your success."

"After slaying an ancient," Talvi said. "There's little else that can frighten me."

"That's good to hear," Sigrun smiled. "But what if they won't help us?"

"Then," Talvi replied. "They will know not to do battle with us and hide in their camps in fear."

Sigrun then noticed the hilt that Talvi was using to whittle the bone, and started feeling around on her hips. "Where's my sword?"

"Sig," Jonna sighed, a sorry look on her face. "I...I don't know how to say this. When the monster fell, it...well, it fell on your sword and broke it."

"Broken?" Sigrun asked. "So what am I going to use as a weapon?"

"We still have our spears," Jonna noted. "That should be enough."

Sigrun nodded, though she went silent now. She did not speak of the visions she saw when sleep overcame her. The Emperor from her time was in prison, and a figure that filled her full of fright had given him the keys to freedom. Some mischief was waiting for them in Solitude, and every hour lost only played into his hands. But there were some things that appeared in the visions that didn't make any sense to her: of a surety, the voices of accusation and mockery were still there, but there were other things as well. A great white hawk passed nine times over her head, and each time it uttered a word that Sigrun had never heard before: a name.

Bjornvik.

Darkness fell upon the little snow-clad vale. The fire was dim, and the shadows danced long about it. Sigrun tried her best not to sleep, for she feared to be accosted once again by the visions. Looking around, she saw that Jonna and Erik were on either side of her, each wrapped in a cloak and sleeping soundly. Talvi had left some time ago to parley with the giants, and the distant rasps and moans of their guttural speech echoed through the forests. It chilled Sigrun to the bone, but she dared not move from her place.

Into this darkness and gloom, the sound of a hawk screeching high above the trees was heard. Sigrun looked up and, to her amazement, saw the white hawk circling down towards the camp. It alighted on a patch of frozen ground, where the snow had been driven away by the constant walking back and forth of Erik and Jonna to build the fire while Sigrun had slept. Then, to Sigrun's amazement, the hawk seemed to grow in size, becoming larger and larger. It rose up and stood to man-height and Jonna gasped. Before her stood a woman, about her age, with long blonde hair tied in four braided plaits; two fell down across her breasts and the other rested upon her back. The woman was clad in a hauberk of leather and steel rings, very reminiscent of that often worn by Father's companion Aela the Huntress. In her hand was a spear, and from her back sprang two great hawk wings of enormous size: each of them as long from shoulder to tip as she was tall.

The woman looked at Sigrun, and when she did, Sigrun gasped. The face was difficult to discern: at once it was strong and assertive, while at the same time there was a hint of gentleness in the face. It almost reminded her of Mother, but there were no scars upon her face. She bore no war-paint on her face, save for black lines that streamed from her eyes down to her cheeks. They almost looked like tears.

"Who...are you?" Sigrun asked in a whisper.

The woman said nothing, but gestured with her open hand north and east. She then turned back to Sigrun, smiled, and transformed back into a hawk again and flew off in the direction that she had indicated. Into Sigrun's mind came the inclination that she should follow the strange woman. Carefully she pried herself from between Erik and Jonna and made her way north and east, following the hawk. Its glowing white shape could be seen even in the depths of the night. Sigrun followed the white hawk wherever it went, her eyes keenly fixed on its shape.

The hawk led Sigrun out of the forest and into a wide place bare of trees where the cold wind blew upon her face. The moons were out that night and shone their silvery light down upon the ground before them. A vast lake, frozen over with a thick sheet of ice, glistened ominously under the moons' light. As Sigrun looked up to the sky, watching the hawk, she prayed that it didn't land on the lake: she had just gone through the worst of it, as she thought, and wasn't ready to be going through more so soon. To her dismay, the hawk descended from the sky and alighted near the edge of the glistening ice and the black waters of the lake. Carefully she made her way out onto the ice, walking uneasily on the smooth, slippery ice. The hawk didn't move from where it rested, and Sigrun hoped again that this would be the end of her search and she could go back to the warmth of the campfire.

Even as Sigrun came within a hand's reach of the hawk, it leaped into the air and dove into the waters of the lake. Sigrun looked after it, surprised to see that the hawk was still glowing and flying under the water as easily as through the air. Slowly it went down, down, down into the water, disappearing almost completely from view. It became smaller and fainter, until it was no bigger than a star glowing in the sky above. Sigrun suddenly let out a gasp that sent the surface of the water quivering at her breath: a second light, nearer and brighter appeared in the midst of the water, lightening up a distinct shape.

The shape of a sword.

Sigrun paused. It seemed that this spirit had appeared just at this moment, to answer her need for a sword after the loss she had suffered. Could it be trusted? She knew better than to dive into freezing water in the dead of the night: but there was something about the face she had seen on the hawk, something comforting and familiar. Sigrun then began tearing off her jerkin and trousers; those would only drag her down. She hissed as the cold wind blew upon her naked body, and shivered as she looked at the black waters before her. She knew that if was going to be awful diving in to the freezing depths: but if she went in slowly, she knew that she'd never go through with it.

"Fuck!" she hissed. "I'm going to need a warm soup and a stiff drink after this!"

Without another word, Sigrun took a breath and leaped into the water. A thousand small knives bit into her skin as she was enveloped in freezing water. She could barely keep her eyes open to see the sword. Yet she pushed herself forward, forcing her eyes to stay open despite the stabbing pain to reach the sword. At last her hands gripped around the hilt and blade: it was icy cold to the touch, and it weighed her hands down as she tried to push herself back to the surface. Her legs were growing numb and heavy, yet she forcibly kicked them against the water, desperate to reach the surface. Her throat was starting to pain her as her lungs ached for air. Against her will, her lips parted slightly and freezing water poured into her mouth; the cold water burned her throat and her mouth snapped open, sending bubbles racing to the surface.

Sigrun pushed herself again, her fingers going numb as she pinched down upon the sword, her legs leaden as she treadled water. Her head broke the surface and she let out a gasp as air filled her lungs again, coughing and sputtering out the water she had swallowed. She threw her sword onto the ice as she tried to climb onto the shelf and clothe herself. Her clothes sopped up the water and clung to her body: they provided her no warmth. With the sword in hand, she ran back to the camp, following the glow of the fire. Once she was near the flames, she sat by the fire and let the heat warm her all over. She was moaning and sighing loudly in between shivering and chattering of teeth: being within warm and heat after the intense dive into the freezing lake made her feel intensely better.

She took stock now of the sword she had rescued from the river. It was fashioned after the weapons used by the ancient Nords and Atmorans. In the center of the blade, there were traced runes in the ancient Nordic tongue. Yet as Sigrun looked at the blade over and over, the words seemed to shift and change: or perhaps her mind was changing before her mind, granting her understanding of her mother-tongue. Here is what was written upon the blade:

No victory without sacrifice.

Sigrun fell asleep by the fire, as she pondered the meaning of the words. What would she have to sacrifice in order to save Skyrim? She was already living on the edge, having left her world and family behind to come to a time where she was yet unborn. Her mind focused on such things, and not the pain in her chest, as she drifted into sleep. The last thought to enter her mind was Fort Dunstad: that was their goal for the assault as soon as they were ready, as it had been the first place she had taken in her own time. Fort Dunstad was the place where it had all begun in her own time: and where her life in her own time had ended. It seemed ominous; as though it was the point upon which her life hung and moved this way and that.

Morning came to their little camp. Sigrun was roughly shoved awake; above her stood Jonna, looking very stressed. She told her that they were due to move out immediately; the call had been given and all Stormcloaks in the vicinity were to march on Fort Dunstad. The battle had begun. Sigrun barely had time to respond, or to scarf down a light breakfast, before her sister was helping her into her mail hauberk. In short time, they were all armored up and ready to move again. Sigrun had no time to share with Jonna what had happened that night; there was no time for any of that.

Onto their horses they mounted, and took off north and west, making for the road. Once they found it again, they rode hard and fast down the road. At last they could see the end of their journey: Fort Dunstad, where it had all began for Sigrun and Jonna. As they approached the walls of the fort, they fell in line with the Stormcloaks stationed before its gates. The shield-wall was raised at the vanguard, and arrows were flying from the defenders on the walls.

"Captain!" Jonna shouted as she dismounted near the captain. "What's the situation?"

"They've got us pinned down!" the captain replied. "They must have emptied their garrisons to reinforce the fort; we're not moving an step closer."

"Isn't there something you can do?" Sigrun asked.

"Like what, kinswoman?" the captain returned. "Even if we could get to the walls, we haven't any ladders or rams to tear down the gates. We'll have to dig in and prepare for a long siege."

"We don't have time for a siege!" Sigrun replied. "It's already the fifteenth day of Sun's Dawn; that leaves us only eight days to take this castle."

"I'm sorry, kinswoman," the captain said. "But unless you're a Tongue, or the Dragonborn comes, there's no way we can take the fort."

So it was that the assault was halted at the doorstep of Fort Dunstad. Three men were slain by the Imperials' arrows before the shield-wall was recalled and they camped out of range; many more were wounded. The rest of that day was dreary and miserable, and a cold, sleety rain fell upon the campsite. They huddled together for warmth next to each other. Sigrun had no issue with Jonna snuggling next to her, but she was also painfully aware that this would be the first time since Solstheim where she would be this close to Erik again.

He said nothing as he sat close to her, but that was worse than all the words she could possibly imagine. Worse still, she found that the pain did not subside in his presence; it didn't even grow less. She reconsidered her regret over her words; after all, if he could be of no further help to her, then why bother with him at all?

The fifteenth of Sun's Dawn ended cold and damp, and the sixteenth was little better. A sortie was carried out by the Stormcloaks, in a desperate attempt to breach the wall or force an opening near the palisade that had been erected to cover up the gaps in the wall. The Imperials drove them back again to their camps, as before; but this time, they were the ones releasing a sortie. The Stormcloaks stood their ground and raised the shield-wall once again. Sigrun's blood burned with battle-rage as she threw herself into the thick of the melee, the pain melting away as a result. The defense was so stalwart that the Imperials were forced to fall back to the fort: nine of theirs were slain, and another four of the Stormcloaks went to Sovngarde.

That evening, though, was different than the last one. Sigrun felt guilty for what she had thought the previous night. Jonna and Erik had been there for her in many battles, particularly today's engagement. She could count on them to have her back, and yet she viewed one as a sister and the other as little more than a baud. She thought about her Mother and Father, and what they would advise her in this case; she was, after all, only seventeen. As Erik began nodding off for sleep, she took his head and rested it against her shoulder. If anything, the smell of his hair was pleasant to her. So it was that she went to bed with a smile on her face, despite the great internal pain.

About midnight on the seventeenth day of Sun's Dawn, the camp of the Stormcloaks awoke to a fearful sight. The ground shook over and over, the snow rustled and fell from the trembling branches about them; great howling and roars could be heard echoing in the hills. As they rose up, torches in one hand and swords in the other, they saw figures of immense sizes striding all around their camp, making their slow, lumbering way toward Fort Dunstad; but they did not attack the camp of the Stormcloaks.

Suddenly, amid the harsh, guttural roars of the giants, a higher-pitched voice called out in a loud voice: "Rise up, Stormcloaks! The All-Maker's firstborn have come to aid you!"

Cries rose up from the camp as the rebels took up arms and joined in the affray. The assault had caught the Imperials by surprise. The giants instilled great terror into the hearts of the soldiers, and a few of them broke ranks and fled. Many more were smashed to bloody pulp by the giants, or fell to the swords, spears, and axes of the Stormcloaks. In the midst of the giants strode Talvi, wielding a spear with a mammoth's tusk for a spearhead. Some of the Imperials mastered themselves and began firing arrows at the advancing rebels; but there were now not enough as before, and they could not adequately repel them. Several giants were wounded, but that merely made them angrier and they ran towards the fort full of wrath. When they came to the gate, it was all over for the Imperials. Giants tore the palisades out of the ground, wielding them as spears or clubs, and creating openings for the Stormcloaks to rush inside; others wielded great tree trunks and used them to break down the door. The Imperials were routed and fled for their lives.

But in the midst of this, Sigrun had the worst time of all. As soon as the gates were down, she and Jonna charged in with Talvi, sword and axe in their hands. Upon entering the courtyard of the fort, Sigrun suddenly became aware that all was quiet. She looked around and saw that the battle around her had come to a halt; giants lifted their feet in mid-stomp to crush a fallen Imperial. Kinsmen of the Stormcloaks roared in battle-fury, their beards suspended in midair as they wagged with their charge. The red-cloaks of the Imperials swirled like a canopy, frozen and immobile. Sigrun moved her head and suddenly realized that she was the only one who could still move. Eerie memories returned, half-forgotten in all that had transpired: or perhaps they had been fading away all along and were now almost gone?

"You are to be commended for making it this far," a familiar voice sneered at Sigrun. She gasped; she thought she had silenced that voice forever. "But did you really think that killing me would stop me?"

"Arvela..." Sigrun muttered under her breath. She could not see the Dunmer witch, but it was unmistakably her voice.

"Ah, but that is only one name which I have used, and I have used many," said Arvela. "But there is only one name that shall be mine in the end: Vehk."

"How are you still alive?" Sigrun asked. "I...I broke your neck. I watched the light fade out of your eyes!"

"So you believed, yes," Arvela replied. "But the vagaries of time are...difficult for one so limited as you to comprehend. A pity; you could have been so much more, something...truly great. Instead you settled for life as a soldier, a servant of your weak, feeble, and dying gods."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, but he who asks need not know," quoth Arvela. "And he who knows need not ask."

"I'm fucking sick and tired of hearing that Dunmer bullshit!" Sigrun retorted. "Are you going to answer my question or no? Don't give me the run-around."

"Such an ignorant little n'wah," chuckled Arvela. "To think that you deserve answers. You deserve nothing but to be slaves to your betters; and that I shall bring about."

"So that's what all this was about?" Sigrun asked. "Just petty hatred for my people?"

"Hatred, perhaps. But hardly petty," Arvela replied. "Your kind have been a plague on Nirn for too long. They need to be eradicated and who better to kill an entire people than...a god?"

"You? You're not a god!"

"As Arvela, you're right. Arvela can never be a god, so...limited as she is. But I learned something that my colleagues thought was hidden from me; the secret of AMA-ranth, the holy starlight. Servius Crixus wrote that into his book, and I unlocked the secret under Tiraa's nose!" She laughed. "Such a simpleton!"

"Who was she to you?"

"I suppose answers might as well be given on this subject," Arvela sighed. "After all, she's dead and you'll be joining her soon, so it's not that it matters much. Sedris, Tira, and I are sorceresses of great power, sisters and lovers bound in darkness. We have lived much longer than any human could possibly hope to live, even among the great ones of merkind. We worked from the shadows, doing our part to ruin your world, but all that changed when the Tribunal disappeared from Nirn. Then it became our lives' goal to use our great power to summon them back into this world by divine apotheosis and apoplasia."

"The Tribunal?" Sigrun asked. "The dead gods of the dark elves."

"What is divine cannot die," Arvela repeated. "And the Tribunal were gods indeed. Each of us chose a god to patron and bring back through our theft and rape of the power of creatia. Sedris, the breaker of families, chose Ayem the mother, Tiraa, the wise idiot, chose Seht; and I, wisest and most cleverest of all, chose the warrior-poet xirself: lord Vehk."

Sigrun was perplexed by all the strange words that Arvela was throwing into her speech: words she had never heard used before and, could only guess, meant something that was kept outside of her knowledge.

"Ah, does my speech begin to unravel your tiny Nord mind?" laughed Arvela. "That is well, for you humans lack the ability to comprehend the divine mantling; and Nords are notoriously stupid among humans. Certainly you are unable to appreciate the most perfect contradiction: only by destroying families could Sedris have known what it truly meant to be a loving mother, only by delving into the depths of ignorance could Tiraa possibly become the Light of Knowledge, and only I - the one who is both friend and traitor - could ascend the twoality of the great one xirself!" She laughed again.

"But they were weak, my erstwhile lovers. Sedris lived by her body so long that she became attached to it, and fell just shy of mantling Mother-Morrowind. Tiraa, in the great depths of her stupidity, became despondent and let herself be slain. But not Arvela! She has remained true to the final moment, and now she shall ascend and die; she shall disappear and xi shall appear. To be Vehk and Arvela never again, forevermore!"

"You're mad!" Sigrun retorted.

"Only a fool calls mad what is beyond his tiny mind to comprehend!"

"Why do you keep calling me 'he' and 'his'?" Sigrun asked. "You know I'm a woman, right?"

"Men, women; they are the same," Arvela's voice intoned. "Besides, you're a Nord; your kind look more like men yourselves."

"I've had enough of this!" Sigrun shouted. "Show yourself! I'm eager to kill you a second time."

"Ah, but you won't be killing me," Arvela's voice replied. "You will never kill Arvela again, for she must be zero-summed, and Vehk must mantle Arvela, even as Arvela mantles Vehk."

There was a crackle of lightning, and suddenly, to Sigrun's dismay, she saw once again the same gateway that Tiraa had used to summon the ancient giant into their world. Illuminated against its white light was the shape of Arvela; her robes were cast off, revealing her flabby, saggy body: aged and decrepit from the long years. The old Dunmer was holding her hands upward, eyes closed, and was chanting in a voice that grew increasingly louder and more intense:

"AE VEHK. ALTADOON! ALTADOON! ALTADOON!"

A burst of white light shone from the gateway, bathing Arvela's corpulent body in its glow. It rose up off the ground and began to twist and contort; Arvela's old voice was howling with pain as her limbs were bent backwards at opposite ends and body offal began to disintegrate off of her as dust. The light remained and Sigrun could see now that the body had been completely distorted and altered: it was no longer the hunched, flabby old elf witch anymore.

A waspy figure now hovered in the air; there seemed to be not a single ounce of fat anywhere upon its naked body, even where there should be. Yet it did not seem famished or emaciated: only absurdly slender. The light behind it faded and Sigrun could now clearly see what had become of the thing that was once Arvela. The thing was some four inches taller than her - if it stood upon the ground - fully naked and completely hairless from the sole of its feet to the crown of its bald head. What it was Sigrun could not properly tell: it looked vaguely elvish, but it was not like any elf she had ever seen. Half of its skin looked like a Dunmer, while the other half was golden with a blue eye in the side of the head that was gold. Since it was completely naked, Sigrun saw another confounding fact about this thing: there was nothing between its legs, but no breasts upon its body either. It was neither male nor female, merely an it. In its hand was a staff those design reminded Sigrun of what she had seen in Erik's pants: it made her feel uneasy.

So it was that after two hundred years, the scourge had returned: traitor, liar, thief, charlatan. Snatched from the uttermost moment before Llevas Dorvayn, Nerevar-Moon-and-Stars, plunged his enchanted sword into its naked belly, and reborn to plague the world of men once again.

Vivec.

(AN: Oh no, things have suddenly gone sideways in the worst possible way [again]!)

(For any who might be interested, Bjornvik is my version of Barfok from the 36 Lessons of Vivec. Essentially she's a Kyne's maiden who was blessed with hawk's wings and used her powers for warfare rather than becoming a frost-witch like the fryse hags. Her name appears on a list of "devils" that Vivec the pretender slew: among them also is Ysmir the Dragon of the North [that is to say, the Grey Spirit/Wulfharth/and Eirik].)

(One of the many epics covered in The Hero with a Thousand Faces is Inanna's Descent into the Underworld. I wish that had been the template for Rey's journey in Disney's Star Wars [I won't go into a debate on that in the author's notes], but I did get to invoke that here with Sigrun "shedding her clothes" in order to reach the weapon. And trust me, it will be worth it.)