(AN: Now that we've bored you with a far-too-short chapter, it's time to throw you a nice long one instead. This one is probably the one time where, like Ulfric before him, Eirik has to do something truly immoral in order to secure a quick victory. We're nearing the end, folks. It's been a long [and most certainly strange] journey, but it's getting down to the wire now.)

(And now, Eirik makes the journey to the one place where he [and I] hate the most in Skyrim: the Reach.)

Sins of the Dragon

Nightfall over Skyrim. The seventeenth day of Sun's Dawn had come and was now on its way out. The Stormcloaks feasted in the warmth of the keep, amid hearty fires and songs sung of victory and for those who had gone to Sovngarde. But outside, in the cold and dark, a lone figure was dancing through the corpses, kicking heads and severed limbs hither and yon as it whistled "Sweet Lady of Wayrest". Suddenly it stopped its whistling, knelt down, and picked up a severed head. It then let out a loud, mocking laugh.

"You actually thought you could become a god!" laughed the old man. "That you could defy me! But you forgot one very important thing, o son of a netch-herder: nobody fucks with the Mad One." He laughed again, then stuffed the head into his pockets. "There you go! Keep Pino company; it won't be the strangest thing he's ever seen."

At that moment, a small white hawk began to descend from the clouds in a wide circle around the form of Sheogorath. The old man looked up and pointed one finger at the hawk.

"Not yet," he replied. "She has to figure this out on her own."

There was a lone cry from the hawk.

"Why?" He stopped, suddenly becoming uncharacteristically somber. "I suppose I'm being sentimental. After all, you can't expect someone to just give up...after all the effort they've put into something."

The hawk screeched again.

"That's different!" he replied, wagging his finger at the hawk. "I've had two centuries of planning for this; she hasn't even lived a tenth of that!" The hawk now hovered above the mad god's face. He waved his staff at it; the hawk fluttered, but didn't leave.

"One way or another, it will end soon," he said. "Then, she'll make her choice...and one way or another, you'll have her."

The 22nd day of Sun's Dawn. On the outskirts of Whiterun, a group of horsemen now rode northward up from Falkreath. Five days ago two riders had arrived from the Reach with ill tidings: the Forsworn had taken Markarth and were now holding the land against them. Nords were being put to the sword, along with any who might be considered 'in league' with them. In the east, a host of Stormcloaks now marshaled before the gates of Whiterun: Ulfric himself had come with the army, to make good on his boast with the Dragonborn.

Here, in the early morning, among the horsemen, sat Eirik atop his horse. At his left-hand was his huscarl Lydia, and at his right-hand was his wife Mjoll. He wore no device or badge, for his armor had been set aside when he left Whiterun for Falkreath to be refurbished. He looked northward, awaiting the arrival of his child: there had been little to no word of them from the north, whether good or ill. No raven messengers - they were intercepted by Imperials and shot down; outriders he had sent, and these reported that the Stormcloak camp in the eastern Pale had been deserted. Periodically Eirik turned westward, towards the Reach. He feared to venture into that place; it was strategically unsound, especially since the Forsworn were crawling all over that place. Furthermore, the report of their actions brought back to mind what he had read from The Bear of Markarth. Without Sigrun here to refute these words - even with no greater argument than what Crixus would use to dismiss the Nord people - those words began to work in his mind: were the Forsworn merely repaying one ill-turn with another, or were they the ones who were savages? Had he made the right choice?

From the north came the sound of horns, and of feet pounding heavily upon the ground. Looking thither, Eirik was surprised at what he saw and reached for the sword in his saddle-belt. Many man-like figures of immense proportions were striding across the tundra from out of the north, coming down towards Whiterun. He turned back to the newcomers who had arrived five days ago: Rayya and a bearded old man sat on horseback behind him. Eirik called up the old man, who brought his horse forward.

"What do you see over there?" he asked.

"My eyes aren't as good as yours, young man," he replied with a chuckle.

"Rayya said you're a mage, right?" Eirik asked. "Can you...scry on them? Or whatever it is you do."

The old man harrumphed. "Let's see." He held out his hands and summoned a scrying orb, which he focused northward towards the advancing army. He then let out a loud laugh.

"What is it?" Eirik asked.

"You have nothing to fear, my boy," he replied.

"What do you mean, Havi?" asked Mjoll.

"Those who are coming toward us are giants," he said, pointing north. "But they are not our enemies. I see them walking side-by-side with men wearing your colors. Your fellow Stormcloaks, I would say?"

Eirik smiled, and stroked the mane of his horse. "Gods be praised."

On and on they marched, coming nearer and nearer to Whiterun. Already shouts and challenges were rising from the walls of the city. Eirik sent a rider to Vignar, telling him to have the city-guard stand down. They came on, and soon they could be seen even without magical scrying. There were giants, most of them clad in furs and hides - natives of the cold northern Pale; these bore many blunt weapons, maces and spears made of wood, stone, and bone. Below, around, before, and behind them marched the Stormcloaks: many of them were from the further Pale or Winterhold, and so did not possess the new armor. The soldiers from Windhelm and the Pale camp in the east wore their new armor.

At the head of the company, slowly coming into view, were four figures. The largest one walked with a great spear fashioned with a mammoth's tusk for a spearhead. This one Eirik recognized as Talvi, the half-giant his daughter had brought back with him from Solstheim. At her side was a large mammoth, a few feet taller than her, with a large bundle bobbing atop its back. The other figures rode on horseback, all of them clad in the new armor. Slowly now they passed around the western flanks of the hill of Whiterun, by the great causeway. Eirik could now clearly make out who they were. Left of Talvi rode Jonna, her blonde hair glistening in the morning sun, and the banner of the Stormcloaks in her hand. To her right rode Erik the Slayer, red-haired and grim, his bow upon his back and his eyes facing forward. Before them all rode Sigrun atop a gray horse; upon her head a blood-soaked bandage was wrapped, but her brown hair flew behind her back just the same.

The company now came to a halt and the three at the head rode out to meet them. Eirik, Mjoll, and Lydia, and two horsemen from the Windhelm company rode out to meet them. The first six came to each other and halted their horses; Eirik turned east and saw Ulfric and Galmar riding up from the city. The eight of them now stood on their horses in a small, uneven circle.

"I have won Morthal," Sigrun greeted.

"This is good news," Ulfric commented. He turned to Eirik. "I had my doubts when you said that your messenger claimed both Whiterun and Falkreath. But it seems that we shall indeed drink in Dragonsreach ere the first of First Seed."

Eirik smiled as he turned to his progeny. "You bring an army with you, along with giants! How did you come by them?"

"That's a very long story," Sigrun replied. "As well as this." She gestured to the blood-soaked bandage on her head. "But there'll be plenty of time for stories soon. We have work to do. Morthal and Dawnstar are liberated...and did I hear Ulfric right that you took Falkreath?"

"Without a drop of blood being shed," Eirik answered with a grin. "Siddgeir truly is a coward. I marched into his palace and gave him my terms: he accepted them and asked only to be allowed to leave with his life...and his wealth. I gave him his life, but not his wealth."

"There wasn't any resistance?" Sigrun asked.

"None," Eirik replied. "The people of Falkreath knew me as Thane, so no one raised their arms against me."

Sigrun looked aside and noticed the old man sitting atop his horse next to Rayya in Eirik's company. "It seems there are stories enough for you to share as well."

"And share them we will," said Eirik. "But now, we must make our plans."

"Here on this field?" Ulfric asked. "This is hardly the place for making plans for battle."

"But it is," Eirik replied. "The end of the war is drawing nigh, and we cannot wait. With Morthal and Falkreath under our control, our enemy lies west."

"Aye!" Galmar roared. "We should march on Solitude and behead Tullius and his elf-loving toadies!"

"Soon, soon," Ulfric stated. "Dragonborn, my thane, is it not true that Markarth has been taken again by the Forsworn?"

Eirik sighed. "It is indeed, my lord."

"That won't do," Ulfric replied. "We'll need the silver from Cidhna Mine, not only for the war effort but for the rebuilding afterward. Without it, we will be impoverished."

"You speak of after the war, Ulfric," Galmar said. "But we're still in the war right now. If we wait to take Solitude, the Legion will have more time to fortify themselves against us. If they destroy the bridge at Dragon Bridge, it will make crossing the Karth River all the more difficult."

"Indeed," Ulfric said. He then turned to Eirik. "Well, Dragonborn, let's have you decide. Solitude or Markarth. Both must be taken at once and swiftly, but we have no time. Which one should we attack first?"

He looked at their three companies; there were now five hundred soldiers present before the gates of Whiterun. A small army, but more than thirty men. Dividing their forces to attack both at once seemed like the soundest choice; though two hundred and fifty was even less than five hundred together, and there would be many Forsworn and Imperials. His war was with the Empire, he knew that of a certainty: he was Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, and the Empire had almost killed their own heart when they walked him to the chopping block that Last Seed morning last year. Besides that, he hated the Reach and loathed the short time he had spent in it during his travels: it was not at all like Falkreath or Bruma, the tree-filled snowy uplands of his childhood. He wanted to make for Solitude at once and deal with the Reach once the Legion were driven out of Skyrim.

But there was still The Bear of Markarth in the back of his mind. Ulfric's presence in the Reach might do more harm than good. Whereas he, the Dragonborn, was an outsider. Sure, he came under the banner of the Stormcloaks, but he was an unknown to them. He might succeed in winning Markarth without bloodshed. At last he made his decision and turned to Ulfric.

"Galmar speaks well," he said. "Go to Solitude, my lord, and Shout General Tullius and his Red Legions into the sea. I'll go west and return to you with Markarth and its silver."

Galmar laughed aloud. "I like you more and more, Dragonborn!"

"Very well," Ulfric said. "We shall divide our forces and make for Haafingar. How many do you need?"

"If I may interject," Sigrun spoke up. "We don't need a large force. Only fifty will do."

"Sigrun, please," Eirik returned. "We'll need more than that."

"Not if you..."

"Peace," Ulfric interjected. "Now, let's go into Dragonsreach. I have an oath to fulfill with you, Dragonborn."

The group made their way back to Whiterun, and Eirik and Vignar had Ulfric and the notable ones of the Stormcloaks up to Dragonsreach. So numerous were their horses that the stables of Whiterun were filled up, and assistants were hired out to tend to their number. At Dragonsreach, they settled in for their brief rest and for the luncheon feast they were to have: Vignar and his steward Brill were quite busy with running the city and making preparations that they had little time to entertain their guests. Ulfric spent his time with Galmar in private discussion in the great hall. Mjoll wanted to examine Sigrun's wound, but she had not the time to do so: for Eirik took his daughter aside to the porch for a few words of his own.

"You interrupted our talk," he said. "I had thought the time in Solstheim would change that for you: I see that I was wrong."

"Da, I'm sorry to have stepped out of line," she replied. "But we can't afford to wait." Eirik sighed, and seemed to be silent. "What's wrong, Da?"

"I'm torn over what to do," he said. "I dislike the Reach: I have ever since I went there in search of Alduin's Wall. Worse still, the crags will leave us vulnerable to assault from the Forsworn. There's no way we could take the Reach with only fifty men! Why did you have to speak up?"

"You don't need an army to take Markarth and you know it," Sigrun replied. "We could take it within a day if you had no scruples..."

"No," Eirik firmly replied. "I will not threaten the people of Markarth with dragon's fire. I will not make the same mistake Ulfric did!"

Sigrun was getting frustrated with her Father's refusal to take the easy route, but her rage was tempered by the pain that was now a constant companion. Rather than lash out, she merely groaned, touched the bloodied cloth on her head, and mastered herself.

"So don't," she replied. "But still, you have the Voice with you. There's plenty of powerful things you could do that could win the Reach over in a day at most..." Suddenly she halted, her eyes widening with realization.

"What is it?" he asked.

"When you were on Solstheim," she said slowly. "You learned a Shout there, didn't you?"

"I learned several," Eirik replied.

"But one in particular," she continued. "One that allowed you to defeat Miraak the First. What was it? What did it do?"

"It allowed me to break Miraak's will and bend things to my will," said Eirik. "What are you getting at?"

"If you won't use the dragons," she continued. "Use that Thu'um instead. Think about it! You could force the Thalmor to give up all their secrets to you and then slit their own throats. You could win Markarth and Solitude without a single drop of blood being shed! You could make General Tullius and the Legion leave Skyrim without any more lives being lost!"

Eirik's eyes now widened with horror as he realized what was being asked of him.

"To do that," he said. "I would be dominating the wills of so many people. But...but how much worse would that be?"

"Da..."

"Sven told me that a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still," Eirik began. "Whether by terror or by Thu'um I force half of Skyrim to obey me, what will I have become? What will I say for myself when I stand before Tsun at the Whale-Bone Bridge in Sovngarde?"

"That you saved countless lives by doing so," she replied.

"No," he shook his head. "No, it...it's not right. If the only choices I have are between two evils, I would make no choice at all. Better that we fight and prevail honestly."

"We don't have the luxury of not making a choice, Da!" Sigrun replied. "If we pursue the course you've laid before us, hundreds will die. Skyrim and the Empire will both be weakened, and all of us will pay for it when the Dominion decides to attack us again. We won't be able to hold onto what you've secured so swiftly."

Eirik groaned in frustration. "But if I were to do one or the other, I would become a monster in the eyes of those I assert my will over."

"Well I'm sorry to say this," Sigrun replied. "But these are your only options: you can ask for more troops, in which case strength will be taken away from Solitude. You can go ahead with fifty soldiers and pray that you'll be able to convince the Forsworn that your intentions are honorable and hope they'll open the gates for you. You can summon a dragon and demand they capitulate; or you can force them out with your Thu'um. Quickly, now, we have no time to lose!"

"Dammit!" Eirik shouted, slamming his fist against the stone wall of the porch. He let out a sigh, trying to master himself. "I'll...I'll consider your words."

"I guess that's the best I can get from you," Sigrun replied. As she was leaving, Eirik called after her.

"Once you're born...the other you, that is," he said. "I'm going to have to see about disciplining you. You're far too impish."

Sigrun's lips curled into a cocky grin. "I'd prefer to say that I have my Father's indomitable spirit."

"You think too much of me," he replied.

"No," she retorted. "You think too little of yourself."

Once they were done, Mjoll came in to examine Sigrun's wound; the spear thrust of Muatra. The wound was cleaned and no infection or pus could be seen, nor any inflammation: yet it didn't seem to have closed. Mjoll called for Danica Pure-Spring, the priestess of Kynareth, to preform healing magic over the wound; but it remained open and bleeding, though not so profusely as to endanger Sigrun's life. Danica applied some healing oil and fresh linen bandages; nothing else could be done.

The feast began around noon. Ulfric had a great drinking horn brought out, from which he and Eirik drank the first draft: then all were permitted to eat and drink to their heart's desire. It hardly seemed as though they were in the middle of a war for all the merriment that went among them. True, the feast was not as large as it might have been, but they enjoyed it just the same. Songs were sung, boasts and oaths were made, and Sigrun couldn't help but cast her eyes over to Erik. Something about the way he had stayed with her in the Pale, even when she was thinking about leaving him, made her feel warm inside. She hoped to have the chance to tell him sooner or later.

As the feast wound down to a close, the long tables in Dragonsreach were cleared, room and board were prepared for the Stormcloaks - as there were not enough houses in the city to put them, and Eirik insisted that they not be quartered in the houses of the people. Aela went back to Jorrvaskr for business, while Eirik and Havi stood at the planning table with Ulfric and Galmar and drew out their strategies. Sigrun was not present, as she said that she was looking for Jonna and would be with them presently.

"I'm impressed at your swift liberating of Morthal and Falkreath," Ulfric told Eirik. "You're becoming more and more of a strategist every day. But now you have the hardest task ahead of you: Markarth. The walls are high and strong - the Dwarves certainly did their best in building it when it was theirs long ago. It's backed into the flanks of the Wrothgarian Mountains; there are no secret ways into the city, nor any hidden weaknesses. Not even a culvert to exploit at the water's edge. Are you sure you don't need more men? Fifty is hardly enough to assault a garrison at one of the forts."

"We'll make due," Eirik resigned.

"The path to the gate is a death-trap," Ulfric said. "It winds this way and that, exposing an advancing army to the archers on the city walls. Once you're inside, the streets are narrow, and some climb many feet above the waters below. It won't be easy taking Understone Keep. That is, of course, if you can even get to Markarth itself without incident. The land is remote and rugged; Forsworn lurk behind every bush and crag."

"It's folly to go into the Reach with so few," Galmar grumbled. "Especially with the Forsworn now holding the area."

"Not necessarily," Havi stated. "The Redguard and I came through. Dragonborn, if you are swift and stay to the roads, you may be able to come up to the gates of Markarth without being waylaid in the mountains."

"I'll keep that in mind," Eirik nodded. "And what of you, my lord?"

"We'll make for Dragon Bridge with all speed," Ulfric said. "Your friend's army of giants may prove useful in breaking their defenses. But we must reach Dragon Bridge before the Legion attempts to bring down the bridge. The crossing will be even more difficult without it."

"Then haste is what is needed," Eirik replied.

"Perhaps we're moving too hastily," Ulfric mused, stroking his beard. "There will be many in Skyrim who still cling to the Empire, even if we win. They will have to be dealt with. And with stretching ourselves so thin, we'll be ripe targets for the Thalmor...or retaliation from the Empire once the passes open up again."

"You needn't worry about the Empire, my lord," Eirik said. "I've sent someone to ensure that they will be facing the real threat, and not us. Which brings us to another problem: once we've gained the victory, we'll need to open negotiations with Hammerfell. I suggest sending Rayya the Bright there as an emissary: she's partial to our cause and will have some measure of sway with them."

"Done," Ulfric replied.

They continued for a while asking logistical questions: more of the new armor was being hauled by cart from Windhelm and would arrive at the forward base in Dragon Bridge ere long. The Stormcloaks attacking Haafingar would be facing the mightiest veterans of the Imperial Legion, and would have to be well-equipped and armed for the task ahead. They went on for what seemed like hours, Eirik listening intently to every word that was said. Something inside was telling him that he needed to pay attention to what was being said; if only for the sake of the future. Near the end of the meeting, Jonna made her way up to the meeting: but Sigrun was not there.

"You're late," Ulfric replied.

"Apologies, my lord," she returned. "I had some...unfinished business to attend to. Personal matters that couldn't wait."

"Well, we're glad you're here," Eirik returned. "We're making our final preparations for departure. Most of our forces should be focused on the Solitude assault, with only a few coming here to the Reach."

"I want to be in the Solitude company," Jonna said abruptly.

"Really?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Talvi is shy and her giant allies might lose heart if she does. She'll need a friend at her side when we go against the Legion. Who all is going in the Reach company?"

"Myself, Sigrun, Erik, Lydia, Mjoll, and forty-five hand-picked warriors of the Stormcloaks," Eirik replied. "Havi is going in the main assault with Rayya; they won't leave for the West until the war is over...for good or ill."

With that, they concluded their meeting. Ulfric and Galmar departed while Eirik turned to Jonna, a quizzical expression on his face.

"You choose to go to Solitude?" he asked. "I thought you'd have chosen to go with Sigrun and I to Markarth."

"I had planned on doing that," Jonna said. "But things have changed. I was just looking for Sigrun to tell her that."

"Looking?" Eirik asked. "You mean you haven't seen her? I thought she was looking for you."

"I was looking for her," Jonna replied. "Did she just disappear?"

"Someone's got to know where she could be," Eirik replied. "Ask around."

They asked around with all the soldiers in Dragonsreach, but none of them saw her leave through the main door. They asked the servants, but none of them saw her at all. In every room in the great hall they searched, but she was nowhere to be found. Eirik and Jonna were starting to get anxious. They went back to the porch and suddenly came to a halt, their hearts stopping within their breasts. There on the ground, lying face-down in a pool of blood, was Sigrun. Eirik and Jonna rushed to her side and pulled her up and looked at her face; her eyes were closed, her face pale and her mouth blood-stained, but she was still warm.

"Run, Jonna!" Eirik said. "Go fetch Mjoll and the priestess of Kynareth."

"You go and run!" Jonna cried, tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm staying here!"

Eirik ran to find Mjoll and Danica, while Jonna stayed at Sigrun's side, clutching her head in her lap and sobbing. What was going on with her? She had noticed the signs but hadn't said anything. And now she had sent herself away when Sigrun needed her the most!

That evening, Sigrun was lying on a bed in the chambers that once belonged to Balgruuf's family in the hall. Danica examined her and discovered that the blood had come from Sigrun's own body; not from the wound on her head, which still hadn't closed, but from her mouth. Precisely why she was coughing up blood was harder to discern: aside from her wound, she seemed relatively healthy. There was no sign of any of the usual sicknesses or maladies that affected men or women. Upset, Eirik had Havi brought and asked him to use his magic to see if there was anything magically wrong with her. Unfortunately, his results were even more frustrating.

"Her body is falling apart from the inside out," he said. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"Never?" Eirik asked.

"No," the old man said, his beard wagging as he shook his head. "Anything remotely similar happened so fast that no one was ever able to study them."

"Can you do anything for her?" Eirik asked.

Havi sighed. "I don't even know what's causing this, and this troubles me. I've lived many years and seen many strange things, and yet I have no answer for this! Without a clear cause, we could do more harm than good. But, unless my hypothesis is entirely mistaken, there is something I can do: it won't stop this from happening, but it will give her time."

What exactly was going on with Sigrun, or what he guessed was going on, Havi would not say, even with Eirik, Mjoll, and Jonna a step away from breathing threats upon him. He feared not their threats, for he was a powerful wizard in his own right: instead he performed the spell. Sigrun did not awake, but she seemed less pale than before.

"I would recommend that she stay in-bed for the time being," Havi said. "Until at least some more efficacious treatment is found."

Eirik, Mjoll, and Jonna remained at Sigrun's bed-side for the rest of that afternoon. As the sun began to sink, Erik joined them at Sigrun's bed-side. Eirik took him aside, a stern look on his face.

"Was it you?" he asked. "Is this because of you?"

"I...no!" he retorted. "Of course not! I swear on my life!"

"Would you stake your place in Sovngarde to that claim?" Eirik asked.

"Yes," Erik returned. "Shor is my witness, it wasn't me."

Eirik frowned, but said nothing more as he departed and Mjoll with him. Now only Jonna and Erik remained in the room with the sleeping Sigrun.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asked.

"Why?" Jonna snapped. "Don't want to lose your f..."

"Don't!" Erik retorted. "It...it was all I could do to keep myself together under the Dragonborn's gaze. I tell you, it wasn't me. She was...my first."

"And if you ever cared about her..." Jonna retorted. "You'll pray right here and now."

"I will," he replied. The two of them lowered their heads, opened their palms towards the roof, and said prayers to each of the Divines. Erik used their Elven names and Jonna their Nordic names. Over and over, long into the night, they continued praying until their eyes were heavy. At last they fell asleep on the floor in her room, unable to keep their eyes open a moment longer.

Morning. The 23rd day of Sun's Dawn. Somewhere in Whiterun a horn was blown and it began. Eirik, Mjoll, and Lydia were up and burying themselves into their duties, readying fifty horses for the swift departure westward. Adrianne brought Eirik's armor down to the field for him: the dragon-bone plates were now augmented with a full body suit of ebony chain-mail. In this he girded himself as he sat atop his horse, ordering the forty-five chosen warriors. Meanwhile, the lion's share of their army - four-hundred and fifty men - were preparing for the forced march north and west to Dragon Bridge. Though Eirik kept himself busy, his thoughts were on Sigrun back in Dragonsreach. She was in no condition to ride or fight: he would have to find someone else to take her place. He wondered if Aela could be spared from Jorrvaskr to ride in her place.

A rider came from the main army with a message from Ulfric; he was ready to get underway. But they were still missing two others of their company; Eirik asked for thirty minutes before leaving without them. Just then a cry went up and a horse rode off towards Ulfric's company: Jonna was riding atop the horse, the banner in her hand, but her hair was tied back in a braid and her face was grim and filled with tears. She rode off and then the horns were sounded again and the main army began their march. Down the causeway from the gates of Whiterun came Erik the Slayer with Sigrun at his side; her arm was over his shoulders and she leaned heavily upon him. Eirik dismounted from his horse and walked over to them.

"Just where do you think you're going with her?" he said.

"We're going with you," Erik replied, his face grim with disappointment. "Nothing we say will change her mind."

Eirik turned to Sigrun. "I'm glad you're alive, but I must insist that you stay here and rest. You're in no condition for battle."

Sigrun lifted up her head and stared at her Father with bloodshot eyes.

"I came here to win the war," she said. "I must see it through to the end, even if it kills me."

"If anything were to happen to you," Eirik began, but Sigrun reached up and placed her hand on his cheek.

"I'm still with you, inside Ma," she answered, struggling to smile. "Keep her safe until the 17th of Last Seed, and we'll meet again." Eirik smiled, but made no answer. Instead, he turned to those on the horses behind him.

"Stormcloaks!" he said in a loud voice. "To Markarth, and may Kyne speed you!"

Mjoll and Lydia took the lead of the company, digging their heels into the flanks of their horses. The other forty-five took off at a break-neck pace to keep up with them, galloping hard across the amber tundra. Sigrun and Erik were looking after them and then back at Eirik in surprise.

"I thought we were going west," Erik said.

"And so we are," replied Eirik. "But the others must reach Markarth before us; I left Mjoll and Lydia specific instructions for what they must do."

"What about us?" Sigrun breathed.

Eirik's answer came, but not in words. He lifted his head up into the open sky and Shouted: "O Dah Viing!" The sound that came from his lips sent his horse neighing furiously and stamping the ground in a panic. Even as he tried to calm the horse down, a massive shape passed over the sun. It whirled around the northwestern side of Whiterun and then came to rest some thirty feet away from them.

"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin," Odavhiing greeted. "So you summoned me yet again, despite my warning."

"Yes, I did," Eirik replied. "I have need of you this once, and then you shall be free. Fly me and my companions to Markarth and await my orders once we arrive."

"Mmm, yes," Odavhiing mused. "The Hofkahgolz, the Stone-House. I know the way. But you presume much to command me as a play-thing."

"Please, I am in haste," Eirik returned. "If there were any other way, I would take it. But I must act with haste, and there are none faster than dragons. Will you do this?"

"Onikaan koraav gein miraad," the dragon grumbled. "Very well. I shall take you to the Stone-House."

Eirik and Erik took Sigrun between them both and helped her onto the dragon's scaly neck above the wings. Eirik climbed on front and Erik behind Sigrun.

"Hold on!" Eirik cried out as the dragon let out a bellow and began to beat its wings.

With frightening speed, the ground vanished from before their eyes. Erik cried out and clung to Sigrun for dear life: it was more than he could handle, a simple farmer he had been his entire life. Sigrun had flown once before, but was only barely lucid and so was not as amazed as she once was. Eirik, on the other hand, kept his eyes fixed westward; his face was grim and fey, for he now had cast the dice and had to act and accept the consequences of his actions. Would there be another war against the dragons, as there was in the Merethic Era? Would he be at the head of the dragon-hunters? What about Paarthurnax? What would he think about using other dragons as servants? And the people of Skyrim: how would they react to this? If Ulfric had been suspicious before, this would cause more than a little suspicion.

Yet he had made his choice, and there was no going back now.

For two hours they flew through the icy-cold sky, their long hair flowing in the rushing wind: brown and red. Below them the tundra became rocky and arid, and the land was broken into many crags, deep gorges, and wide valleys. They had passed into the frontiers of the Reach. Still behind them was the sun, and it cast long shadows on the deep ravines and precipices of this land. Before them they could see the tall spires, capped with stone and gilded with Dwemer brass, the high towers of the city of Markarth. Before the gates were two towers, and towards the easternmost one Eirik directed Odahviing to land. They held on for dear life as the dragon lighted upon the tower, facing the city of Markarth.

Cries of alarm came from those in the area, and bells were ringing. From the dragon's back, Eirik could see many in furs and bones standing upon the battlements of Markarth, bows in their hand. Though he knew they could not harm a dragon, one stray arrow could claim any of those riding on the dragon's back; and if an arrow got them while they were in the air, it was a fall to certain death. Rather than begin the attack, Eirik told Odahviing to let loose a breath of fire in the direction of the city as a warning.

"Yol...Toor Shul!"

A blinding jet of superheated flames tore through the sky. Those on the wall cowered beneath the battlements, crying out for the spirits to aid them. Yet no one was slain. Those on the wall now fitted shaft to bow and awaited the order to fire.

"Madanach!" Eirik cried out in a loud voice. There was no answer. Again he cried out: "Madanach!" Over and over he cried the name, until at last an old man appeared on the battlements: he was dressed in the same clothes as the others, though he obviously seemed a kind of leader.

"Who calls at my city?" the old man inquired.

"I am Eirik the Dragonborn," came the answer. "Son of Bjorn, Alduin's-Bane, thane of Whiterun, Falkreath, and Windhelm, champion of Skyrim and servant of its High King, Ulfric Stormcloak. Surrender your city to its rightful owners."

"The rightful owners already control Markarth," came the old man's answer. "Go and lick the boots of your masters, brigand. There will be no treating with white-Nords!"

"Are you Madanach?"

"It is he who speaks to you."

"How's your eyesight? Are you blind?"

"Your white-Nord people threw me into a mine," came the answer. "But many years underground have not yet robbed me of my sight."

"Then you can clearly see that I have a dragon with me."

"Yes, I see that. What of it? Markarth is a city of stone. Your pet cannot burn down my walls. You have nothing to bargain with."

"I have this," Eirik replied. "If you're Madanach, then you know about Ulfric's taking of Markarth."

"I remember a slaughter! If you think to threaten me with another one, you're wasting your time. Better that all of Markarth burn than for a Reachman to give one inch of his homeland to a white-Nord!"

"I wish for a parley."

"I already told you there will be no words. Even if you came alone and without your giant lizard, we would fill you full of arrows, feast on your heart, and send your head back to your master. There will be no treating with your people."

"Listen to him!" Sigrun hissed. "He sounds like a fucking dark elf."

"Perhaps you think you're safe in your keep?" Eirik asked. "Let me give you a few names to jog your memory: Nimalten, Laintar Dale, Sungard, Amberguard, Pargran."

"You babble names like a madman, as if saying them should mean anything to me!"

"These cities and fortresses of Skyrim were destroyed by dragon-fire," Eirik replied. "Burned down and nothing remains of them now but ashes. Are you willing for your people, for all of Markarth, to suffer the same fate?"

"If we suffer the same fate," Madanach replied. "It will be your doing and not ours! We are prepared to kill and die to keep our land from you! I've told you two times before, we will not treat with your kind. So stop talking and burn us all, you bloodthirsty white-Nord!"

"I am not Ulfric!" Eirik retorted. "I don't want bloodshed; if I did, I would have attacked and spared you this mercy. But your refusal to speak peaceably will be the death of you and your people. Come down and let us speak."

"Hah! So your lizard can burn me up or devour me whole? I can speak to you just fine from up here!"

"I have words for you in particular," Eirik replied. "And I grow tired of shouting. Come down and speak with me face-to-face."

At that moment, a tall figure in clad black appeared beside their King in Rags and began speaking with him just outside of earshot of the three humans. But Odahviing, keen hunting dragon that he was, could hear everything that was said by them.

"Mmmm," the dragon grumbled. "Tahrovin. These cannot be trusted. They are plotting some mischief against you."

"As we are against them," Eirik grimly replied.

At that moment, the old man's head appeared on the other side of the wall again. "I reject your invitation. You may have a lizard, but you are only three against six hundred Forsworn."

"Only six hundred?" Eirik replied, playing his bluff. "That's good to know. At this moment, I have fifty captains riding hard and fast to this city: each one commands one hundred of the fiercest and strongest warriors of the Stormcloaks. Do you dare to match your six hundred against five thousand men and a dragon?"

"You're bluffing!" came the answer. The black-clad figure appeared in view again, whispering into Madanach's ears. Suddenly a change came over the old man's tone of voice.

"If I were to come down to speak with you," he said. "What guarantee do I have that you won't kill me out of spite?"

"I give you my word," Eirik returned. "Come down and speak with me face-to-face, and I will not kill you...nor any in my company." Sigrun and Erik both looked amazed at this, but said not a word to Eirik.

The old man sneered. "Very well, but I will choose some of my people to follow me down for my own protection. I do not trust you or your word."

Down from the walls came Madanach, followed by the tall figure in black. At the bottom of the gates, the old man chose three Night-Blades from his personal guard: the most fanatic of the Forsworn, wholly dedicated to the cause. In a low voice, he spoke to them: "You see an opening, you take it. Kill him and his allies. We'll deal with the dragon in time." As he stood before the gates and gave the command that they should be opened, the tall figure fell in step behind the King in Rags and his Night-Blades.

The gates opened and down the stairs strode Madanach, the three Night-Blades, and the black-clad figure that Eirik recognized immediately as a Thalmor agent. Anger filled his heart as he sat atop the dragon, glaring at the two of them.

"Well?" Madanach. "You wanted me down here, and here I am. Now are you going to come down off your dragon and speak to me, as you wanted, or was I right in distrusting you?"

Eirik slowly dismounted, but kept his eyes on the Thalmor as he approached Madanach. He waved and Sigrun and Erik also dismounted, their hands on their weapons as they fell in line behind Eirik. Madanach, however, was watching them warily: the treacherous always suspect others of treachery.

"I wouldn't try anything if I were you," the King in Rags said, a smile on his face. "My agents are the swiftest knives in the Reach; their blades will find their way to your throat faster than your sword or dragon could slay me. And there are archers on the wall who have orders to shoot you and your cronies if you should lay a hand on me."

"And I gave you my word that I wouldn't touch you," Eirik replied. He drew out his sword and thrust it into the ground next to him. "There is my sword."

Madanach laughed. "You're a fool to disarm yourself before me. As I said on the wall, there is no treaty that I would make with you: no compromise with white-Nords."

"Why do you call us white-Nords?" Eirik asked.

"It's different than the brown-Nords of the west," Madanach said, referencing the Cyro-Nords in the west and south. "And my people are of a browner complexion than you, so it fits. Or should I call you 'white devil' as the Dunmer of Morrowind call you? Or 'savage' as the Cyrodilians call you? Or, as my associate Ondolemar, merely a 'white ape?'"

Eirik gritted his teeth. "You may have nothing to say to me, but I have words to say to you."

"Be quick about it, so I can get back to killing you," Madanach replied.

"Tell me about Markarth," Eirik said. "Not its strengths and weaknesses, but its history."

"Ah?" Madanach grinned. "You're not sure about this, are you? I take it you've read Arrianus' stellar works, otherwise you would have come in with blood and swords rather than words. Yes, every word of what he wrote was true. That's why there will be no truce between Reachmen and white-Nords: your kind are bloodthirsty mongrels, oath-breaking savages, murderous apes. You honor no treaty, you know of no honor!"

At that, there was a horn blowing from the east and eyes looked thither; the horsemen had arrived. But Madanach was undaunted.

"So much for an army of five thousand!" he returned. "I knew you were bluffing: your kind are built on lies, deceit, and bloodshed. You're a Stormcloak, right? You worship Talos, right? The one who slew his lord and blamed my people on it, and turned us into pariahs?"

"If you worship Talos," the dark-robed figure sneered. "You will be punished...you and your whole family."

"Peace, friend Ondolemar," Madanach said. He turned back to Eirik. "As I said, your kind know only treachery and treason, bloodshed and mayhem. Therefore there will be no treaty with you; no truces between wolves and drago..."

"Gol...Hah Dov!" Eirik shouted.

There was a deep resounding boom, as thunder in the mountains. Madanach seemed dumbfounded as he looked at himself; he had felt something wash over him, like a wave of hot water, yet he was not wet nor scalded.

"Sigrun, take the elf!" Eirik ordered. Sigrun drew out her sword and took Ondolemar, placing her blade at his throat. Erik, meanwhile, drew his bow and fitted an arrow in the string, but did not bend it. The Night-Blades drew their knives and eyed the Nords before them.

"Oath-breaker!" Madanach cried out. "He's with me! You can't..."

"Silence!" Eirik commanded. Straightaway, the King in Rags sealed his lips. A look of amazement passed over his face at what had happened. Eirik kept his eyes focused on Madanach. "Raise your right hand to the level of your eyes." Slowly, against his will, Madanach's hand went up until the tips of his fingers were even with the level of his eyes.

"What have you done to me?" he asked. "What devil's magic is this?"

"Now, then," Eirik said. "I don't have much time, so I want a truthful answer from you. Tell me: did Ulfric give you terms of surrender?"

Madanach shook his head, but out of his words came a strained, forced: "Yes."

"Why did you tell Arrianus that no terms were given?"

"Because they were unacceptable!" Madanach replied. "We wouldn't worship Talos or accept being driven back into the wild! No true Forsworn would accept such insulting demands!"

"Enough!" Eirik demanded. Madanach was silent. "Now answer me this: was your reign of Markarth peaceful?"

"No," Madanach replied.

"Yet you told Arrianus that it was?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"He told me that he had the Emperor's ear!" came the strained reply. "He came with this elf and told me that he could have my claim on the Reach legitimized by Titus Mede."

"Last question," Eirik said. "Did Ulfric truly slaughter as many people as Arrianus said?"

At this, Madanach tried in vain to resist the power that was controlling him. So great was the strain that his knees started buckling, as though a great force were pushing him to the earth in an effort to bend his will.

"Answer me!" Eirik demanded.

"No," came the answer.

"What really happened?"

"You said that was the last question!"

"What really happened?"

Madanach strained again, trying to force himself to be quiet. But his mouth moved against his will, speaking slow, forced words. "We slew many, innocent or otherwise. Because of that, Ulfric had to leave many of our people still in charge outside of the city, after he took over. He couldn't run a city full of corpses, so he had his thugs keep order. I embellished things to Arrianus to garner sympathy for my people: after all, it's not your people who control public thought through books."

Eirik sighed. It seemed that there was much more to The Bear of Markarth than he had initially believed. He wondered also if Arrianus Arius may very well have been in league with the Thalmor: if folk accused Ulfric of 'aiding the Thalmor' by his war, could not the same be said of Madanach and his uprising in the Reach? Legitimizing the breaking away of the Reach from Skyrim would permanently bankrupt the country.

"There! I told you everything. Now kill me or go your way."

Eirik took a step closer to Madanach. "We're not done yet. Now I'm going to give you some things to do and some words to say. You're going to do and say everything that I tell you to: is that clear?"

"Do I have a choice?" came the answer.

"On your knees."

"Never!" Madanach shouted. "The Reachmen will never bend the knee to a white...Nord..." To his horror, even as he spoke, his knees began to buckle and he was now kneeling before Eirik. His face was somewhere between awe, fury, and horror. Eirik now took a few steps closer to him, leaned in and whispered the words he wanted him to speak. A pale-white sheen passed over his face; terror was in his eyes.

"You can't do that," he said. "Do you have any idea what you'll do if I say that?"

"Speak!" Eirik commanded.

"I am Madanach..."

"Louder!" Eirik retorted. "I want all those on the walls of the city to hear you."

"I am Madanach!" shouted the King in Rags. "I..." He turned back to Eirik, shaking his head and pleading with him not to make him speak. But Eirik said nothing.

"I am Madanach," he repeated, in a loud voice. "And I relinquish my people's claim to the Reach, now and forever! I acknowledge that my claim on this land is false, and that I led my people to their deaths for my own personal gain! I hereby declare the Nords to be the first, last, and rightful inhabitants of the Reach; any and all those who fight against the rightful inhabitants are savages, murderers, and traitors: not a people, a thing of no value!"

"You were our king!" came a cry from the walls. "We followed your every word!"

"I am king no more!" he continued. "I have spoken, and so let it be done!"

"Good," Eirik said. "Now two more things: give Ondolemar to us and open the gates and see your people out."

"I...give you...Ondolemar..." said Madanach. "Do with him as you will." He then hesitated, trying desperately to save himself in this final moment. He had publicly announced, before all of his people whom he had fanatically whipped up into a storm of hatred against the Nord race, that he had used them, lied to them, and now had abandoned them. Whatever happened now, he knew that his life was forfeit: and Eirik hadn't even laid a hand on him, even as he had promised.

"Open the gates!" he said at last. Then, suddenly, he rose from his knees and turned to his Night-Blades. "Kill him! Kill them all! Cut his throat so he never Shouts again, then carve out his heart!" But the Night-Blades were stunned and did not answer.

"What, are you deaf?" he returned. "I told you to kill them!" They made no answer. "How dare you disobey me! I am your king!"

"King?" one of the Night-Blades asked. "You said that you were no king, and we were no people."

"It's a lie, all of it!" he returned. "That devil Nord was using me, controlling my mind, making me say things I never really meant. Don't open the g..."

But at that moment, an arrow came whizzing down from the walls and stuck fast into Madanach's throat. Chaos now ensued as the Forsworn, leaderless, began to depart or draw their weapons on those in the city. Eirik, meanwhile, had taken his sword back and was ready to fight the Night-Blades.

"I know not what you did to our lord and master," one of the Night-Blades said. "But we will never forget, and we will never forgive. The Forsworn will always endure!"

"I know," Eirik sighed. "But now, you have no leader. Go back into the hills and trouble Markarth no longer."

The Night-Blades left, though they kept their eyes on the Dragonborn as they did. Eirik, meanwhile, was frowning as he turned back to his daughter, Erik, and the Thalmor Ondolemar. He disliked this whole business altogether.

"Come," he said. "We have to restore order."

"What about him?" Sigrun said, shoving the elf onto his knees before her Father.

"Yes, yes, let me live," Ondolemar said. "I can be very useful to you, yes? You could be much more than Ulfric's puppet, and with my help..." Eirik kicked the elf in the face.

"I am not your puppet," he returned. "And your time is over." He turned back to the dragon. "Odahviing, burn him."

The three of them ran out of the way as Odahviing let loose a torrent of fire that incinerated Ondolemar, clothes, bones, and all. Eirik's eyes were turned back eastward, towards those who had newly arrived. Fifty, he hoped, would be enough to bring order to Markarth: they would have to be. He disliked the idea of continuing to use dragons to instill fear upon people. Yet despite his fears, there was another feeling as well. He had ended a feud that lasted as long as he had been alive: there truly was great power within him. More than he had initially believed.

Eirik smiled.

(AN: I always wondered what it meant when it says that Ysgramor "shouted some sense" into his followers. This is my variation of that.)

(So philosophy time! After the past twenty years of art telling us that it is not necessarily wrong to choose "the lesser of two evils", now we have people saying that, when faced with two evils, one should choose neither option. This feels rather childish, where a kid is presented with two [and ONLY two] options and makes up a third option to keep themselves from the burden of choice. It also brings to mind the biggest problem with this "Gray Jedi" mindset as demonstrated in the original subversive Star Wars story, Knights of the Old Republic II: "apathy is death". To make no choice is to default to the greatest evil.)