Hullo, everybody! I'm sorry it's taken so long, but I'm trying to get back on track. Just haven't been inspired as of late. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! XD Please read and Review, and I hope you enjoy! -LR
"Alright, but see, what if I wanted to establish it as a non-issue? Eliminate it- completely," I explain as we head further down the hall. "I mean honestly, who wants to empty a grown man's chamber pots for a living? Not me. Not you, I should hope."
Ulfric shakes his head as we round the corner, heading deeper into the East Wing.
"There's the caveat, my King," he replies grimly. "It is someone's living. Their way of feeding their families. You take that position off the market, and you cripple them."
I roll my shoulders and sigh before pushing open the doors of my solar.
He's right.
"You're right," I mutter, before taking a seat in the high-backed chair at the head of the table. "It's just… humiliating. We're grown men; for Arkay's sake, can we not clean up our own shit? I don't need some twelve year old girl to do that for me. Neither does Vignar, or Skald, or any other of these new lazy Jarls."
His shoulders rise and fall.
"We grow used to our conveniences."
"Bullshit."
"I think you mean, our shit."
I can't help but grin, as we exit the solar, heading towards my court. He's a pretty good man, Ulfric Stormcloak, as much reason as I've got to hate him. I crack my neck and lean my head back, rotating my arms as we walk further down the corridor.
"Thank you, Ulfric, for everything. I know you've spent a lot of time away from your own capitol, getting things in order here. I appreciate it."
He smiles in return.
"But, of course." He shuffles the few damage reports, sent in from various holds, glancing quietly over them. "Any true High King of Skyrim will always have my aid. But, we really ought to return to the matters at hand- organizing this country for the New Age." He nods towards the banner draping down from a passing wall. "Your age, Marrick."
Chills raise my skin and straighten my spine as we pass the flag.
My age.
The Age of the Dragon King.
It's hard to believe it's all real. That I am who they say I am.
It feels as if I'm still that same slumdog from Salt City. As if twenty years of thieving and fucking and fighting have blown right by, and suddenly, I'm King of everything I've ever hated and everything I've ever loved.
I don't have time to be bewildered, though. Now, it's here. And I have to rise to the occasion.
I loosen my shoulders and brush it all off, before giving Ulfric a nod.
We turn a corner, and there it is, looming at the end of the hall.
The doors to my courtroom.
All the chatter of the day has been leading up to this moment. Nothing else has mattered. Food and drink were tasteless. Nights have been sleepless. Today, I face my first true opponent since Elisif: her acting small council.
Inside it, await five men- the advisory board put together by Elisif. The same men who made a puppet of her and now, mean to do the same with me. They are five, in total.
A Lord Administrator, for taxes. A High Scholar, for reference to history. A High Wizard, for guidance and magick. A Lord Commander, for guidance in war. A Master Blacksmith, for personal services.
Falk Firebeard, her steward, as Lord Administrator. Viarmo, Headmaster of the Bard's College, was her High Scholar. Sybille Stentor, the Court Mage, as High Wizard. General Tullius, of course, acted as Lord Commander. Beirand of Solitude was her Master smith.
Every last one of them had desires of their own- beliefs of how the kingdom needed to be run in order to protect their own interests. Problem is, Elisif's gone. They'll want to stick their strings in me, now.
"My King." Ulfric whispers hoarsely. "This is where I leave you."
I nod slowly, and swallow hard.
"So it is." I wet my lips. "Have you found him, then?"
He nods.
"He was caught travelling through East March, but your Rangers found him quick enough."
"Good," I murmur. "Good. Was his family with him?"
Ulfric shakes his head.
"He was alone. His wife and son have been moved here comfortably, and haven't made to escape in anyway. "
"What of his daughter?"
"We've had visual confirmation that his daughter still resides in Morthal. She's not harming anyone; we figured it was fine, long as we could keep tabs."
"You did the right thing. Is he in the dungeons, then?" Ulfric nods. "That'll do, for now. It'll keep him guessing until I approach him."
"Are you sure about this?" he asks.
I've out the question to myself half a hundred times. Any way you look at it, this is all necessary.
"Skyrim cannot be without a small council," I recite. "That's a mandate as old as the country herself. If I'm going to replace this traitorous lot, I have to find those replacements first. My new council must be formed before I can ever hope to overthrow the old. They must overlap."
"Have you these new men in mind?"
"A few," I shrug. "The others I can make up as I go along."
His whole expression screams of doubt.
"These men have power, Marrick," he warns. "Bloodline. Wealth. And, they are not by any means above the use of small knives and dark corners. You cannot trust any one of them."
"I know that," I remind him. "I know that, first hand."
Ulfric gives me an apologetic look, before turning his attention back to the door.
"Anything else on your mind?" he says, gently.
"I suppose I'm thinking of my father's first moments as king."
"I see."
"Before we do this, Ulfric, before I make you my Lord Commander." My fingers are trembling; my skin grow cold. "There's something I have to know."
"Of course, my King," he answers dutifully. "Anything."
"I hear my father regarded you with great honor and respect. That if it meant Skyrim's independence, he might've reasoned with you." I face him head-on, to see an expression rife with regret. "Would you trust the man who did such a thing to your own father?"
He says nothing. I don't expect him to.
Without another word, I brace my palms against the door to the court and release a breath I hadn't realized I've been holding, before pushing my way through.
Sunlight streams through from the windows above us, making the marble I was kneeling on only just last week glisten. Along the walls climb healthy, green vines bearing flowers while my new banners fall from the ceiling. I pass by shelves and tables of crockery before striding through the gathering of five council members, each person bowing grandly as I make my way towards the throne.
"Your Grace!" Firebeard cries out as I enter the great hall. He rises from his seat, the other council members following suit. "The greatest congratulations on your coronation, my King! May I say, it is a true blessing that the tyranny of Elisif has finally come to an resolute end. It honors me greatly to be able to serve his Grace."
"The father's son, with the father's crown," Stentor agrees. "A poetic end to Elisif's treacherous reign."
I slide my gaze over the lot of them. Sycophants, each and every one.
Ulfric wasn't kidding.
"Aye, well, let us put that crown to some good." The old crone looks the slightest bit miffed, but he manages to cover it up. "If you'll have your seats, we can call this meeting to order, starting with any pressing concerns."
"It comes to our attention that we're a member short," Beirand starts. "Who is it you mean to replace General Tullius, my King?"
"If the scribe can draw up the official papers sometime soon," I preface, with a nod to Firebeard, "I intend to have Ulfric Stormcloak step in as Lord Commander."
"A wise choice, your Grace," Firebeard announces, bobbing his had in agreement. "I'll have it in writing as soon as possible."
"Then, we're all agreed?" I ask.
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
"Wonderful," I nod. "What's next on the agenda?"
"Your Grace?" Viarmo offers. I nod for him to continue. "A few offers of marriage from two Jarls. Whiterun's Jarl Vignar offers his niece, Olfina Gray-Mane. The Jarl of Riften, Laila Law-Giver, also offers her hand. How shall we respond?"
I swallow hard.
What do I say?
How do I say it?
There's only one woman in all the versions of all my past lives I could ever hope to marry. And for that same reason- that there were other women in those lives- I also couldn't ever hope to. I made up my mind leading up to this moment, that I would not take a wife unless she were Rontu O'Naharis. Even if she doesn't believe in me, that in itself is a big enough statement to prove how I feel.
Before I can respond, Sybille's taken on the responsibility, chuckling snidely.
"Laila Law-Giver, offering her hand? She's got two sons already, has she not?"
"And both men grown, I should add," Beirand smirks. "Almost of an age with you yourself, my King." He shakes his head. "Proposing marriage, at her age? And, to the King, no less?" he sneers. "I don't know where she drew that notion from."
Divines, these people are treacherous.
"An heir is important to secure not only your line, but the hearts of the people," Firebeard concludes. I think of my son, and how, no matter how much I love him, he is still base-born. "Unless you have any little base-born lads running about who might do, a natural son is what we'll need from a marriage, and soon at that."
I study the old man, stunned- almost squinting at him, for how I can't believe what he's just said. Do they know about Rontu? Do they know about my son?
A coldness settles in my chest.
Do they know about it all?
"I understand the need to reply," Sybille says coolly, "but I for one think it's best to wait awhile for better prospects. These are, naturally, only the very first of many, not counting those of our ally nations."
"We wait, then," I resolve, my voice hoarse. That shit was too close for comfort.
I'm starting to see how they managed to manipulate Elisif.
"An excellent course of action, your Grace. We shall reconvene on the subject of marriage on a later date." Viarmo looks to me expectantly. "What else can we accomplish today, then?"
The official documents are before each of us, but I notice all five of them watching me with great interest. That's when it clicks.
They think I'm illiterate.
I could almost laugh, I'm so stunned by this realization. These motherfuckers are testing out my vulnerabilities to see how they can control me.
I pick up the paper gingerly, and take the greatest pleasure in the way Sybille's mouth flatlines and Falk casts his gaze elsewhere when I start to read it aloud.
"The High King's rangers have been organized," I recite, clearing my throat. "I have my honor guards. The doctrine written up by Ulfric Stormcloak and I is being implemented." I scan the pieces of parchment before me for any other information I might have missed. "Are there any new matters of business anyone would like to address?" I add, smugly.
"Yes, about that," interjects Sybille, smooth as ever. "As diplomatic and... humanitarian the doctrine is, your Grace," she says wryly, "the redistribution of wealth has put quite a strain on the treasury."
"What better use could the taxes have than to serve the taxpayers," I say bluntly. She and Firebeard share a glance that isn't missed by me. Neither dares to challenge that.
Beirand wants to play, though.
"With all due respect, my King, we thought a… a gathering of sorts might be in order. One that might introduce the new Jarls and have a face-to-face-to-face, for the sake of preserving the peace, of course."
It's not a bad idea. I ought to have a sit-down.
"I agree," I say. "But, I don't see how that should set-back the cost for the reclamation of the small villages."
"My King-" Falk blurts.
"Your Grace, we ask-" goes Sybille.
"One at a time," I interject. The council members blink at one another in disbelief. I nod to Sybille: "Ladies first."
"Your Grace," she stammers, before regaining her composure. "If you could only see the amounts leaving the treasury, you would reconsider. Now is the time to prioritize the budget and then decide-"
"People are dying, Sybille Stentor." The court silences immediately. "Have you been to Whiterun?" I ask her, my voice measured. "Have you seen the people there?" She hasn't; that's the problem. You can't care about what you don't understand. "I was arrested in Whiterun," I tell them. "Before that, I lived among her citizens. I remember them. I remember this boy," I shake my head. "This near-grown boy with a crate he was using as a coffin for the body of his little brother. Only half of him, he said. Bawling. Just bawling. Like a newborn babe. Only half of him," I echo. "Just what didn't burn." I turn my gaze back on Sybille. "Now, here we sit. And you… you tell me to prioritize?"
Her eyes widen and she lowers his head, stammering madly.
"My Grace- I mean, your King- I-I mean, my King, I only meant-"
"People are dying." My voice is loud enough to silence her. I point my finger towards the palace doors. "They are Skyrim! They are Skyrim! Skyrim is our priority, and they are Skyrim." I shake my head. "They're living in abject squalor- in the streets, in their own shit- we have little fucking girls changing our chamber pots day in and out, and there are children around this country living in their own shit!" I'm fuming, heaving breaths in and out as my small council watches me in silence. "We have to work together, now," I tell them. "Dragons. Imperial sympathizers. Homeless refugees. These are our main concerns. Not parties." I shake my head. "Not parties." I review the parchment before me once more. "Alright," I sigh, and loosen my shoulders. "What's next on the agenda?"
In the quiet of the middle of the night, I descend the stairs to the dungeons.
I'm not alone. My honor guard, Wendell follows close behind, his left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
"They say he put up quite the fight, for an older fellow," he smirks.
"They were wrong to underestimate him," I chuckle. "He's not the one to cross swords with, should you come across him in a dark alley. Be in for a bit of a surprise."
Wendell chuckles merrily to himself.
We follow the serpentin staircase down, down, down, until we reach the row of cells beneath the castle. They're empty, all of them, except one; the last one, and is occupant is making enough noise for a jailhouse full of prisoners.
"What is the meaning of this?" he bellows in the darkness. "Where are my wife and children, you swine? I demand to be released, immediately!"
"Aslfur."
He whirls around to see me, his eyes wild. When he finally makes me out, they light in recognition.
"Marrick Stray-King," he blurts, and shakes his head. "Apologies. Torrygson."
"That's another apology," snaps Erik, who's been keeping watch over him. "You've the honor of addressing his Grace, the King of Skyrim. You might act like it."
Aslfur's gaze slides from my bodyguard to me, glancing over my form.
"Indeed," he murmurs. "Have you brought me here to punish me then?" he says coolly. "Execution for our loyalties to the Empire?"
"Is that what you'd like, Aslfur?"
"Does it matter what I'd like, your Grace?" He chuckles, suddenly, and shakes his head. "Hard to believe that: your Grace. Called you many things, over the years. It's been 'poor orphan boy' to 'little rascal'. 'Little rascal' to ''rat bastard'. 'Rat bastard' to 'thieving dog." He smiles wanly. "Now, it's 'his Grace'. My wife's got the Sight. My daughter and son've got the Sight. Not one of them ever saw this coming."
There's a pause. I wait for him to continue, but it seems he's got nothing left to say.
"Are you done, then?" I ask, and Aslfur lifts his head.
His eyes are glazed over, with pride.
"Listen here, boy," he says lowly. "I don't give a damn what you do to me, but leave out my wife and my children. If you feel the need for vengeance so badly as that, you can take it from me!"
"Mind your tongue," Erick seethes in fury.
"Was our exile not enough for you, oh mighty King? Running us out of our own home, like criminals? Putting my children through such hardship?" I don't answer. Alsfur gives a snort, full of contempt. "She was right to leave you."
"Who?" I ask, playing along. "Idgrod?"
He smirks wryly.
"Depends. Has my daughter got a head of red hair? Eyes, white as the moons?" He makes a slight pause. "Your own base-born son?"
I don't flinch. The same can't be said of my spirited guard, who lunges for the man.
"Erik," I say simply. "Relax." I cross the room until Aslfur and I stand eye to eye. "Is that why you
think you're here, Aslfur?" I ask. "Petty. Inconsiderate. Vile. Cruel. Vengeful. You consider me to be this sort of man?"
He's silent. But, his eyes tell me everything he won't say himself.
"Why am I here," is the question he settles for, before begrudgingly adding, "your Grace?"
Why he's here. He won't believe me when I tell him.
"Please," I offer, gesturing to the table and chairs beside us, "sit."
"I think I'd rather stand," he says brusquely, eyeing my honor guard.
I incline my head in acknowledgement.
"Suit yourself, steward." I settle into a chair. There's a couple of pints and a wheel of cheese and braided bread on a platter, so I help myself. "To answer your question, I've brought you here for one thing, and one thing only."
"My destruction, no doubt," Alsfur mutters. Wary eyes watch as my hands guide servings to my plate.
"No, no," I chuckle, pressing a slice of the cheese to one of bread, "You're welcome to try again."
"Punishment, then," he resolves. "You mean to set an example, for your new kingdom."
I study him a while before swallowing down the meal with a bit of ale. I dust my palms against each other.
"Honestly, Alsfur, I'm not sure which of us I'm more disappointed with. You, for thinking so lowly of me, or myself, for fueling you that low opinion." He stares at me blankly. "My father," I say, breaking another crust of bread. "Your wife. You served them both faithfully; with all honor. Do you know why?"
Alsfur's gaze is still watchful, but also uncertain. He eyes my guards again before relenting.
"I served them, because they are good people," he answers. "Was, in your father's case. I loved them both. They were good to Skyrim. My job as a steward was to protect the interests of this country. If following their will meant never bowing to the Stormcloaks, then by all the gods, that's what I was prepared to do. And, that I still stand by," he says boldly. "Even if it now means my life."
I nod to myself and finish off the crust of bread, before dusting the crumbs from my hands once more. I lean forward in the chair and brace my elbows on my knees.
"Loyalty," I say simply. "You served my father and your wife well, because you believed in them. Good people, that's a fucking lie. Both Torygg and Idgrod the Crane have done the unspeakable. Jarls are not Jarls and Kings, not Kings for being 'good people'. But, in spite of that, you believed in them. That belief led to your loyalty. You saw their vision for Skryim, and trusted it. I now ask you to trust mine."
Alsfur stares in disbelief.
"What is it that you ask of me?"
"Serve me," I tell him. "Serve me, as Lord Administrator of my High Council."
I'm silent and watch him. He's silent and watches me.
"Feh!" he snorts. "Lord Administrator, eh? Someone ought to tell Falk Firebeard that."
"Falk Firebeard has no place on my small council," I inform him. "None of them do. But, to be in accord with the Small Council Mandate, I have to put my new members together before I can displace the old." Alsfur stares, unwilling to believe me. "It's like emptying a chamber pot," I chuckle. "Gotta get rid of the old shit, before retrieving the new."
"You take me for a fool," he whispered. He's confused, aye. But, most of all, he's terrified. Sweat drips down his forehead. His eyes shift from man to man. "You take me for a fool; you mean to torture me with lies before murdering me!"
"I can assure you, my lord, if his Grace wanted you dead-"
"Keep your false words to yourself!" Alsfur snaps. He jabs a finger towards me. "You don't know him the way I know him. That boy can hold a grudge like a babe holds to teat." He throws his arms open wide, indicating the dungeons around us. "Is this to be the home quarters of your new Lord Administrator, then?" he sneers. "A dungeon!?"
"You must forgive the locale, Alsfur. The current court has many eyes and ears. I wished to keep my movements against them quiet, you can imagine."
"Bullshit."
"My lord," Wendell tries again, "I beg you to be reasonable-"
"Wendell," I call out, "that's enough." Alsfur eyes me with a quiet rage. I watch him carefully, wondering. "Alright then," I mutter, nodding. "Have it your own way."
I rise up from the chair, and close the distance between us.
"What are you doing; keep away!" he shouts.
I ignore him, and pass by to the doors beyond him, flinging them open.
"You're free to go," I tell him, and then look my honor guard. "Erik. Wendell."
At their names, they begin to follow me to the staircase, leaving Alsfur in the dark with one single light.
"Wait!" he hisses after us. "Where are you going?!"
"You've a day and a night to accept or decline," I call over my shoulder. "You can find your wife and children in the West Wing. Ask any servant to guide you to the guest quarters. I'm sure you'll find your family has settled in quite nicely."
Just like that, we leave him there. But, only because I know what his answer will be.
I like to spend as much time with my guards as I can. I want to get to know them, to understand them. Who they are, who they come from. Their opinion gives as much perspective as any advisor ever could. The three of us can talk into the small hours of the morning. But, not tonight.
"You two are welcome to retire for the night," I tell them, smiling. "I'll be fine."
"Will you be retiring as well then, my King?" asks Erik. He's very loyal. Very unwiling to ever let me out of his sight. "If not, might be for the best that we stay on with you."
"I'll be fine," I reassure him. "I'm not wandering far; just he solar, off of my bedroom."
That seems to calm the poor boy down a bit, and with lowered heads, he and Wendell excuse themselves.
When they leave, I head into the solar, as promised. It's a cylindrical room, lined from floor to ceiling with books. Official records and documents and maps.
Since my coronation, I've spent every spare moment here, scouring those pages for anything that could lead me to Rontu. So far, I've only covered the Rift. She might be staying here, because the Thieves are like family, especially now that Jarsha's become Guildmaster. It makes sense that she might raise Segen close to them.
I've been all through the Pale as well, seeking out any names that look like aliases. The Dark Brotherhood was in Dawnstar now, so it makes sense that she'd want to keep close to Adjin as well.
These past few nights, I've been combing through the names of thanes and nobles in Eastmarch. Even though it murders me to think of her living in the same Hold as Ulfric and staying close to him, I have to consider the option.
I trade out my candle for one with a fresher wick and wax pillar and prepare to light it, when a figure appears at the door. I go for my knife immediately, but they drop into a defensive stance, both arms extended out, hands empty.
"It's only me!" Wendell calls in an urgent whisper.
"Wendell? Divines, man, I could've killed you just then!"
He laughs shakily to himself, "Don't I know it."
"What is it, then," I ask, after taking a breath. "Is there some urgent business?"
"Aye." He clears his throat. "Yes and no." He wets his lips, seeming to hesitate about something. "May not be my place to tell you this, your Grace. But, I've had enough of keeping it to myself and seeing you struggle in here, the way you are."
I can feel myself going red at being caught, which surprises me. Usually, I'm a shameless person.
"I have to find her," I whisper to the shadow in the doorway. "I have to find her, and our son."
Wendell nods his head, and clears his throat again.
"You might try the Lord Administrator's Hold then, if that's your goal." He gives me a meaningful look through the darkness, and bows out of the room. "Pleasant night, then, your Grace."
"And to you, Wendell," I murmur absently.
He shuts the door behind him, leaving me quite alone.
The Lord Administrator's Hold?
Falk Firebeard was born and reared in Solitude, I believe. Does that mean they're living in Haafingar? My heartbeat paces up by a million times, at the thought of Rontu choosing to live so near.
She had been at the coronation, after all. It stood to reason she was near.
But, no. Wendell phrased it the way he did for a reason. We'd just spoken to Alsfur about being Lord Administra-
That's when it clicks.
My eyes widen. Breath shortens.
I jolt from the chair and dash to the other side of the room, seeking out the most recent census reports for the residents of the Hjaalmarch Hold.
"Jarl Sorli the Builder. Steward, her Husband, Pactur. One son, Sirgar. Housecarl, Teeba-Ei, Argonian male."
"Moorside Inn. Run by Redguard woman, Jonna."
"Thonnir's house. Kept by Thonnir and Virkmund."
"Alva's House. Kept by Alva and Hroggar."
"Falion's House. Kept by Wizard Falion, and child, Agni."
"Guardhouse. Kept by Morthal Guard, Errol, and Benor."
"Windstad Manor. Kept by Thane Rontu O'Naha-"
My tongue stalls.
I feel my eyes glaze over, reading and re-reading her name on that page, my son's name after: "Segen O'Naharis". Ye gods, I can hardly breathe.
After all this time.
"There she is," I hiss to just myself. "There she is."