i do not own skyrim or LoTR. all original characters are mine

Chapter 2

The high king stared at the archmage for along moment, in which silence reigned in the hall. Then clamor erupted as the assembly of the hall began to roar their disfavor of the elf's suggestion. "Leave this world?" "Where will we go?" "Would damn us all to Oblivion?" The archmage simply stood in silence; his face composed, and let the rage wash over him like a wave upon the beaches of the Pale.

The steward of Falkreath stood from his seat behind the young Jarl of that hold. "Are you mad, Archmage? Would you see us all dead in planes of Oblivion? I will not trade years of slow death on a Thalmor's torture rack for an eternity in the tender embraces of Molag-Bal. Or were you of a mind to send us to Aetherius? I am as eager to walk the valley of Sovngard as the next nord, but I still love this life too much to relinquish it now for the hallowed halls of the valorous dead."

This statement was met with great accord, as others in the hall of the Palace of Kings began shaking their fists and shouting at the high elf in the garb of the College of Winterhold. The clamor became so great, that the king was forced to bang the head of his quicksilver axe once again on the stone of his throne, shouting for quiet as he did. But the shouting continued, even growing in intensity and vehemence. Keldaf drew in his breath, and this time, when he called for silence, he invested something more than just words in his voice. The bloodline of the Dragonborn rang true within in him, and here he shared that truth with the entire hall. The booming echo of his voice rang out though the entire keep, rattling the windows and doors. Dust and splinters of wood fell from rafters, while pebbles and slivers of rock shook themselves free of the stones of the palace's floors and walls. "I WILL HAVE SILENCE." In less than a heartbeat, not just the hall but entire castle fell to quiet, fearful awaiting the voiced wrath of king of the dragon's blood.

Keldaf drew another deep breath, and the assembly held theirs in anticipation for second example of the Thuum of the royal house. But the king only sighed and glared at his entire court. "None of you have had a single alternative for our survival to share, save the Archmage. I would hear him speak and explain his statement." Now the old man focused the full force of his kingly stare at the High Elf at the end of the hall. "Please share your reasoning, Nutholmar."

The Archamge returned the king's look for several seconds, before sweeping the hall with his golden eyes. "My scholars in the College, my cosmologists, have made it their lives' work to study the workings of our universe, of its points of interests, its celestial bodies, and its various planes. They found that their certainly worlds beyond our own, other than the realms of gods and daedra. Some can support life; others would appear to be barren, in what manner we do not know."

One of the priests stood forth. "How can you possible tell if a world is livable or barren, but not tell in what manner? What does that even mean, my lord Archmage?"

Nutholmar tilted his head and looked at the ceiling, his face thoughtful. "It's a complicated spell. We send out a 'pulse' of magic, if you will, at a world in the heavens. When it returns to us, like the returning waves bouncing off the shore of pond, we study the results. These results tell us if a world can support life, or is as barren as the Dead Lands of Mehrunes Dagon. But the spell cannot tell the nature of the world beyond those specifics." He looked back up at the king. "I am proposing that we flee this world for one those out in the vastness of the universe. I cannot guarantee it will be a safe world, or comfortable one. But I ask you: if you had to choose between accepting a certain fate of death for you and those in your charge, and a throw of the bones for a chance that they might be able to live somewhere else, what would you do?"

The High King sat on his throne, eyes distant as he thought. He looked at the children at his table, their shoulders heavy in grief and burdens beyond their years, and then to his own two sons at his sides. The hall stood with bated breath, waiting for the king's answer. Finally, Keldaf straightened in his seat, and looked the Archmage square in the eye. "Very well, Nutholmar, what will you need?"

The wind was howling off the mouth of the White River, just northeast of Windhelm, and frost was forming thick in Keldaf's beard. He was standing on rise of Traitor's Post, at the western end of the Dunmeth Pass, looking out over the eastern-most piece of land to belong to Winterhold Hold. As he watched, hundreds of laborers from the refugee camps were hauling stone blocks from the nearby Yngol Barrow. Already, a structure of great arches and pedestals was taking shape on the ground, and still more men struggled to heave the heavy stonework into place, all at the commanding direction of several mages in observance. Keldaf was too distant to hear the voices of the work crews over the roar of the wind, but he been to the construction site already, and he knew the mages' obsessive need to exacting detail in their works.

He turned back to Nutholmar, who was standing next him and a couple other members of the High King's court. "Are you sure of your requirements, Archmage?"

Nutholmar nodded, his eyes on the construction. "Yes, my lord. We will need an archway of sufficient size to form the boundary of the portal we must conjure. If it were possible, I would simply use an arch already in existence, such as those found at the Labyrinthian. However, those lands are still contested and thick with Dominion soldiers. It would unwise to try to evacuate our people through a portal in such dangerous territory. As such, we must construct an arch. We are lucky that the barrow is so close to this location. It is large and open enough to build an arch of suitable size for our purposes. And the stones from the barrow have been embowed with ancient magic from its occupants and original purpose. They will serve well to build the arch."

On the king's other side, a man in heavy armor of steel and quicksilver plates, intricately carved in the imagery of hears, sowed to thick leather and fur, coughed. "What are the pedestals for then?" asked Garrvick, general of Skyrim's armies.

Nutholmar, pointed to the west, to wagon loads of crates, chests, and barrels. "We have brought with us several objects of power, which must be used to open the portal and help maintain it. My mages can cast the spells, and direct the portal to open where we want it, but without enough power to rend the fabric of reality, we are just gesturing at the air until the Thalmor come to kill us, for all the good it would do. We need objects of great power to supply the energies we need to open the portal. The pedestals are arrayed and built to channel those energies into the archway, to power the portal."

The fourth member of the group looked aside to the Altmer. He was tall, and broad shouldered, but he wore a beard the gray of a stormy sky, and it hung to his waist. His robes covered him from head to foot, and a gray hood shadowed his face. In his hand was an iron gray staff, its head a curved dragon. "What objects of power where you intending to use, Nutholmar?" asked Weirgnayr, leader of the Graybeards.

Nutholmar's face became grave. "Before the Imperial City fell, several Moth priests fled to Skyrim ahead of the Dominion's forces. They carried with them three Elder Scrolls."

Weirgnayr spluttered, his eyes wide. "Elder Scrolls!? You would use Elder Scrolls? Unleash the very forces of creation?"

"Yes, my friend, I must. They are the only objects within our possession that can serve to open the portal. Is that not what they have done before? Cast Alduin himself through time? Open the doors between Nirn and Oblivion?"

"But what of the Daedric Artifacts? Surely they can produce the power needed. The toys of the Princes of Oblivion have passes back and forth between the mortal and immortal planes since time out of mind."

Nutholmar shook his head. "If I had access to enough of them, then maybe I could. But only the items of Azura, Malacath, Hircine, Meridia, and Nocturnal are available to us, and I would not deprive their far more practical uses from us, when it would not be enough regardless. By using these Elder Scrolls, we can open the gateway, and by draining them of their power, we will deprive the Thalmor of their use."

Weirgnayr seems to deflate, his face horrified. To use the Elder Scrolls in such a way was to court catastrophe. Yet the Archmage had a point. They lacked enough of the great Daedric Artifacts to make use of them, and the Elder Scrolls were far too dangerous to leave in the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion. He sighed. If it must be so, then let it be so. He raised his head. "There is something more you wanted to say; else you would not have called me here."

Nutholmar nodded. "Yes, Weirgnayr, there is. The portal will be unstable, regardless how many mages I have pouring magicka into strengthening it. I believe that we need older, more forceful powers to maintain the stability of the gateway; else we risk it imploding on us and killing the entire northwestern portion of Tamriel with it. I need your Greybeards, and the dragons, to shout at the portal, once it is open. Shouts have enormous ancient power in them, and we will need every breath that you and your friends can take in order to portal to stay up."

Weirgnayr look down at the slowly rising arch, eyes distant. "Very well, I will speak with my brothers. We shall do what we can to lend our aid, but I fear that the Dov will only heed the command of his Majesty. He is their thuri, their overlord, and they will obey his orders."

Keldaf nodded. "Yes, I will call Odahviing. The dragons will lend their lovaas, their voices, to the endeavor." He turned and began walking back down the beach head, to the long shore boat waiting to ferry him across the bay to the city docks. Thought danced wildly through his head; lists of supplies for the horses, jumbling with the roster of priests from the temples across Skyrim, mixing with manifests of Soul gems to be crated up for traveling, jarring with orders for troops to pull back from the forts at Fellglow Keep, Fort Fellhammer, and the defenses at Haemar's shame. He had already issued orders for the fort commanders to withdraw their forward defenses from Silverdrift Lair, Korvanjund, Graywinter Watch, and Yngvild, where his armies held the line against the Dominion's forces. Keldaf hoped that pulling back his troops now would not prove itself to be a horrible miscalculation of the Thalmor's positions, but he need those men closer to home, if he hoped to be able to move them quickly through the portal when the time came, not scattered all over the eastern half of Skyrim.

Keldaf growled under his breath. It took time for his mandates to travel from Windhelm to the forward positions, especially by courier in the late autum, just as the winter snows were beginning to set in. He was counting on the onset of winter weather to slow down the Dominion's advance, as they moved their forces out of the more temperate holds of Falkreath and the Reach. His greater concern was that the Aldmeri Legions in Falkreath would attempt to push through the valley of the White River, the shortest route into the Eastmarch, and set upon the refugees camped about the hot springs and steam vents, where they huddled for warmth. He was certain that the Thalmor would avoid taking the northern road to Lake Yorgrim, for the snows and cold turned that path dangerous in winter, prone to avalanches of snow and rock. They would come by sea, for the Elves had no true sea skills to navigate the ice flows so close to shore as to creep along the coast to the mouth of the White River. And the mountain path, south of the Throat of the World, into the Rift, was far too narrow to lead an army down. Still, how he wished for one of the dragons to take his missives out for him. But he would never demean a great dragon by asking that it act as a simple messenger for him.

As he reached the shore, he looked southwards, up the hill, where civilians were already beginning to relocate, to closer to the shared hope of escape from the Dominion. Wagons and carts, filled to overflowing with crates, barrels, bags, and chests, were being parked in masse at the Hlaalu and Hollyfrost farms, and the great bridge out of Windhelm was choked with more wagons and carts, as supplies, such as food and lumber, clothing and armor, weapons and potions, tools and livestock, were being funneled out of the city to main staging area. Another depot was already building up on the northern shore of the river mouth, as more supplies were arriving from Winterhold and the College. The goods from the college were especially important; the chests and crates were filled with valuable soul gems, magical jewelry, and enchanted clothing, as well as crafting tables for alchemy and enchantment. They would need all the magic they could carry once they left for this new world, to face its unknown dangers and traps.

Other boxes held heaps of books and scrolls, not all of them spelled. The Archmage hoped to preserve as much of the History of their world as he could, for he knew that the Thalmor would burn all of creation to the ground if it meant a return to divinity, regardless of the knowledge lost. And without those books of magic, how could new mages be trained and taught?

Riften had contributed its resources as well, sending barges of lumber, quarried stone and mud bricks, and stacked piles of dried and tanned animal skins from its woodlands. The large quantities of bear, saber cat, and deer pelts would be welcome in attempts to stave off the winter's chill. The lumber, stone, and brick would be useful, once they population was through the portal, to construct a settlement, but the pelts could be used now to warm the young and elderly amongst the refugees.

Two more vast shipments were being prepared still, both of important supplies, though the procurement of these items had begun long before the Dominion struck at Skyrim. Years past, when King Keldaf had first felt the stirrings of invasion on the horizon, he had sent out soldiers to the great tombs and ruins that dotted his kingdom. Whole companies dived into the ancient dungeons, crawling with the restless undead, and returned with cart loads of ancient weapon and armor. Though the tools of the draugr were worn and old, they were still of excellent quality and practical use. Soon, the armories of Riften, Windhlem, and Winterhold were filled with ancient Nordic swords, axes, bows, and arrows, while ancient pieces of strong armor were set in storage, alongside weapons and armor from all over Tamriel; elven, glass, ebony, Nordic, orcish, dwarven, stalhrim, bonemold, all contributed to arms buildup. And now those very arms and armor were being packed into crates and chests, loaded into wagons, and sent trundling down the roads to the supply depots near Yngol Barrow.

But one more shipment was still coming in. Tons of ore, from iron and corundum, to ebony and orichalcum, to moonstone and malachite, to quicksilver and stalhrim, all that could be scavenged from store rooms, picked from surface veins, or stripped from mines, was being accumulated. Nor was gold and silver neglected for more practical metals. Gold, silver, and gems had been hoarded for years, saved within the vaults of the Riften and Windhelm. One never knew if they might need raw precious metals for trade. The vast quanties still being loaded onto wagons and barges in the Rift and Winterhold hold, to be sent over roads, river, and coastline to the construction site.

With such a large store of supplies, the majority of the horses and cattle would need to be harnessed to the logistical freight wagons, instead of the carriages that would be carrying the civilians. But Keldaf already had a plan. He would order the troops he was pulling from the front to pull the far lighter loads of people, rather than the greater tons of freight. He would see his people safely through that portal, and with all the supplies, food, and protection that they would need.

As the long shore boat pulled up to the docks below the walls of his city, Keldaf wondered what his sons were up to in their own preparations.

Hödir was ready to kill someone, in such a way as to leave him a mangled stain on the ground before the doors of Candlehearth Hall; especially if that someone was the head of the guard detachment in charge of organizing the crating of foodstuffs from that same establishment. And most especially if that guard captain was currently drunk and leaning against the walls of the tavern in a profound stupor. The prince was trying to maintain an orderly procession of duties and he worked to gather all the supplies and goods from within the city for shipment to the depots. But it seemed the guard he had tasked to procure the pantries full of dried meats, breads, and vegetables, had seen fit to instead help himself to the inn's rather hefty stores of mead.

Now the guard captain was the next thing to passed out while at his post, his command was currently drinking its fill within the tavern, and the goods and supplies of Candlehearth Inn were still unpacked and nowhere near prepared for travel. Hödir drew his palm down across his face in frustration, struggled to reign in his flaring temper, and then decided to solve his problem in the fashion traditional to his nord race: his threw a powerful right hook to the captain's jaw, which finished what the mead had begun, and step over the unconscious body into the inn.

"What in the name of Oblivion is going on here?! Why are these supplies doing unloaded?" The princes voice rang with the restrained power of his Thuum, and every guard in the room proceed to fall out of his chair in alarm. "This is disgraceful! You are soldiers of Skyrim, not miners in from the mountains. Now act like it and get these supplies loaded, or so help me, I'll see the lot of you strung up and lashed for negligence!"

Immediately, the 5 men in uniform scrambled from the embarrassing drunken sprawl they had landed in, and hurry into the cellar and store room behind the bar to begin packing the preserved food. Hödir shook his head in disgust. A laugh sounded from the doorway behind him, causing the prince to turn about. His brother, Korvan, was standing in there, doubled over in a rich belly laugh. "Lighten up, brother mine; they were only helping to lessen the loads that we must carry."

Hödir scowled. He loved his elder brother, but the red haired warrior preferred to think with his axe arm, or stomach, rather than his head. And while this made him a monster on the battlefield, and well liked amongst the soldiers, it failed to lend itself to organizing an evacuation with any significant success. Then he sighed, and met his brother's gray eyes. "They are guards, warriors of Windhelm and soldiers of Skyrim. It is their duty to uphold the honor of this city and its people, not drink themselves into the gutter when the Thalmor may descend upon us at any time. We must complete the clearing of the city, every crumb of food, every drop of mead, every shard of glass or pebble of stone, must be packed away, loaded up, and taken to the farms for transport. The portal will soon be ready, and so must we, if our people are to flee from certain destruction."

Korvan turned his head and spat into a nearby fire-pit. "Fah, why we should run? What have we to fear from the gold-skins? I would take my army and march on Whiterun to burn them out and retake our city. But father forbids me this glory, and has my men and I work as clerks, waggoneers, and common loaders, instead of slaughtering the elves like the dogs they are."

Hödir closed his eyes and raised his head to the

sky. A fine mist of rain had begun, and he could feel the drops hitting his face, wetting his hair and short beard. Why must he continue to act the barbarian fool? Can he not see the odds, the forces against us? His "army" stands five hundred strong, and yet he thinks that those numbers would be sufficient to face the Dominion's hundreds of thousands? On the open plains of Whiterun Hold? Hödir opened his eyes and lowered his gaze to his older brother. "Father forbids you and your personal arms-men from attacking, because he needs you here. He is already wanting to pull our forces back from the front, so that we can all escape through the portal once it has opened, not strung out across half of Skyrim. If you strike out on your own, like a bullheaded fool, you risk all our lives for the sake of leading your men on a suicide run."

Korvan sneered at his golden haired sibling. "You are a coward, Hödir. We are Nords, sons of the snow, warriors from the cradle. Each of my men is worth a hundred of the Dominion's weaklings, and we are unafraid. We should be taking the fight to the witch-elves, not hiding here in the east, hoping to flee through some magic door in the sky. That is your way, the Imperial way. A coward's way. Father was fool to send you to Solitude all those years ago, to study with the bards. The tongue arts have made you weak, soft. Where is your honor, your courage?"

Hödir step forward, til his face was but inches from his brother's. "You are a fool and an idiot, Korvan. You say your housecarls are worth a hundred elves apiece? That may be true, but the Dominion doesn't have five thousand men for you to fight. They have hundreds of thousands. They would wash over you like the sea, and leave nothing behind. That is why we flee. It is not cowardice. It is survival. Survival for our people, for all the people who have suffered at the hands of the Thalmor. Father needs you here, with your men, so that we may be able to defend the weak, the young, the elderly, the women, once we go through the portal. We don't know what will be beyond it, if it will be worse, or better than what we face here. But we do know that if we stay, if we fight, when there is no chance of survival, then not only our armies, our soldiers, will die, but so will those defenseless people outside those walls." Hödir jabbed his finger at the great gate behind his brother. "Where will be your honor then, brother? Where will it be when all that your fight for lies in ruins behind your still corpse? What will it matter to Shor in his hall that you fought oh so ferociously, when the very reason your fight is dead? I know where my honor lays, Korvan. It lies in my duty, duty to our people, to our father. It lies in defending those refugees, til my last breath even, so long as they survive. It lies in obeying my king, following his commands to the fullest that I may. If I die in my duty, for my people and my king, then so be it. I will walk to the Whalebone Bridge and face Tsun with my head high and my honor intact, and I will accept his judgement whatever it may be."

Korvan stared back into his brother's eyes for several long seconds, their misty breath mingling in the chilly air, before turning away with a scowl. "Do what you will, Hödir. I will follow our father's commands, and remain within the city. But know that this is craven cowardice, and I will not be part of it beyond what the king demands. My men and I will have nothing to do with the evacuation, for I believe it foolishness. Instead, we will amuse ourselves with the delights of the women in the camp, and mead in my hall. Fah." With that, Korvan again spat into the fire-pit as he stalked off down the street.

Hödir stared after his brother, watching him tramp his way through the autumn slush that filled the low places of the city. It was only after Korvan had vanished around a corner that he finally relaxed the white knuckled grip he had on his sword hilt. Hödir blinked in surprise; he had not even realized that his hand had strayed to the weapon. That worried him. Hödir loved his brother, and knew that one of his personal reasons for seeking to keep Korvan in Windhelm, was because he did not wish to lose his sibling in a suicidal attack against a superior Thalmor position. Korvan was mulish at times, to be sure, yet he was also loyal to a fault, savage in battle, and gentle with many who could not defend themselves. Korvan saw it as his ultimate duty to defend his people and his father against all threats. At the moment, the trouble lay with restraints that had been placed upon the red haired warrior. He hated to be confined, to be denied the action, the opportunity to do something. It was his frustration that was speaking out in anger, not true contempt.

"Well, that was certainly entertaining. But then, brotherly spats usually are."

Hödir spun about. He knew that condescending tone, though he had not heard it in years. Not since he was last in Solitude, finishing his education in the Bard's College. Not since…. "Guinen." He said in a tone of force politeness. Stepping down from the alley way that led to the Gray Quarter, was a young woman, of age with himself. Her skin was a darkened tan, nearly the color of caramel. Her hair was long, to the middle of her back, and a lustrous black. Her nose was straight, proud, but not overly prominent. Her eyes were a hard dark brown, her mouth an inviting pout. She wore a long skirt and vest tunic of animal hide and furs. Despite her attire, she seemed as little perturbed by the cold as Hödir himself.

Hödir squared his shoulders as he fully faced her, and then stiffly bowed at the waist, hand over his heart. "My lady. How may I be of assistance?"

There was a tense pause, then Guinen Gold-Tongue, Lady of Hag's End, Mistress of the Deepwood Redoubt, Chieftain of the Reacher Tribes, Uncrowned Queen of the Reach, gave a tinkling laugh. "My, aren't you polite today, Hödir Dragonsblood. Why such formality? Surely we are too familiar for that." She sauntered closer and began to circle the prince, drawing a long, slender finger along his shouler. "Weren't those nights in Solitude sufficient to prove that? Or maybe it was the days we spent wandering the heights of Haafingar? Or the evenings of dark corners in the Blue Palace?" She came to a halt in front of him, her eyes going hard. "Or how about the insult you gave me on the very steps of the Temple?" Abruptly, she slapped Hödir across the face, jerking his head to the side and raising a line of red where her nails and scratched his cheek.

Hödir, reached up and felt at the side of his face, could feel the droplets of blood begin to swell for the scratches, as he looked at this fiery young women, a women who oncemeant, and still did, a great deal to him. "Guinen, I meant no disrespect…"

"Disrespect?! You shamed me before my people and the folk of Solitude. I gave you my heart, my soul, and you dashed it from my hands. You told me you loved me, yet you ran from me like a coward. No, no Hödir Keldafson, this goes beyond disrespect. What you did would call for blood feud and war between our peoples, if it not for the Dominion. Now I know why my people, the Forsworn, have hated Nords for centuries. Your silver tongues make many a vow, yet I have yet to seen one kept. You swore to me that you loved me, that our futures would happy, but you have brought such to me and mine that I cannot ever see why we knew such joy." Tears were now rolling down her face, even as the anger and contempt continued to rise in her voice. "Thou art a bastard, Prince of Skyrim."

Hödir looked at her in silence, shock running through his heart, though none of it showed on his face. "I could not stay, Guinen, though I wished to do so to all the Divines. But I had duties, responsibilities to complete. My father had called me home and I had to return to Windhelm. I did love you, I swear to you I did, and I never wished to hurt you. But my duties were in the Eastmarch, and you were your father's only daughter. You could not leave your people in the Reach any more than I could abandon the East march while Krovan led our forces to Falkreath. There was nothing I could do. And nor should it be a reason why you so wroth with me. You knew the reasons I had to leave, just as I did. Yet then, even as now, your anger is far greater than warranted. If you must hate me, then at least do me the courtesy of telling the truth of its source." Gently, Hödir reached out a hand to try and brush a tear from the cheek of the women who had once held his heart.

Furiously, Guinen, slapped the hand away, and stared up at the Nord prince with hate filled eyes. "Very well, I will tell, if you truly wished to know. That day, that summer afternoon, on the steps of the Temple, I did have cause to try so desperately to keep you with me. I wanted you stay with me in Deepwood Reboubt, or take me with you to Windhelm, I cared not which, so long as we were together. I wanted that because I had just discovered, that very morning when I woke from your bed, that I was with child. With your child."

Matt211993: this is not a dragonborn. its been a few hundred years since the events of skyrim. inthat time, the bloodline of the dragonborn married into the ruling house of skyrim, creating the line of dragonsblood. the family can use thuum more easily than greybeards, but they cannot absorb dragon souls, and only know a handful of shouts.

kingraven1138: i only know of the one snow elf from dawn gaurd, and i am deciding whether or not to have him still alive, or not. he may serve a purpose if he is alive.

ww1990ww: there will be magic. it does already exist in middlearth, just not many people use it. we hve seen galadriel, sauron, gandalf, elrond, and even aragorn use a bit of it. its just not the same as magic in tamriel. but it will be needed by the refugees. i mean come on. 15000 thousoand people against the hundreds of thousands of orcs roaming the owlrd? they will the magic to give them the surving edge.