Twin mountains chapter 3

The temple's interior was dry, chilled, and, most importantly, silent. Hödir sat in that silence, chin resting on clasped hands, staring up at the statue of Talos Stormcrown. He liked coming here, not for any religious conviction, but for its deep, reverent silence. It was his favorite place to simply come, sit, and think in quiet. I'm going to miss this place, he thought. I doubt that I will ever find somewhere serene enough to just sit with my thoughts, once we leave this land.

And he needed this quiet, especially now, needed it to allow him the time and the solitude to consider his thoughts, his memories. To consider what the women, who had once meant the world to him, had said in her anger and spite. I was with child. With your child. Hödir felt his belly seize and his hands shake. A child. She had been carrying his child. That was why she had wanted so badly, begged so desperately, to remain with him. To travel to Windhelm and abandon her people, or for him to ignore his own father, the king, and stay with her in the Reach. She had wanted to remain with him and raise their child. He could almost hear the creaking of his teeth; his jaw was clinched so tightly. He thought to what she told him, while he was on his knees before her in shock.

"I wanted you to stay with me in Deepwood Redoubt, 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 as I woke from your bed, that I was with child. With your child."

Hödir stared down into Guinen's face. "What did you say? A child?" His voice was cracked, barely more than a whisper, scarcely heard over the rising howl of the wind.

"Yes, Hödir, a child. Our child. Born of a love that you let die for your foolish sense of duty. Now do you realize why you're spurning of me shamed me so much, why I have hated you, ignored your missives, spat on your counsels, for seven years? And now I curse you, Dragonsblood, for that shame is as much yours as it is mine."

Hödir fell to his knees in the snow, his eyes never leaving the Reacher's face. "Why did you not tell of the child? Surely, if I had known, if my father had known, we would have brought the both of you here, to the palace. Why did you not tell me later?"

Guinen's eyes were hard, cold, empty, and pitiless. "She died at birth. The healres said my anger and grief at you stressed the babe too much, so much so that she could endure the birthing. Let that knowledge, the knowledge that your stubbornness led to your own daughter's death." Turning on her heel, the uncrowned Queen of the Reach strode towards the great city gates, leaving a heartbroken man in her wake.

Hödir opened his eyes, blinking the memory of an hour ago away. He looked back up at the statue of the God of the Empire of Man. And felt his sense of hollow emptiness turn to raging fury and hate. Hate at the world, at his father's commands, at the gods, and his duty, at himself. Why had he not agreed to bring Guinen with him to Windhelm those years past. He had loved like she was a piece of his very being, would given his all to her, had she asked. But that day, he had receive a message from the Eastmarch. The Dominion had launched their first assault into Skyrim, invading over the Jerall Mts. into Falkreath, and Korvan had led the Army of Whiterun and the Rift to meet it at Lake Ilinalta. King Keldaf had need his younger son to help him organize the mustering of the Eastmarch, Winterhold, and the Pale to make its own march towards Whiterun to reinforce the city. He could not bring Guinen with him, away from her people, when he knew that soon enough, they would be gathering their own forces to face the Thalmor. Guinen would have been needed at her father's side, doing the exact same thing him as Hödir was doing for Keldaf.

Suddenly, he felt the chill of the wind on his neck, and could briefly hear the sounds of the city's preparations outside. "There you are, lad. Your guards lost you and came running to tell me of your disappearance before I heard of it elsewhere. I dare say I think they were quite afraid I might feed them to Odahviing." Hödir turned his head to look over his shoulder at the entrance to the Temple. His father, dressed in simple noble's robes and coat, was closing the large oak doors, strangely mindful of the silent reverence of the sanctuary.

"What do you need, Father? Have I remised something?" Hödir asked as he began to rise from the bench.

"Oh, sit down boy, I am not here to remand you for something. By Tsun, why, you have done more in the last few days than I have seen my entire clerical staff accomplish in the last several years. Bah, if only your brother was as productive, then I wouldn't have to put up with his bellyaching every day that he has to go on patrol around the city instead of hunting Thalmor in the hills."

A chuckle fought past Hödir's anger and brought a small smile to his lips. The king grinned broadly at the sight as he sat himself down next to his son. Then his expression grew concerned and leaned towards his son, hands on his knees. "Tell me lad, what ails ye? I understand you had an argument with your brother, but that's common enough, and not something to send you to this empty hall. What's troubling you?"

Hödir returned his eyes to the statue, his silence resumed. He could not bring himself to answer his father, to bring that horrible knowledge, the shame of his actions, down on the older man. How could he tell the king, who was a man of duty, both to his kingdom and his family, that he had lost a granddaughter before he had the chance to know her? That the cherished younger son, the man who followed so closely the ideals of honor and responsibility, had left behind a woman carrying the line of the royal house, to come home to a call to arms? It would kill Keldaf, break his heart and his spririt, at a moment when that iron will and mountain like resolve were most needed. And so Hödir sat in his silent contemplation, holding back his inner turmoil, and letting the guilt of his actions gnaw at him like a hound on a bone.

Keldaf eyed his son quietly, watch with the eyes of long experience as the subtle signs of great pain washed over his boy's face. Hödir was his special boy. True, Korvan was a nord warrior born, raised from the cradle to the sword and shield of the kingdom, fearless on the battlefield, inspiring to his men, a terror to his foes. But it was in Hödir that Keldaf placed his hope for the future. Korvan was a war-leader, but it was Hödir who was a king. Hödir was observant and rational, not rash and blustering like Korvan. Hödir knew how to lead in peace as well as in war, how to listen to others and yet not let those whispers dictate his every move, how to calm a mob as well as excite a crowd. Keldaf, though the implications of his feeling ate at his heart, dearly hoped that it would be Hödir who would lead their people in the future, on this other world. And now he looked at his favorite son, looked at the pain the boy was enduring in silence, and knew that now he must be a father, not a king.

"You know, I have always liked coming here, to the temple. Not because of my piety, you understand, but for its peace. It's hard to so show more on one particular god over the others, in our family." Keldaf glanced towards his son. "How someone of our line choose, when we owe so much to so many gods? We are Nords, thus our fealty should be to Shor and Kyne, patrons of our people. But we are also children of the first Empire of Man to unite Tamriel , thus we should worship Talos Stormcrown, Founder of the Septim Empire. Yet we are also of the line of the Dohvakin, son of Akatosh, so should we not pay homage to the Dragon God of Time? Fah, it's so confusing; I came to the conclusion long ago, to let the gods handle matters for gods, and I will handle matters for men. If they each want my devotion so badly, then let them fight for my soul when I die, ahahahah."

Hödir could not stop himself; a smile split his face, and a rich laugh rolled about the chamber. Keldaf grinned down at his younger son for several seconds before his own belly-full of mirth burst forth, and soon both of the men were holding their side, fighting down renewing guffaws and chuckles. It was several minutes for either of the royals could regain control of themselves.

Keldaf finally pulled himself back to the moment, wiping a tear from his eye, and smiled gently at his son. "Hödir, what is wrong? Surely it is something that can be mended? Talk to me as your father, not as your king."

Hödir looked to his parent, considering. It was rare of late to see this side of the king. Keldaf had fought tooth and nail to cre for his sons, after their mother, Queen Arlia of Morthal, had died. When they lost her to snow fever, when both of the brothers were but lads barely old enough to hold a sword, Keldaf had ben distraught. But the tear streaked faces of his sons, at the side of their mother's deathbed, had told the Keldaf more words were worth of the needs of the brothers. Since then, the king was sure to set aside time to spend with his boys, not as the kings with the princes, but as a father with his sons.

Those memories, of his father's drive to be the parent that Hödir and Korvan had both needed, told him what he should do. "Do you remember, years ago, when you sent me to Solitude, to study at the Bard's College? Before the Dominion invaded?"

"Aye, lad, I do."

"And do you remember the letters I would send home, of my times and activities in the city?"

"Aye."

"What I never wrote in those letters, what I didn't tell you or Korvan, was that I had met someone, while I was studying at the College."

Keldaf remained silent, his eyes intent, watching his son.

"I met here one day, while I was walking the city. She was in a shop, the Radiant Raiment, bargaining for a dress. I just thought her simply some native, up to the city for her shopping, yet something was so different about, that I could not get her out of my head. She left before I could speak, and it was not til that night, at a dinner party in the Blue Palace. The Jarl was feeling festive for some reason or another, I forget what, and I had to attend as prince of the realm. I saw her there," Hödir's eyes had gone misty, are far-away look on his face, "wearing a dress of iron grey and sky blue. She wore a circlet of silver and garnet, and a necklace of wolves' teeth, centered with a pendant of gold set with sapphires."

Keldaf's eyes shot up. While such dresses were, or had been, common across Skyrim, the necklace of teeth and gold was most certainly not. "Who was this lass, Hödir?" The king asked cautiously.

"Her name was Guinen, the Daughter of Tormod, Chieftain of the Deepwood Tribe of the Reachers."

Keldaf froze in his seat, he face expressionless. A Reacher? That was unexpected. Even though his own father had signed a treaty with the Forsworn of the Reach, ending the open hostilities, their relations had only been polite at best. Indeed, many of the tribesmen were very bitter over their terms of the agreement, which restricted their sovereign territories to the Redoubts and ruins that they held, and enough land around the keeps to farm.

However, while many of the warriors and tribes folk felt cheated of the birthright to the entirety of the Reach, their chiefs saw an advantage to the treaty; indeed, for while their territories were kept to the redoubts and surrounding land, many trade roads crossed through those very lands. This granted sovereignty enabled the Reachmen to level a tax on the caravans that passed by their redoubts. Even as this tax led to an increase in the wealth of the tribes controlling the roads, those clans more remote were allowed to trade with the Nord and Breton communities. The Forsworn were gifted hunters, skilled in tracking the large game animals, such as deer, elk, bear, and sabre cat, through the cliffs, ravines, and peaks of the Reach. Those hunters could then take their goods to the city of Markath or the surrounding towns, and trade the meat and fur, as well as any ore and gems they discovered in their cave dwellings, for crafted goods and farm produce. In fact, it had become a fashion statement in the Reach, Falkreath, and western Whiterun Hold, to wear jewelry and trinkets craft from antler and bone by the Reachers.

The king furrowed his brow. But Guinen? The daughter of the most powerful of the Reach Chieftains? He something of her from his soldiers, early in the Dominion's invasion of Skyrim. When the Thalmor struck into the borderlands between Falkreath and the Reach, they began to systematically eradicate the Reacher tribes wherever they could. Swiftly, the clans of Lost Valley and Hag Rock were slaughtered, driving the remaining tribes of the southern Reach north to clan Karthspire and the Sky Haven Temple of the Blades. Chief Tormod called a clan summit, and declared war on the Dominion. For the next 3 years the Reachers fought a guerilla war within the maze of the Reach, resulting in the bloodiest fighting of the entire Thalmor campaign, save for their invasion of Hammerfell. It was during these skirmishes that Tormad died, slain ambushing a Thalmor platoon of spellswords. While the ambush was mostly successful, the Thalmor commander, a Justicar named Calumsar, escaped after killing Tormad. Calumsar would later lead the siege of Markath, which lasted 5 months, before breaking in through undiscovered Dwemer tunnels.

After the death of her father, Guinen had gone on to further unite her people, leading ever more daring and successful raids on the Dominion, ransacking supply depots and savaging the logistic caravans from Falkreath and Hammerfell. Her will, charisma, and courage held the Reacher factions together until their final stand at Broken Tower Redoubt, where her forces final broke under witch-elf spell fire and fel lightnings. Even then, she managed to avoid a route, successfully leading what remained of her people eastward, into Whiterun Hold, and eventually to the Eastmarch.

And this is the woman that my son met? Keldaf thought to himself. It astounded him; his son, prince of Skyrim, in love with a Reacher woman? And the most successful leader they ever had at that? By Oblivion, her actions at unifying her people earned her that title: Uncrowned Queen of the Reach.

The king coughed lightly, covering the pause in his response to Hödir's statement. "I take from your mood, lad, that this relationship was no gentle tavern bedding, born of drink and cheery times?"

Hödir smirked, his expression self-deprecating. "Aye, it was no idle drunken tumble, father. No, it was intense, fiery, and true. We loved each other as deeply as one mortal can love another. Indeed, when I remember it, I think of the way you used to speak of mother, how you doted on her, championed her, clung to her when you were hurt in battle. I think what Guinen and I had was something like that, or at least, it could have been. But I choose my duty to you and the realm over her in the end."

Keldaf leaned over, and placed a rough, weapon calloused hand on the young man's shoulders. "Tell me, lad."

Hödir looked into his father's old, lined face. "We would spend our days together, every day of the 2 years I studied in the college. When it was sunny and warm, we would wander the mountain paths of the Haafingar, visiting the old tombs and glades. Or we would walk the streets of Solitude, and dance in the Jarl's palace. We were happy. It only grew deeper when I took her to my bed, were no woman had come before. I never saw her as some random dalliance, a pleasant pastime to be enjoyed then put aside when it was over. I am not my brother. I saw her as woman, a warrior, a princess of her people in her own right. She was gifted at speech and wit; I saw her maneuver the Jarl into granting her clan trade rights with Dragonbridge, while never uttering a word of promises or incentives. Her strength at arms outmatched any man of the city guard, and her skill with magic was the envy of every spellcaster from Brinewater Grotto to Knife Point Ridge. And her touch was gentle on every child she saw, her voice kind to the elderly, and her will was firm to any who met her eye."

Now Hödir could feel the cheeks begin to roll down his face. "I loved her more than my own life, and still, I shamed her. The day I got your command, to return to the Eastmarch, I was t set off at once. On the very steps of the Temple of the Divines, Guinen begged for me to stay, but I could not disobey you. She begged to accompany me, but I knew her people would soon be at war with the Dominion themselves, and I would not have her shame her tribesmen, for leaving them in their hour of need. I knew that if she followed, she would risk breaking her bond to her clan, forsaking them and face banishment from her home. I would not do that to her. So I broke my own bond with her, for the sake of our peoples, I broke our bond and our hearts."

Hödir's eyes turned back the statue of Talos. "And now, she is here; with the rest of her people, all that remains. And all she bears towards me is hate. Hate for my choice to place the wellbeing of her people and my own, over us." Those last words came out as a whisper. Hödir's face was tight and pained, and something flickered in his eyes, something that cried out that this hate alone was not the sole reason for the Prince's pain, but Keldaf did not push. Hödir's secrets were his own; free to share only when he wished it so.

Keldaf sat with his son in the silence of the Temple, empty of all things save the statue of a god and two tired men. It seemed like hours had passed before a strong blast of wind shook the old temple doors on their hinges, disturbing the quiet, and startling the Nords out of their reverie.

Hödir glanced at the high windows. "It's getting on to dusk, father. They will come looking for us soon, if we do not return to the muster."

The king sighed. "A king's work is never done, my boy. That's a lesson you should take to heart; a king's work is never done. Come, let's get some food into us and take stock of what has been accomplished in our absence, and see what needs to be done on the morrow. I believe Weirgnayr wishes to bring to bring my attention to the amount of shines and holy amulets the priests wish to bring, while Nuthomar hopes to fight for the space to pack staff building apparatuses."

Hödir smiled weakly at his father. For some reason, he felt a bit better. True, the grief for a lost child he had never known would haunt him for the rest of his life, but it would no longer blind him to his responsibilities. He would mourn later, when the work was finished, and he would pay his penance for his sin. His eyes grew hard. And I will never let myself forget the harm I brought to Guinen, for I am the cause of all her pain. He would pay for that crime against her as well. But now there was work to be done, a portal to build, and a world to flee to.

Far to the west, on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, several men in long robes lounged around a table. On the table was a map of Skyrim, most of it marked in gold, miniature flags of eagle crest stabbed into the locations of Markath, Falkreath, Morthal, Solitude, Dawnstar, and Whiterun. Small stones, painted gold, were bunched near Helgen and Fort Dunstad. Likewise, much smaller groupings of gray stones were placed near Fort Fellhammer, Fellglow Keep, and Haemar's Shame.

One of the black robed figures was staring down at the map, the light of his eye, when seen from under the shadows of his hood, was manic. At his side was a heavy, brutal mace; the head was carved in the likeness of a snarling horned daedra, and a sick green shimmer flickered over the flanged surface. Another blck robed form leaned against a nearby balustrade, cleaning his nails with a dagger of impossible make, wrought of ebony yet straight as a razor, with a obsidian pommel stone. This man's face was impassive, bored even, yet he too shared a feral gleam to his golden eyes.

A third man stood facing out across the plains of Whiterun Hold. On his back was a long katanna of ebony, line of gold filigree etched around the hilt and along the blade. Unlike his companions, his eyes showed nothing. Indeed, his eyes were covered by a black cloth scarf, red designs sewn into the material.

The first man looked up from the map. "He's late."

The second man glanced over to the first. "He is the Grand Justicar. I'm sure there are many demands on his time. We are not the only people of interest in this Divine-forsaken block of ice. Likely, he was needed, to instruct General Korthmir on the proper manner in which to handle prisoners. I hear the good general was actually trying to make the stay of those mangy snow dogs comfortable, at least until it was time to hand them over to us."

The first man snorted. "I heard he actually tried to treat with commander of the command post we took 2 months ago, what was it, Duskglow Crevice? Those filthy barbarians were raiding our troop lines along the Northern Road between here and Dawnstar. They deserved to be slaughtered to a one, their souls caught and given to the master, not treated as prisoners. They are not people. They are animals that have been off the leash for too long." He reached down and stroked the mace at his side lovingly. "Our ancestors made a mistake, allowing the slaves to think of themselves as people, to even pray. The gods belong to us, not those pale skinned abominations. Alessia should have been killed the moment she poked her head from between her bitch of a mother's legs."

The second man sighed. "We have had this argument, and I agree with you. The very fact that Akatosh actually listen to that pitiful human shows us that he could never have been our god, Auri-el. What god would turn their back on us, their own children, in favor of the upstart spawn of the Lying One? No god could, that's who. The Gods are ours. Shame we didn't realize the truth of Akatosh, til it was too late. Oblivion, we might have never have known, were it not for our masters. That they would aid us in this war only proves that they have been our true gods all along."

The first man spat. "War? This isn't a war. It's extermination. It was when the Snow Prince burned Sarthaal to the ground, and it still is today. It has merely been delayed. We shall sweep into the Eastmarch and burn Windhelm to the ground. We will slaughter the refugees, and sacrifice the children to our masters. And finally prove to the world, that Nirn belongs to Mer, not Man."

"And so shall it be, Valthemar, Herald of Molag-Bal. So it shall."

The two men who had been speaking turned to the door at the end of the Great Porch, though the third, silent man still looked out over the plains. From the doors walked 4 figures. 3 were lithe, graceful, with seductively swaying hips that spoke to their obvious female nature. But their face could not be seen. Instead of the black hoods of the Justicars, they wore masks. The masks had narrow slit eyes, and were ridged, making them look like they were made from the scales of some sea dwelling creature. The women's robes were black, and they carried bronze staves, carved with the heads of dragons.

But it was the man in the front who had spoken. He wore, not the black robes of a Justicar, but red robes, with heavy gold and bronze ornamentation, and stiff should ornaments decorations as dragons. At his hip was a sword so repulsive that the two men who had turned to greet him couldn't bear to look at it. It was heavy, broad, and slightly curved. The blade was a green-black, with an oily look, as if it was dipped in some kind of foul slime. The guard was a mass of writhing tentacles. In the man's hand was a staff of similar appearance, dripping oily green filth and topped with twisting, squirming tentacles. But the mask on his face drew their focus. It was a golden bronze color, covering of the man's face while sweeping back to cover the top of his head. It had the same slit for eyes, but instead of the appearance of scales, it resembled the arms of a squid from the western seas.

"Grand Justicar Shadismar, we are honored by your august appearance." The second man intoned.

"And you honor me, Taldamar, Herald of Mehrunes Dagon. Come, let us be seated. Will you join us, Letulmar, Herald of Mephala?"

The third, silent man turned, his covered eyes unreadable, and slowly walked to the join the assembly of High Justicars of the Aldemeri Dominion, and Ondolemar, Grand Justicar, and Herald of Hermaeus Mora.

Guinen stalked through the massive refugee camp outside the walls of Windhelm. Her destination, the area allocated to the Forsworn of the Reach, was located in the Mzulft Foothills. The shear distance from the city it had taken her most of the day to return to her people, after spending a night in the city, working out preparations for the Reacher's crossing of the portal. Now Masser was rising to its zenith, though Secundus was hidden behind its sister moon, and she was ready to return to her blankets to sleep til the snows came. It was wishful thinking, she knew; she would be wakend at dawn, and would soon be occupied with the tasks of readying the remnant of the Forsworn to move closer to the portal.

As the lights of camp fires came into view, Guinen, thought back to her encounter with Hödir. The day of trudging through the refugee camp had dulled some the anger she had built up during her screaming fit with her former lover, but it still smoldered in her heart. She understood that she hadn't been fair to him, knew that if she had only told him of her condition at the time, he would have moved the spheres themselves to make her happy, to keep her safe. Yet she still resented that he chose his responsibilities over his attachment to her. Was she not worth abandoning his home, his duties, to be with her? She had thought so of him. Had he asked, she would have gladly fled her home to follow across the whole of Skyrim. Yet he had chosen to fulfil his duty as a prince of the realm, and he had insisted that she do the same. She cursed him and his vow to protect the people. His selfless sense of the greater good, his noble sense of self-sacrifice, had ruined her happiness. Yet, she thought to herself, that's why I fell in love with him in the first place. She had watched him give to the poor of Solitude til had no more gold to give. He had gone to work at the local forge, crafting whatever he could sell, so that he could give still more to the needy.

She had seen him carry ailing children, stricken elderly, and infirmed cripples to the temple for healing, and then paid for the service himself. For all his strength as a warrior, or skills as a diplomat, it was his caring heart that had captured her own. Now her heart bled, though years had passed since he had left at the steps of the Temple. For all that she had screamed at him, struck him, hurt him in his heart with her cruel words, she still loved him, deep within the recesses of herself.

She shook herself from the memoires as she drew up to the line of stakes that mark the edge of Reacher territory. The two guards at the sole opening in the fence raised fists to their hearts. "Hail Lady Guinen, Queen of the Reach. We have looked to your return."

Guinen nodded her head in acknowledgement of the greeting as she passed the guards. Walking through the camp, she could hear calls and hails from all sides. "Hail Lady Guinen." "Lady Guinen." "My Queen." "Queen Guinen." Exhaustion creeping over her, she wearily raised a hand to general greeting, as she stumbled to her tent. The men before it, one on either side of the opening, had skin a nearly deathly pale, and in their chests were glowing seeds instead of hearts. They were the last Briarhearts alive, for all the hagravens were dead, and none now knew the secret of granting the life of the earth to the mightiest warriors of the Reach. These last two now served as her bodyguards, willing to sell their hard won lives for hers in a heartbeat, had they one. One lifted the tent flap, letting their queen enter the tent unhindered.

No sooner had Guinen passed through the opening, allowing it to close, then she heard an excited cry.

"Momma! Momma, your home!"