II

21st of Rain's Hand, 4E 204

Windhelm was not a city known for its colors.

The forests of Falkreath had their greens, the plains of Whiterun had their golden-browns, and the waters below Solitude had their sparkling blues. But in the eternal winter that shrouded the oldest city in Skyrim, any trace of green and brown it had once possessed was buried under snowdrifts that were older by far. The slice of the River Yorgrim that bordered its southern wall was more gray than it was blue, and frequently iced over, requiring cracking almost on a daily basis so that any ships that made berth here wouldn't be leaving the docks with a huge gash in their keels from any errant ice.

It was a bleak city in a part of the world that faced a bleak future—yet High King Varulf Blackmane, Harbinger of the Companions, Stormblade to the late Ulfric Stormcloak, would never have preferred this city any other way.

Windhelm was not his city; though Varulf was one of the most powerful men in the land, he was not so arrogant to claim that he had the right to rule over Windhelm as he now ruled over Skyrim—this was Ysgramor's city, after all, as it always would be. Nor was he foolish enough to believe that he was as powerful as his list of titles suggested. Well aware was he that at the heart of the matter, Varulf was only one man trying to follow in the footsteps of other, greater Men. True, debate could be made that Ysgramor, who had raised this city to watch over the tomb of his dead son Yngol—and the Dragonborn, who had played a major role in the chain of events that had led him here—were more than just mortal Men.

The same, however, could not be said for Ulfric. He'd been much more of a man in death than Varulf knew he would ever be in life—but a man he still remained. Varulf had had no trouble with accepting this; he would always look up to his former Jarl, no matter what he had done in his lifetime. Still, his had been the hardest passing to bear, and Varulf had had to bear a great deal of them in his lifetime. Worse still, he remained unsure if Ulfric's death had been necessary at all. He had revealed the Jarl's terrible secret to the whole Moot that fateful day, before setting in motion the events that had led to this point.

It was hard to believe that those events inside the Temple of the Divines had happened only a year ago. Yet in that single year, the landscape of Skyrim had changed significantly. Gone were the Stormcloaks of old, the dissidents that had rallied under Jarl Ulfric against the Empire of Tamriel, and marched on Solitude to overthrow them, reclaiming their independence at long last. Gone was the Moot where Varulf had been forced to bare his battle-brother's soul to every Jarl present—and many other things besides—before killing him in battle. Exactly how Varulf had killed him was a mystery to most of Skyrim; only the Jarls and a few others knew what had happened inside that castle, and none of them were keen to repeat the events. Varulf would only say afterwards that he wished the battle had been more glorious.

Glory or no glory, however, with the loss of their leader, the Stormcloaks had gone with it; Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's former right-hand man, had renounced the Harbinger that day, and a large number of freedom fighters had gone with him. With nothing left to fight for, they had returned to their homes and families, attempting to do their best to return to the lives they had known before this bloody war, no doubt grumbling all the while about what could have been under Ulfric. Only the Companions and a handful of Stormcloaks had remained loyal to Varulf—and even then, it was for a given value of "loyal"; if it hadn't been for the Harbinger's rather lofty vow after what he had done in the Moot, and the unanimous support of the other eight Jarls, he might well have had a revolt on his hands.

Varulf sighed, ruffling the bushy, chest-length beard that had earned him his name. He wished he could go back to Jorrvaskr, drinking and singing the night away with Aela, Vilkas, Farkas, … all of his shield-brothers and -sisters. It had been a more simple time—a more glorious time. Those times, however, had long since passed. No longer was he a traditional warrior in search of personal glory, but a traditional king in search of glory for all of Skyrim.

At least, he thought with another sigh, that was what he hoped he could become.

At length, Varulf rose from the long oaken table where he had been breaking fast, bringing himself to his full, six-foot-plus height and rubbing his permanently bloodshot eyes with an armored fist. His horned helm, once possessed by the same Yngol that Ysgramor's spirit still watched over, was replaced upon his head of long black hair. Varulf winced as he felt the pitted metal start rubbing against the healing wound on his head—one of a large number of testaments he still carried from his battle with Ulfric.

"Morning court's due to start soon," remarked Brunwulf from alongside him. "You think you can handle the day's petitions on your own, friend? I'm due to meet with Malthyr in an hour about the renovations to the Gray Quarter. And Captain Lonely-Gale's already gone done to the docks to set up a meeting with the Argonian workers there."

Varulf grunted. "Petitions I can handle," he said shortly. "The people making the petitions … that's another story."

In many ways, Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter was the opposite of both Varulf and his predecessor. He had made no bones about his views on Ulfric being a 'narrow-minded fool', an assertion that had earned him no short supply of ire from some people in Windhelm, Galmar and Rolff Stone-Fist among them. The old soldier, however, had braved the tide of discontent after taking charge of the day-to-day affairs in Windhelm, and Varulf had found in him a kindred spirit of sorts, even though Brunwulf's opinion of the Stormcloaks had been far less than glowing. He too, after all, was a man who'd found himself in a position of political power against the will of the majority, yet who wanted to prove to be an able ruler regardless of the dark mutters and ill wishes that came from his subjects.

As for Varulf, he'd known only a handful of people that he trusted on principle that also weren't Nords. Where Ulfric and Galmar had been distrustful of other races to the point of paranoia, however, Varulf had had no quarrel with the beast-races and the Dunmer of Windhelm. Instead, he'd elected to find a more specific scapegoat in the Thalmor, along with any high elves he believed sympathized with the supremacist regime of the Aldmeri Dominion. Varulf had made it a goal to stamp out the taint of the Thalmor wherever he went—not simply for what they had done to the people of Skyrim, but for what they had done to Ulfric.

But that would come later. Varulf hadn't journeyed to Windhelm out of simple patriotic fervor. He wanted to learn what it was like to be able to hold power over people, and exercise it accordingly. In his mind, a moderate like the Jarl was as good a teacher to that end as he could hope for. Varulf liked to think he'd learned a great deal from him in the six months since coming to this city.

"The people of Skyrim can think what they want of you," Brunwulf told him as Varulf took a seat in the Jarl's stone-carved throne—one of only a handful of people who had that distinction. "But as long as you think of Skyrim in return, then they will come to see you as the High King they deserve."

The Harbinger privately admitted that such a prospect was easier said than done.

Brunwulf was just about to take his leave of the keep when the door burst open with a BANG. The man behind it nearly bowled him over as he sped in, treading snow on the bare stone floor. Varulf recognized the bearskin cowl of a Stormcloak officer; Galmar had offered him the same armor when he'd reached the standing of Stormblade, but he'd turned it down in favor of the ancient steel armor he'd worn ever since his first days as a whelp in Jorrvaskr.

As the officer drew closer, he soon recognized the man as Frorkmar Banner-Torn. The two had met once before in the Pale, shortly before Varulf had helped to claim Fort Dunstad for the Stormcloak forces. Varulf had never been to Dawnstar, but had heard tell the residents there were critical of the Jarl, Skald, who himself had been fiercely loyal to Ulfric—which no doubt meant that the entire town had no idea which side to take anymore.

Jorleif, still a steward of the keep even after the passing of his master, stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Hail, Frorkmar!" he called in a voice that, while enthusiastic, was noticeably more clipped than Varulf remembered.

Like many of the former Jarl's confidantes in the Palace of the Kings, Jorleif had found his duties diminished of late after Brunwulf had appointed Captain Lonely-Gale as his steward; Varulf, however, in the hopes of appeasing the people of Windhelm, had made very little changes in staff, relegating almost all of Ulfric's assistants to his own staff. He'd mellowed out since Varulf had first claimed the Jagged Crown; evidently, however, Jorleif still harbored a trace of resentment for the Nord he now served.

"Have you come to make court?" he now inquired of Frorkmar, who held up a hand to indicate he needed a moment. He sounded quite out of breath, almost as if he'd been running a great distance.

Then Varulf noticed the crumpled parchment Frorkmar was holding.

"Was sent … to deliver this," panted the officer, brandishing the object in his direction. "Rustleif … Dawnstar … wife … High King's eyes only … "

Varulf had no idea who this Rustleif was, but he assumed he must be a resident of Dawnstar. As to the message he'd presumably entrusted to Frorkmar, Varulf thought that for a man he knew nothing about to send such a confidential message, and in such a quick fashion, the news must be bad.

Thinking of remnants of the Imperial Legion, perhaps mounting for a retaliatory strike, Varulf slit open the letter with no small measure of urgency—but was rather nonplussed to find one of the shortest letters he'd ever received:

The Crimson Ship is in Dawnstar.

Varulf lowered the letter, a confused expression working its way across his brow. He turned over the slip of parchment, wondering if there might have been more to the strange contents of the letter, but there was nothing. This only made him more confused; the whole thing read almost like some form of coded message.

So he racked his brains for an answer. The Crimson Ship … where had he heard of that before? Varulf hadn't heard very many stories about ships of any kind in his time; the legends that surrounded the vessels of the original Five Hundred Companions that had sailed from Atmora to Skyrim were some of the few exceptions. Neither had he been much for books and letters, either, which was another thing he'd had to learn on the fly recently; Jorrvaskr was not the College of Winterhold—it offered little to sate either interest for very long.

He needed an outside opinion—and under the circumstances, only one person in Windhelm could qualify.

Varulf pointed at a guard. "Send for Wuunferth immediately," he ordered. "There are some questions I need to ask him. I don't care what he's doing at this hour; I want him here now!"

The Stormcloak soldier saluted, and disappeared into an adjoining hallway.

Wuunferth the Unliving was the court wizard of the keep, and one of the few remaining tenants of the palace who'd served with Ulfric. He and Varulf had worked alongside one another a year previously in order to bring a serial killer to justice. The Harbinger had little need of a court wizard's services, and so had given his blessing to stay with Brunwulf if he so desired; though Wuunferth was a recognized member of the College of Winterhold, Varulf already counted one of those in his inner circle, too.

Now if only he could bother to keep in touch with me more often, he thought irritably.

Jorleif leaned inward. "What was in that letter?" he asked in an undertone, not even trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice. "I warrant it's some ill news indeed, if you're wanting to rouse the Unliving at a time like this."

"I hope we'll know soon enough," Varulf murmured.

The guard reappeared a minute later, followed by an old man in a faded blue robe, muttering darkly under his breath. "If this is another request for a magic show … " the Nord was heard to grumble, before the expectant stare of Varulf caught his attention.

"And what's all this, then, calling an old man up from his bed in the wee hours of the morning?" old Wuunferth sighed, ruffling the mustache above his beard—long enough and gray enough to rival any of those monks of High Hrothgar. Though his cantankerous attitude had not wavered in the slightest, there was still a noticeable change in his tone of voice. He certainly didn't show it on his worst of days, but Wuunferth harbored a degree of respect for the High King that most Nords in Skyrim—let alone in Windhelm—had yet to properly possess.

Varulf handed Frorkmar's letter to the aged Nord. "This was sent to me just now," he explained. "I hoped I could get the benefit of your knowledge on the matter, if you have any."

The old wizard's eyes, still razor-sharp in spite of the cataracts beginning to build up inside them, zoomed over the single line of writing. Wuunferth's wrinkled forehead creased in a frown, and a much longer sigh ruffled his beard.

"I've heard of this, aye," murmured the mage. "I don't fault you for not knowing, milord—I'd be surprised if any of the common folk do anymore, this day and age."

"How do you mean?"

"The Crimson Ship is part of an old Redguard legend," explained Wuunferth. "Before the Alliance Wars in the Second Era, Tamriel was plagued by a disease called the Knahaten Flu. Horrible thing it was, too—one of the deadliest the world had ever seen. Even today, no one's been able to find out what caused it, or how many people died from it. No one's been able to agree on a specific cure, either. The only thing we can agree on is that the Flu wiped out everything it touched: people, cities, cultures and religions … even entire races."

"Races!" Varulf's bloodshot eyes widened—what kind of disease could eradicate an entire civilization?

"Aye." Wuunferth's expression was grim. "Have you heard of the Kothringi of Black Marsh?"

Varulf shook his head.

"Mm. Well, that's how thoroughly the Flu snuffed them out," said the court wizard. "Anyway, it happened that a ship left port from Black Marsh, filled to the crows' nests with sick Kothringi. A whole year they sailed, trying to make berth at every port city they could find—but every city turned them away. Didn't want to be infected themselves … not that it mattered much. After Hammerfell rejected them, they abandoned all hope. They sailed out west to the Abacean, never looked back. The ship was never seen again after that—and neither were the Kothringi."

"But?" Varulf asked, sensing a second part to this tale.

"The people of Hammerfell soon regretted that they sent everyone on board that ship to their death," answered Wuunferth, "and so they declared that day a Day of Shame. No one who calls themselves a proper Redguard leaves their house on that day—they believe the Crimson Ship will come back, you see. That's the legend, at any rate."

"Well, according to this letter, it has come back—and right in the middle of Dawnstar," Varulf said, feeling an uneasy tingling creep up his spine. "When exactly is this 'Day of Shame'?" he asked.

"If I remember the legend right," said the wizard, "it was the twentieth of Rain's Hand."

His face suddenly fell as if it had melted right off his skull. "Yesterday … " he murmured.

The feeling in Varulf's spine increased further; he was beginning to feel alarmed. Dawnstar was a day's journey from here by horse, he knew—meaning this Crimson Ship had made port right on that exact day, the twentieth.

"Jorleif, I need you to go to Candlehearth Hall," he said, thinking as quickly as he was speaking. "Ask the innkeepers there if they've had any couriers from Dawnstar arrive over the past day or so. Come back with their answer the moment you're able."

The steward sped out of the keep.

Varulf dropped his voice now, though few people still remained in the keep to hear it. "Wuunferth," he whispered, "anything more you can tell me on this legend would be invaluable to me right now. But there's one thing I need to know: did it say anything about what the Redguards believed would happen if the Crimson Ship came back?"

The wizard swallowed, wiping his brow. "A-as I recall, the legend never said anything outright," he replied, "but I could presume that if the ship returned … the Knahaten Flu would return with it."

Varulf heard the faint stuttering, and now was more worried than ever; Wuunferth was not one to stutter. "But that all happened a thousand years ago!" he said, agitated. "Surely the ship would have rotted away as time went by, and sunk to the bottom of the sea! Even if it didn't, the survivors who sailed on it must be long dead by now! The Flu would have burned itself out at sea, with no one left to infect."

Wuunferth had no reply to any of this. That scared Varulf most of all: it was a silent confirmation of perhaps the worst possible thing that a wet-behind-the-ears High King could have asked for.

The Knahaten Flu has returned.

He exhaled a long breath to calm himself. This was not an easy task; his mind was already hard at work to figure out how to respond to a calamity on this scale. Obviously, the best choice was to proceed under the impression that this Crimson Ship had indeed resurfaced per the legend, and brought its deadly plague with it. But this would take massive amounts of resources to quell; resources that Skyrim might not have after suffering through this civil war.

Varulf was a patriot, but neither was he hardheaded. He'd learned from experience that simply rushing in heedlessly could prove to be his undoing—unfortunately, one of his shield-brothers had learned that lesson in a more lasting way. Sending in massive amounts of troops, even to assist the sick and dying, could end up causing more harm than good—and if his and Wuunferth's suspicions of the Knahaten Flu were true, then it could possibly end up infecting even more people across the land!

So we need a more tempered reaction, Varulf thought—an option that will both appease the people and help to calm any sense of panic. But the problem in that option was its availability. Varulf knew he only had one chance to contact him—he did not have the luxury of time for a second try.

In the meantime … "Find Jarl Brunwulf and Captain Lonely-Gale. Bring them back to the keep as soon as humanly possible. I'm convening an emergency session to deal with a potential threat to the people of Skyrim—perhaps even Tamriel—and I'm going to need as much of their input as possible.

"Wuunferth," Varulf said to the wizard. "Inform the city that court is hereby cancelled for the day. I hope it won't be for longer than that. We'll discuss the delegation of those duties as soon as we've established a plan of action."

The palace door creaked open again, revealing a windblown and very out-of-breath Jorleif. Despite his disheveled state, the Nord recovered smartly, clearing his throat and shaking his clothes free of any snow before delivering his report. "We've had no other couriers come in from the Pale this week, milord," he said, "let alone yesterday."

Varulf felt a faint ray of hope—so Windhelm was safe, at least for the time being. That might potentially make it easier to keep any infection restricted to Dawnstar and the immediate area, making it that much easier to deal with.

"Good work. Send messages to Whiterun and Solitude, as well as our garrison in Fort Dunstad. No couriers, they'll be too slow; use messenger birds instead. Inform Jarl Vignar and Jarl Elisif that all roads leading to Dawnstar are to be closed to civilian traffic until further notice. No one comes in, no one goes out, unless they have the permission of the provincial government."

There was a small chorus of mutters at this. Wuunferth made an aside to Varulf. "Milord, am I to presume you are putting Dawnstar under martial law?" he said, a tiny note of disbelief in his voice.

The Harbinger shook his head. "I don't want it to come to that," he replied in an undertone, "not if I can help it."

He pointed at another faceless guard, who promptly saluted. "Have our posts in Winterhold reported any signs of dragon activity?"

"No, milord," the soldier answered him. "Nothing beyond the occasional roosting at Mount Anthor. Sometimes they hear things—like roars and flapping wings. They always say it's the wind, though, because nothing is there. And frankly, milord," she added, "no one wants to find out."

Varulf frowned. "Ask them again, to be sure," he said. "While you're on your way, send for Captain Ralof as well. I have a special mission for him to carry out."

Another salute and a bare minute later, a familiar head of blond hair emerged from the Bloodworks, the barracks for the Windhelm guards. Varulf had known Ralof almost as long as he'd been with the Stormcloaks—which, while it hadn't been a very long time, had involved a great deal of battles where they'd fought the forces of the Empire alongside one another. He was the only person outside of the Companions who Varulf could truly call a shield-brother—which was exactly why he'd personally recommended him to be Brunwulf's military advisor.

"Hail, Varulf!" Ralof's ruddy face had split in a grin as the two embraced one another. "How goes the High Kingship?"

"Not so good, I'm afraid," Varulf said heavily, grabbing a sheaf of parchment from the table, along with ink and quill. "The Pale may be in the grips of a sickness like nothing we've seen in a long time. If we're to have any chance at helping its people, I'm going to need your help."

Ralof heard the seriousness in his compatriot's words, and immediately sobered up. "What do you want me to do?"

Varulf began scrawling a message. "You told me once that you helped the Dragonborn escape from Helgen after it was destroyed by Alduin," he said as he wrote. "That alone says you know him better than most of us in this room."

He sealed the parchment with wax, and handed it to Ralof. "I need you to take this to the College of Winterhold. Tell the scholars there that this letter is to be delivered to their Arch-Mage immediately."

Ralof accepted the letter, though not without some reservation. "Do we even know if he is still there, though? The Dragonborn hasn't been publicly seen in almost a year! You might have been the last to see him at all, those months ago! Everyone who's gone to the College asking about him has been sent back with the same answer—'he isn't here, we don't know where he is, nor are we obligated to keep tabs on him.'" His words sounded so pompous that if he closed his eyes, Varulf thought for a moment he was actually talking to a mage of the College.

"That's exactly what makes me think they know where he is," he replied, "and that even if he isn't now, then he's been visiting Skyrim in secret. A defensive attitude like that is a clear tell of a ruse. I'm counting on you to make them see reason, Ralof. You may well be the one person in the province who can find the Dragonborn right now."

Varulf saw the Stormcloak swallow the lump in his throat. It stung, but it was no less refreshing to see. He knew Ralof understood the yoke his king was laying on his shoulders. But Ralof had always called himself a son of Skyrim; he'd borne worse in his day. And because he was a son of Skyrim, Varulf knew he could bear this one, too.

"Aye," Ralof said, nodding. "I'll find him."

He threw Varulf a salute, and marched out of the keep, message in hand.

The Harbinger spared a brief moment to watch him go; then, once the door had banged shut, he addressed his court wizard once more. "Prepare everything you know on the subject of the Crimson Ship and the Knahaten Flu," he said. "I want everyone in this meeting to be fully aware of what we're facing. We need options, fast."

Wuunferth nodded, and disappeared up the hallway that led to his chambers.

Now alone but for a scattering of guards that had not yet been sent to carry out any of his orders, Varulf returned to the stone throne where Ulfric had once made his seat, and Brunwulf now occupied. He did not sit down, ostensibly out of respect for those two men, but merely stared at the sculpted furniture, brooding.

"How would you have done things?" the Harbinger was heard to mutter, though the guards would never quite agree later on as to whom their High King might have been speaking to.

I've done everything I know I'm able to do … but I have no choice but to rely on the Dragonborn for this. I don't know what else to do … I don't even know if it'll be enough, in the face of a foe like this.

… Gods, I hope he's here, Varulf thought as he took his leave of the great hall, heading up the hallway that led to his chambers.


Dawnstar

The morning light that broke over the Pale was cold, gray, and smacking heavily of impending rain. The townspeople, however, took little notice of this. For the first time in a year, their daily routines had been disrupted—though unlike in those restless nights of endless nightmares, their lack of sleep had been caused by a very real nightmare.

Knahaten Flu! Rustleif had thought. Even now, eight hours after his wife had shaken him awake with one of the most fearful expressions he'd ever seen Seren wear, he still couldn't believe it.

Any prospect of sleep was forgotten from then on out, as Seren proceeded to talk to him about everything she knew about this "Crimson Ship" that had been sighted off the coast of Dawnstar, and the devastating disease its erstwhile inhabitants had carried with it, to be unleashed a thousand years later upon a town that had no defense against it.

It appeared, however, that Seren had decided to do her damnedest to mount one almost overnight.

He'd sat there for the longest time, mouth half open in disbelief at the change that had come over his wife, even as Seren—wrapped in rags that covered every inch of skin with any spare bit of clothing she could spare—proceeded to do the same thing to him. These rags were even laid over the nose and mouth, which made breathing very difficult. What was more, they were dipped in what smelled like lavender, giving off a sharp, The aroma that now emanated from the kitchen, however, was even more overpowering.

"No one's ever agreed on how this Flu spreads," Seren had told him as she laid Makela in her cradle. The baby had been swaddled as warmly and comfortably as circumstances would allow; no sooner had she been replaced in her tiny bed than Seren proceeded to rip up a number of very old clothes into strips.

These she wrapped tightly around the exposed flesh of Rustleif's arms and legs—fingers, toes and all. "Some people believe we can catch it by breathing the air," explained Seren as she did so, "others by touching the infected. I'm trying to be prepared for either case, so you're going to have to put up with it," she scolded as the blacksmith fidgeted under the itchy rags.

There wasn't much else Rustleif could do in the face of that attitude, he thought—and it certainly didn't help that he felt more wrapped up than a draugr. He decided, then, to turn his attention elsewhere to the intense, if pleasant, odor that was spreading throughout the household.

"What's that I'm smelling?" he asked, his Nordic brogue muffled through the cloth, although still intelligible.

"Just your regular chicken broth," replied Seren, as she busied herself with stirring a large pot of brownish-yellow liquid filled with herbs, "and some fragrances to ward away the smells. Madena tells me that this is the only thing we have in town that might help against the Flu. Sorghum doesn't grow in these parts, so good luck making any tea with it. And Madena isn't keen on summoning even a single clannfear to harvest their claws—says Skald would rather die of the Flu than let himself be cured by the aids of a Daedra."

Rustleif's eyes widened. "Skald? He's not infected with this, too, is he?"

"I can't say," Seren said sadly. "I passed by the White Hall on the way to see Madena—she moved into Silus' place after that lunatic disappeared, you know; she was never on good terms with Skald even before Ulfric's death. But Rustleif … the White Hall's been locked. No guards at the door." She swallowed. "No guards in Dawnstar at all."

What?! "No guards whatsoever?" Rustleif nearly roared, before remembering Makela was still sleeping soundly in her cradle. "The town will be in chaos by midday without any guards around! What's Skald thinking?"

"Skald has nothing to do with it." Seren had moved away from her kettle of broth, having been stirring it during their conversation. Rustleif could not see her face, but the tone of her suddenly shaking voice was of utter fright.

"Rustleif, our guards are dying left and right," she said. "The Flu hit them first, and it hit them hard. Madena told me the ones who are still alive have locked themselves in the town barracks. They don't want to risk infecting anyone else while they're out patrolling town."

The blacksmith was flabbergasted. "But … but it's just like back then!" he spluttered, remembering how the unfortunate souls on board the Crimson Ship had nowhere else to go while the disease raged in their bodies. "All these infected in one place—there's nothing we can do to save them?"

"There is one thing we can do—but it isn't enough," Seren told him, pounding the almost full pot of broth with her ladle. "I told Madena to spread the word to all of Dawnstar—no one leaves their homes for any reason, unless they're as protected as the three of us are. Hopefully that'll protect the citizens from catching this Flu as easily as the guards did."

She sprinkled more herbs into the pot, and resumed stirring. "I want to distribute the broth in this pot among all the remaining guards we have. I know it isn't a cure," she sighed, "but it should help deal with the worst of the Flu's symptoms for the time being. It'll do to go on with until we get a real chance at a cure."

Rustleif felt sick, and hoped that it was just a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Is there a real chance at a cure?" he asked. "Was this Knahaten Flu ever cured?"

Seren shook her rag-covered head. "No. Plenty of people tried, but the cures they claimed would work very rarely did. I remember this story of a Redguard maiden, Perizada. Saved an entire village from the Flu by boiling clannfear claws in saltwater—claimed the Divines had told her to do so in a dream. Everyone was just about ready to believe her, try the same method on their villages … but then Perizada herself died of the Flu."

"And suddenly they didn't believe her?" Rustleif asked, thinking he knew where this was going.

"That, I can't tell you. But Perizada wasn't the only one who thought they had a cure, only to find out that it didn't work. Then there were people who'd try to cash in on the panic and deliberately peddle false cures, too." Her voice turned distasteful, and she pulled aside a bit of fabric from her mouth long enough to spit on the floor. Rustleif, though he did not mimic the gesture, sympathized with her, cursing the wiles of such people in his head.

"But yes … " Seren eventually said after wrapping her head back up once again. "A real cure was never found—and even if it was, this all happened a thousand years ago. It's probably one of those things that's been lost to time."

A spattering noise came from behind her at that moment; the pot of broth was bubbling and beginning to spill onto the floor. Seren swore under her breath. "Come help me with this," she told Rustleif as she bustled over. "We'll ladle this into every pot we have and start delivering it to the townsfolk. We'll go to the guards first."

Rustleif remembered what she'd told her about the state of the guards. "Are you sure that's wise?" he asked as he began grabbing cookware from the shelves. "If half the things you've told me about the Flu have already happened to them—well, it seems to me like they might as well be dead already."

He wilted as Seren whipped her head in his direction; though he could not see her face, the look his wife must be giving her felt very severe indeed. "If Dawnstar loses the whole of their town guard," she said, "the Knahaten Flu will be the least of our worries. Like you said, the town would be in chaos; there'd be mass panic, riots and looting. That's not even getting into the threats outside the city. I've never heard of a dragon getting sick with anything, after all—never mind the Flu. No, we have to save them first, or there won't be a Dawnstar left to save."

Rustleif knew she had a point before she'd even mentioned the dragons. As Dawnstar was not a major city in Skyrim, it therefore lacked thick walls and sentry towers like Solitude and Windhelm. This made it a prime target for raiders, pirates, and the occasional fauna attack. Dragons were no exception to the latter of these—especially since there was only one weapon that could be used against them with any measure of success.

"Do you think he's coming back?" he asked, passing one pot after another to Seren as she dutifully filled each one up with steaming broth. "It's been so long since he was gone … I'd hate to think he's abandoned us."

Seren did not immediately answer him—though whether she was just to busy to do so, or because finding a way to answer his question was an even more difficult chore, was hard to say. "I wouldn't say abandoned," she sighed. "Something about heroes is that they're always destined for greater things, no matter what they do in their lifetime. Whatever lies in store for him just might not involve Skyrim anymore."

"But he saved us all!" said Rustleif in agitation. "He saved the world! What greater thing can a hero do than that?"

This time, he knew from the silence that Seren had no answer.

They worked in silence for a while longer, filling pot after pot with hot broth. Finally, after about half a dozen pots, Seren spoke again. "That message I asked you to deliver to Frorkmar," she said hesitantly, "for the High King."

Rustleif perked up at this. "Did you summon the Dragonborn here?" he asked hopefully.

"No." But just as quickly as Rustleif felt his hopes dashed on the floor, Seren continued, "Not in so many words, anyway. The High King is one of the closest people to the Dragonborn outside the College that I know of. I'd have contacted the College instead, but you know how secluded they are. And even if Varulf can't reach him, then he's well placed to find someone who can."

Rustleif stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. He would never have believed that she was capable of planning so far ahead for an emergency like this. The broth and the rags were enough—but going out of her way to contact the High King for aid as well?

The blacksmith decided at that moment he'd never been happier to be married to this woman.

Still … "This is a dangerous risk we're taking," he said, feeling his body slumping from the weight of it all. "If that message was sent yesterday, then there's have no guarantee that the High King will receive our message quickly enough." He looked Seren in the eye, as best his wrappings could let him. "Until we get word back from him, we are on our own. It'll be the two of us fighting a threat we've never seen in a thousand years."

He grasped Seren by the shoulders. "Is that something we can be prepared for?"

Seren's covered face looked directly at him. "Dangerous situations sometimes call for dangerous risks." Her muffled voice was like steel. "I will not cower like a frightened maiden when danger breathes on the shoulders of my home and my family—because that is not what I am. I will face this danger like a warrior—like a Redguard. Because that is what I am."

Were it not for the rags covering their lips, Rustleif would have kissed his wife on the spot—disease be damned. Instead, he merely settled for an intense look at her swathed face as he embraced her, never more in love with this woman since first meeting her in Hammerfell, those long-past days when he was merely an apprentice who'd caught this woman's eye. His master had been her father, and had jovially given them both his blessings.

Those days had felt like so long ago, but thinking back to them now—and the fires of emotion that had blazed inside his heart back then as they did today—Rustleif knew that the bond that had been forged that day between him and Seren would not be broken by this Flu. They would outlast it, as would Dawnstar, and damn any Daedra who sought to believe otherwise.

After a moment of time that might have been another millennium, they parted. "Well," Seren eventually said, "speaking of dangerous risks … we'd better go to the barracks, make sure we can do what we can for the guards."

Rustleif nodded. "I'll quick check that Makela's still in her cradle," he offered. "I'll catch up with you."

"All right," said Seren, and she stepped out of the house.

Now alone, Rustleif quickly hurried to side of the bed where Makela's cradle stood. The baby, wrapped up in the cleanest cloth Seren could find, continued to sleep on—unaware of the strife that dared to shatter her peaceful world.

The blacksmith spared one moment to smile at his precious daughter, before summoning his courage and hurrying after Seren.


Dawnstar had never sounded so quiet.

Not a single person was out walking the shoreline that served as one of Dawnstar's two streets. There was no sound of passersby talking, no crunch of boots in the gritty sand save for their own. The only sounds that could be heard were the thin, constant hiss of wind, and the wet slaps of gray waves breaking on the coast.

And there was the ship—the same one he thought he'd seen yesterday during his talk with Skald. Rustleif had been right about it before: the ship was indeed too big to make berth in Dawnstar's tiny bay, even with the Sea Squall gone—what a time for it to leave, the blacksmith thought—and so it had anchored slightly further north, away from any landmasses. Why, Rustleif could not be certain—but just looking at this ship was making him uneasy.

Up close, he could see that the Crimson Ship suited its name; not only the sails, but the entire hull as well, had been stained a dark crimson color—it looked as though it had been sailing in blood. For all Rustleif knew from Seren's tale, something of the sort might well have been the case so long ago. He spent the next few moments trying to fight away the resultant mental image of dozens of sailors huddled together in terror as their bodies bled out from the plague, staining the wood of the ship, and running in rivulets off the hull to form a trail of blood in the ship's wake.

In his efforts to stave off the imagery, Rustleif closed his eyes, trying his hardest to focus on the unfamiliar stillness that had settled over his town like a heavy quilt. Though he had lived here for a long time, the blacksmith had never taken the time to really hear what the world sounded like outside of the life he lived. Before, the only noises he'd cared to hear in this town had been the swing of his hammer on the anvil, the bubbling of hot metal in water, and the creak of the bellows as he stoked the flames of his forge.

It was an unfamiliar feeling—but at the same time, it sounded beautiful. On any other day, the blacksmith would have been entranced by these sounds, would have blocked out all else as he listened to them for hours. But beautiful things could be deadly, too, he reminded himself with another glance at the Crimson Ship—and the knowledge of this was what kept Rustleif in step with his wife as they crossed uptown, passing the inn.

Every door they walked past had been bolted shut and barricaded on the outside—and Rustleif had to assume the other side of the threshold was blocked as well. "And I thought you were the one taking extreme measures," he quipped to Seren, attempting to lighten the grim mood.

The Redguard did not smile. "I might be to blame," she remarked. "After I went to Madena for help, she must have spread the word around town. People in the inn probably panicked, started sealing themselves in their houses. I don't know how much good that will do against a disease—but Madena did say they heeded her advice as well and wrapped themselves up, so we know nobody went around exposing themselves to this Flu."

Rustleif set his jaw. "Except the guards."

"But they're all contained in the barracks," Seren reminded him. "That's something that worries me: if the guards have been the ones getting sick so far, then one of them must have exposed themselves to the Knahaten Flu recently. But I don't know how something like that would happen."

"Could be an animal bite," reasoned Rustleif. "That light armor they wear can only protect against so much. Or maybe … " His voice faltered as another memory from yesterday surfaced in his mind: of a guard passing by his forge while Jarl Skald observed his work, hauling a sailor-type man who'd been coughing all the way—

And it hit him. The only regular sailors in Dawnstar belonged to the Sea Squalland the Sea Squall was gone.

"They knew," he breathed, feeling the realization sink into his flesh like a thousand icicles. "That's how the guards got infected. That sailor I saw them hauling off to the barracks … then the others must have been infected, too … "

Seren listened to him, and though her face remained invisible beneath the layers of cloth, she picked up her pace for the barracks considerably—as considerably as the hot pot of broth in her hands would let her, at any rate—and Rustleif, sensing the urgency in her steps, matched her speed and followed behind.

Oh, gods, he kept on thinking as they pounded on the barracks to the door. If the Sea Squall left Dawnstar—and its crew were infected with the Flu—then all of Skyrim could be in danger.

The knob turned—and Rustleif swore at what lay beyond the threshold.

The barracks were normally a place for the guards of Dawnstar to rest and relax in between their shifts. Today, however, the entire room looked like an abattoir. Dozens of bodies lay in bedrolls, being tended to by several soldiers who had not yet fallen prey to the gruesome effects of the Flu. Every bedroll Rustleif saw was dyed crimson, sodden with blood; some were either so sodden or so worn from use that the blood leaked from them, collecting in puddles underneath the bodies. Worse still, Rustleif saw that all of these bedrolls were twitching and fidgeting every few seconds—everyone in this room was alive.

The stench was the worst of it all, though; Rustleif realized at once that all the herbs Seren had put into her broth were not simply to contribute to the imbiber's recovery, but to mask the smell of decay that was left behind by the people who did not. He quickly took a whiff of the concoction, and was glad for it—but even through this, the blacksmith could still smell hints of the stinking air: the metallic odor of blood … the cloying smell of raw human waste … the smell of death …

While he and Seren looked on, one of the bedrolls suddenly stopped twitching. Suddenly, the pool of blood beneath it grew larger and darker, spreading out from around the bedroll. As if this had been some sort of signal, two guards leapt from their posts to attend to the individual inside. Gingerly, they hoisted up the bedroll—which now began dripping with brownish-red sludge that made Rustleif sick to just look at it—and carried it to the door he knew led to the town jail. A guard posted there opened the door—and the other two guards heaved their dying companion past the threshold, whereupon a wet smack, like raw meat on stone, was heard seconds later.

Their job done, the guards closed the door. The click that followed as the lock was turned was the most final-sounding noise Rustleif had ever heard in his life. A sound so small, announcing an event that loomed so large.

None of the guards had spoken a single word. None of them had protested. None of them had even hesitated. These three guards, seemingly resigned to the fate that had befallen the town they'd sworn to protect, had disposed of their compatriot like spoiled food. No last rites, no prayers to the Divines—nothing.

And the worst part, an appalled Rustleif now knew, was that this had become the new routine for them almost literally overnight. So many of these guards had died, and so often, that they no longer grieved for the loss of the sick—but merely threw them away like trash in hopes that they would not be joining their fallen comrades down below.

The inhumanity of it all felt like it was corroding his insides. Gods, deliver us …

One of the guards now walked up to them—gingerly enough that Rustleif instinctively knew he too had been infected. "Sorry you had to see that, friends," the guard said unapologetically. His words sounded raw, like he'd been either crying or coughing; frankly, Rustleif did not want to look under the masked helm to find out.

"The best of us are up on the second level," he explained to the pair, "confined to their beds. Everyone on this floor is in the advanced stages of the illness. The best we've been able to do is keep everyone here until … well, you saw what happened to Yngeir," he said heavily. "Second one in the past hour."

Rustleif bit his lip to ward away the unpleasant image.

If Seren harbored any disgust for the scene before her eyes, she did not show it in her words. "We came here to help in any way we can," she said, producing her broth for the guard to see. "Madena gave me the recipe—she says it'll help slow down the symptoms. Make sure everyone who's still alive gets a bowl—we'll be making more for the entire town as the day goes on.

"Start with the infected on the second floor," she instructed the guard, slipping into what years of marriage had caused Rustleif to call Seren's "lecturing mode", "and work your way down from there. The more of them we can help, the more people they can help as well. You're our best shot at making sure Dawnstar doesn't have any more problems to worry about besides the Flu."

"What about the Jarl?" asked the guard.

"That's where we're going next," Seren said, as she helped dole out bowlfuls of broth for the guard to distribute. "We have about six more pots like this sitting back at home. With any luck, that'll be enough for every person in Dawnstar to have a day's worth of chicken broth. We take care of the guards first, then the Jarl's court, then Madena and Frida. As soon as I've seen to those two, they'll be helping me with taking care of any more sick."

"If you ask me, they'll be fighting a losing battle," the guard said with a grunting sigh. "Not much a body can do against a sickness like this. I've had to watch over three dozen people go through the same door poor Yngeir did over the course of the night, and never come back out. I'm not sure it's going to stay at three dozen."

"Leave that to us." Seren finished ladling out her broth. "Frorkmar in the White Hall's gone off to Windhelm and ask the High King for aid. Until then, we'll do everything we can to keep the town healthy."

She indicated the bowls. "That should be more than enough for every single person in the guard. If you have any broth left over, keep it near the fire so it stays warm. Rustleif and I are going to head back and prepare some more. Make sure every inch of skin is covered with your soldiers, no matter how sick they are," she instructed the guard as she turned to leave. "None of us want this spreading around any more than you do."

The guard nodded, and turned to give out bowls of broth.

"Wait," Rustleif said. "How did this start? Who was the first person to get infected?"

The guard considered this for a moment. "What I heard," he said, "this all started after Guthrum from the Sea Squall got arrested for punching his shipmate—something about seeing a ghost in a white dress. Captain Wayfinder had him sent to the jail for the night. He came back later that night to collect him, but Guthrum was already dead."

"He what?!" Seren spoke up, alarmed. "That's impossible!"

"That's what everyone else said when they heard the tale," the guard said. "But after he learned Guthrum had died, Wayfinder and his mate sailed out of town like the Thalmor were after them. Had a scout come in from the shores out west around midnight, and he told me that he saw their ship sailing north."

Seren grunted. "That's not what I m—wait," she said. "North to where?"

The guard only spoke one word. "North."

Guthrum felt a blow to his stomach as he made sense of the reply. That settled it; Wayfinder and the other member of his crew had all been infected with the Flu. That was why they were no longer around; they'd sailed out of Dawnstar, away from the mainland, from any chance at infecting any more people, heading further north until the sickness had finally claimed them.

Whether Guthrum had infected them, too … "I wish they'd stuck around," the blacksmith said bitterly. "I'd have liked to know how the hell this all started."

"I'm not sure it matters at this point," replied the guard. "Not with so many of my men and women in this state. Besides, I don't think they were any good to us anyway. That little boat couldn't have held everyone in Dawnstar."

The indifference toward the loss of the sailors' lives stung, but deep down Rustleif knew the guard had a point. That ship could never have taken an entire town with it in one sitting. It would have capsized before leaving the bay—and not everyone in Dawnstar could swim.

They'd sacrificed themselves in order to make sure no one else died because of them … and yet, Rustleif thought, they'd inadvertently made the lives of those still living even harder in the process. For it had implied that either Wayfinder and his first mate had known something about the Knahaten Flu, though not enough to help cure the guards and townsfolk if it came to it.

Fools, he thought bitterly. They'd been utter fools …

Abruptly, he stood up; he could no longer stomach this place. He wanted nothing more than to leave. "Are you ready to go, Seren?" he asked, his words sounding clipped. "I'd like to get this next batch started."

The pause in his wife's reply suggested she had sensed the urgency in his voice, and she nodded. Both husband and wife quietly took their leave of the barracks—though Rustleif spared one last look at the door to the jail before following Seren out into Dawnstar.


He had to fight an incredible urge to rip off the strips of clothing that wrapped around his lips and be sick on the shoreline. The scene in the barracks, combined with the ensuing conversation, had almost overwhelmed Rustleif's senses; only the welcome smell of the broth had prevented him from losing his breakfast then and there.

Seren, on the other hand, sounded worried. "Something isn't right about any of this," she said, when Rustleif asked her why. "Knahaten Flu's deadly, all right—but it usually takes anywhere from a few days to a week to kill."

"So?"

"Didn't you hear what the guard said?" asked Seren. "This Guthrum person died in less than a day—which means all the other guards who died were infected for even less time than that. Even the Flu isn't that devastating. In fact, I don't know of any disease in Skyrim that kills so quickly."

"Maybe he was weakened to begin with," Rustleif considered. "He certainly didn't look at all like a strong fellow. He was old—probably drank a lot, too, if he was a sailor. The Flu probably couldn't have picked a better target."

"But as no disease in Tamriel is able to think for itself," chided Seren, "not even the Flu, I think we have to assume he ran afoul of it somehow. Probably an animal attack—like one of those cave-trolls."

Rustleif had no reply to that. It was the most likely suggestion, but he had to wonder exactly how a sailor who hardly ever left his boat could run afoul of any animal, never mind a troll.

He shook his head. This was looking to be a long day indeed.


They returned home to the stifled cries of Makela, and for a moment Rustleif feared the worst. But Seren, after shedding the swaddling that covered the infant's body, soon determined that she was hungry—and rather pungent, too. While Rustleif disposed of the soiled clothes, Seren began preparing a second pot of chicken broth for the citizens in the White Hall. Makela clung to her exposed breast, happily guzzling away.

"If you can take this next pot to the White Hall, I'll head over to Madena and Frida with the one after that as soon as I've put Makela to bed," Seren offered as she stroked the tan skin of her daughter's neck. "We'll cover more ground that way, hopefully take care of more people."

Rustleif agreed. He was about to take up the cookware, full to the brim, when he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

In the quiet that had enveloped the town, sounds that Rustleif had never taken the time to hear were now magnified tenfold, even indoors. Even through the drafty doors, the thatched roof, and the shredded clothes over his face, the blacksmith could hear every gust of wind and roll of waves as clearly as if they were in the next room.

And what he was hearing sounded even closer.

He whirled in Seren's direction, but—"I know," the Redguard said, an equal amount of alarm and confusion in her words. "I hear it too … it sounds like a song … "

Rustleif nodded grimly. "So who's out there?"

They stood there in silence for another moment before making their way to the door. Rustleif got there first, immediately making his way to the porch, whereupon he scanned Dawnstar from one end of town to the next, looking for any sign of life to the song that echoed in his ears.

There was no one out there.

Frowning, Rustleif stepped out into the open, intent on checking over the ridge behind their house. Warily, Seren followed him, Makela still cradled in her arms, her head turning this way and that to find any trace of the source of the nameless, wordless tune.

"Sounds like a woman," she noted, half to herself. "But even Karita doesn't have a voice like that … "

Rustleif, however, was not listening to his wife for the first time in forever. He concentrated on the silence in the town, ears pricked, trying to use the lack of civilized noise in Dawnstar to find out where the melody was coming from. Round and round he turned, gazing in a full circle until he was almost snow-blind—

And then he saw it.

For a moment, he thought it might have been a trick of the light—a reflection of a sunbeam off the snow—but there it was, plain as the day; it stood atop the highest point of the White Hall, perched on the rafter as if it was about to dive right off. A tall, thin figure it was, clad in silver-white gossamer; the dress hugged its supple curves. Rustleif could not make out any hair beneath the long, flowing veil that concealed its face. The song it sang was positively entrancing; he could not look away from the figure.

Seren, too, was enraptured. "Who is that?" Her voice was a bare whisper.

The singing stopped at that moment, and Dawnstar was silent once more. At that moment, Rustleif became aware that the figure atop the Jarl's residence was moving. The fluttering of its garments in the wind made it difficult to tell, but it almost appeared to be turning around, as if taking in its surroundings from on high. After a few moments of this, however, it suddenly stopped; Rustleif was just barely able to see that its chest was facing in their direction.

He felt a chill as he remembered what that guard had said: " … something about a woman in a white dress … "

"Seren … ?"

But the question died on his lips when he saw what the figure was doing now. A single arm, pale as the snow around it, was raised to its fullest extent—and then swung, unmistakably, in the direction of the blacksmith.

It was pointing right at him.

Rustleif whipped his head around so quickly he cricked his neck. "SEREN—GET INSIDE NOW!"

There was no time for argument. The Redguard had heard the sheer terror in her husband's words, and the couple had immediately bolted for their household. Seren, owing to Makela's weight on her breast, fell behind in short order, but Rustleif boosted her inside all the same.

"Shut the door, quick!" Rustleif said urgently. They did so together, bolting the door tightly shut. As the lock clicked, Rustleif let out a breath.

"What in the name of Satakal was that?!" demanded Seren, hurriedly depositing Makela in her crib and swaddling her back up as fast as she could.

Rustleif could not give her a straight answer. However … "I think that sailor might have seen the same thing," he said, "right before he died from the Flu."

"Do you think it saw us?" asked Seren as she wrapped up her previously exposed breast.

The blacksmith nodded. "Aye, there's no doubt it did. I just hope that we didn't stay too long to find out what else it might have done."

"What is it, though?" Seren wanted to know. "Some kind of ghost?"

Rustleif imagined he looked grim beneath his wrappings. "I'm beginning to think so," he said, "and I think I might know where it came from."

There was a silent moment of understanding between husband and wife that seemed to last an eternity—until it was broken by a faint coughing noise.

Both Nord and Redguard froze upon hearing that. "What was that?" Rustleif said—but the sudden pit that had yawned open inside him told him the answer before he'd even turned in its direction.

Seren had beaten him to it, and was already ripping off the rags that covered Makela even as the baby coughed again. Then she coughed again … and again.

By the time Rustleif had reached the cradle, Seren had stripped Makela to her skin—and both husband and wife had clapped a hand to their mouths in horror when they saw the faint red spots that lined the lips of their only child.

Almost automatically, Rustleif moved to comfort his wife as she stood there, stock-still and shaking in wordless grief. The gesture did nothing to comfort his own self—the blacksmith felt as though he'd been hurled off the Throat of the World at the sight … he was falling, falling, every inch of him going cold with dread as he realized what was happening … Makela, he thought, please, for the love of Talos, Ysmir, and Shor, please not Makela …

But the horror didn't stop there. Slowly, almost painfully so, Rustleif turned to face his wife, but the stricken look in Seren's tearing eyes told him everything he'd feared was true. The wrappings that covered the baby's favored breast had already been pulled aside, exposing the brown flesh underneath.

And around her nipple, the same crimson spots …


Next chapter: Where is the Dragonborn? More importantly, is he unable to show his face to the people of Skyrim … or simply unwilling?


A/N: And finally, the reason for the Drama tag. Now if only I can make sure this story deserves to have it …

So … yeah. Not sure how I can excuse this for being so late. Minor health scare (the irony of saying as much in this story does not escape me), job interview out of town, tenterhooks from waiting on some semblance of a result from said job interview, then finding out one of my favorite YouTubers has terminal cancer—a lot went on these past few weeks, and most of it left me drained.

I did vow to myself, though, that I would post this chapter by week's end—and I'm glad I could do that much, at least. A lot of it was written on the day of posting, so apologies in advance for any substandard content; I'll look through it in the days to come and see what needs to be done.

Thanks for reading! - K