Into the Maelstrom

by Aurora Nova

Marcus thinks he's woken up from a really bad hangover, but his nightmare is just beginning. Not-so-short story on a popular theme. Rated M for some mature language. Please read and review. Thank you!

37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

[Author's Note: My deepest apologies for the delay in posting this. Life has been getting in my way again, in the form of quitting my job and looking for another one. I was also suffering from severe Writer's Block and Editor's Reflux – which of course is the revulsion one feels when reading really bad writing. It's worse when it's your own. This is a VERY long chapter – the longest one I've written to date, I believe – but there was quite a lot to say, and I didn't want to break it up. So please enjoy, and see the end of the chapter for more Notes.]

---

Deep in the Midden beneath the College of Winterhold, Arch-Mage Tamsyn furrowed her brow in concentration. Her eyes were closed as she sat cross-legged on the damp floor in a circle of candle stubs, attempting to focus and tap into the ebb and flow of energies that were the hallmark of Divination.

Suddenly her eyes popped open and she stared wildly up at the glowing, iridescent orb that bobbed gently in front of her. "What's happened?" she demanded frantically, trying desperately to keep the bubble of hysteria out of her tone. "Why can't I see anything anymore?"

"Your Dragonborn has passed beyond your Sight," the Auger told her.

Tamsyn paled, and her stomach dropped with a sickening lurch to her nether region. "NO!" she whispered. "He can't be dead!" The glow of her Mentor and the flickering candlelight cast ghastly shadows across her face, contorted in fear and horror. It was over, then. Tamriel was doomed, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

"I did not say he had died," the disembodied Voice rebuked her. "I said he had passed beyond your Sight. There is a difference."

"I don't understand what that means, Master," she replied humbly, trying to relax; not an easy thing to do, with fear twisting her gut and threatening to spiral out of control. Was there then still hope?

"It means that other forces are now controlling his destiny," said the Auger. "The souls which he has absorbed have combined their inner strengths to overrule his conscious mind. This is not the first time this has happened to a Dragonborn."

"Other Dragonborn in the past have fought this struggle?" she asked. It wasn't much of a relief to learn this.

"Indeed. Some managed to overcome the temptation to dominate. But dragons are avaricious and aggressive by nature. Many great kings and warlords of the past were thought to be Dragonborn. Miraak was one such."

"The First Dragonborn," Tamsyn said thoughtfully. "You don't think Miraak is trying to exert power over him? Marcus said Cultists had already attacked him."

"Miraak's power is dormant…for the moment. His Cult is in its infancy in their attempts to bring him back to Tamriel. You have time yet before that situation must be dealt with."

Time which was rapidly running out, Tamsyn knew, especially if Marcus was being dominated by other dragon souls within him. She had to find him; she had to know if he was alright. But her Sight wouldn't permit her a viewing of him. She Searched through the ethereal plane, sifting through the shadows of What Could Be and found nothing.

"I can't find him anywhere!" she cried in frustration. "It's as if he doesn't exist! If I can't See Marcus, how can I help him?"

"As long as the dragon souls within him dominate him, you will not find him," the Auger replied with infinite patience. "Seek instead those who follow him. Where they are, there he will likely be."

She'd seen Cicero in the visions she'd had before she lost Sight of Marcus. Calming the rising panic in her mind, Tamsyn closed her eyes once more and concentrated on finding the Jester.

A flurry of possible futures flashed past, some so unlikely as to be laughable, and not a few of them disturbingly ending with Cicero attending Marcus as he married Elisif and was crowned High King of Skyrim after defeating Alduin and Ulfric Stormcloak….or General Tullius. In some of those possibilities, Cicero was made Court Jester; in others, Head Executioner. And in a very few remote realities, she Saw Cicero following Marcus as the new Listener for the Dark Brotherhood, bringing that fellowship back to power.

Jealousy flared at the thought of Marcus putting her aside for Elisif, but she swallowed it down and concentrated on the most likely places Marcus would go with Cicero in the immediate future. She Saw the Shrine to Meridia, and Cicero emerging with Marcus after returning the Beacon that Tamsyn didn't even know Marcus had. She Saw them pass through Dragon Bridge heading south, or west toward Volskygge. She Saw them fighting dragons at every turn, delving into barrows, caves and dungeons. From the southernmost parts of the Reach to the depths of the pine forests of Falkreath, to the tundra plains of Whiterun Hold, she Saw them travel, days passing into nights passing into weeks while the Jester followed the Dragonborn.

"Why isn't he arranging the peace talks?" she asked, dread filling her. "The longer he delays, the stronger Alduin becomes."

"Your Dragonborn seeks power which he does not yet possess."

Power. What was power to a dragon, already one of the most powerful creatures in Skyrim? The answer was quite simple, really. They were inscribed on curved walls from Volskygge to Forelhost: Words of Power. Marcus was seeking Shouts he did not have.

"You have surmised his intentions," the Auger approved. The psychic connection between Master and Apprentice really didn't need vocalization, but the Auger knew Tamsyn preferred speaking out loud. She was not yet skilled or disciplined enough to hold conversations internally, with her mind alone – at least, not without a lot of distractions, which mildly irritated her Mentor.

"He's searching out the Word Walls," Tamsyn said. "The knowledge he's gained from each dragon he's killed is probably letting him know where they are. But if he's not using the souls to unlock what he's learned, he might– oh, no!"

"You cannot aid him in this matter," the Auger told her sternly. "You are needed here. Your studies and research are not complete, and you have set matters in motion which require your presence to come to fruition. You would not reach the Dragonborn in time, were you even able to track him down."

"I know," Tamsyn answered miserably. "But you did say that not all Dragonborn succumbed to the pressures of temptation?" She couldn't prevent the note of hope from creeping into her voice.

"Much depends on the inner strength of the individual," her Mentor said. "Those with greater will-power would be more successful than those seeking power for its own sake."

"Marcus' strength is his love for his family," Tamsyn said slowly, "his loyalty to his friends, and his sense of duty. He's faced down dragons before, when he didn't know he could do it. He's defeated lich-lords and resisted Daedric influence."

"Then perhaps you may have reason to hope," her Mentor replied. Tamsyn didn't find his words comforting in the least.

---

The next several days were a whirlwind of delight for Cicero. Though Marcus seldom spoke to him, except to state where they were headed next, and though he seemed vastly different from the "good" brother he had known, there was nevertheless a darker edge to the man that he had never appreciated before.

They left Solitude and headed directly to the Shrine of Meridia, where Marcus stood before the curved wall and waited for something to happen. To Cicero's eyes, nothing did, but Marcus seemed to be satisfied. He then climbed the steps to the statue at the top of the Shrine and placed a large, faceted white ball in a receptacle. Again, Cicero waited while Marcus stood there, seeming to commune with the Daedric Prince herself, though he remained standing in front of the statue and no words were spoken aloud. It wasn't until much later that Marcus would confess to Cicero that he felt he had flown up into the skies to speak with Meridia herself.

The ball began to emit a high-pitched hum that hurt Cicero's ears and gave him a headache, but delving into the Shrine itself and clearing it of ghostly wraiths had been fun! And there was so much treasure inside, Cicero wasn't sure he could carry it all!

At the end, there was a fight with a necromancer who blew walls of frost at them, chilling poor Cicero to the bone, and bringing dear Marcus to his knees, but together they managed to kill the bastard and send his soul to Sithis. They also got a shiny, gleaming sword out of it, though Marcus appeared uninterested. Cicero packed it away because it was too pretty to leave behind.

As they walked away from the Shrine, he heard his brother mutter, "Now stay out of my mind, bitch!" This was completely out of character for Marcus, but Cicero didn't care. He found himself liking this new side to his brother very well.

After Meridia's Shrine they travelled west to a place on the map called Volskygge. There was much more stabbing and slicing, this time of draugr and bandits, and another lich-lord at the end guarding another Word Wall. There was more treasure here as well, and Cicero was beginning to worry he'd have to leave some of it behind. There weren't too many more places on his person where he could stash a coin or two. He mentioned to Marcus once the possibility of the Dragonborn carrying some of the loot, but the steady, cold, blank stare he got in return made him retract his statement and subside into silence.

They ate when they were hungry and slept when their bodies could no longer go on. They made their way down to Markarth only to sell off the treasure they didn't need and to buy more supplies. Then it was off again, this time to a barrow called Valthume in the far southwestern part of Skyrim. Here they were required to help a ghost put down another lich-lord to get at the Word Marcus wanted. Cicero collected the eponymous mask – the second one he had collected thus far – and the staff that spewed out a line of electricity in front of the wielder. He began to wonder if they were ever going to go to Windhelm to finish what the Dragonborn had started. But then it was off into another cave, or up another mountain, and Cicero promptly forgot about it, assuming his brother knew what he was doing.

They fought dragons along the way, of course; smaller, lesser dragons that were nothing like the big one that had threatened Solitude. Each time he took a dragon's soul, it seemed the part that was the Marcus he had known retreated further and further within – at least until a new Shout was learned that his brother apparently wanted badly enough to unlock. It was at those times that the old Marcus seemed to struggle to come back to himself, but was quickly suppressed.

In spite of his motley, Cicero was no fool. He had quickly figured out that someone or something had possessed his brother, and he quickly surmised it must be the dragon souls within. He didn't know how such a thing could happen, and he really didn't care. But calling them out would only have resulted in one or the other of them getting killed, or at the very least, seriously injured too far from a healer. He held his peace and played along, as if nothing had changed, while he tried to figure out how best to help the Dragonborn. The problem was that he really didn't know what he could do to help, other than to stay with him and make sure he survived the danger he put himself into. It wasn't the best solution by far, but it was as much as he could do for now until he could think of something better.

As the days began to lengthen into weeks, however, Cicero began to worry more and more about the original plan to go to Windhelm. He was enjoying the quality time, and his blades had never been so busy, but Cicero knew that this was not in the best interests of Tamriel. He was a devout follower of his dear Mother and dark Father, but he really didn't want to meet them too soon, now that his life was so much better than before. And if dear Marcus didn't get rid of a certain black dragon permanently, there would be no Cicero, no Tamriel, and no Void to go to after death. It didn't bear thinking about.

"Er…brother…" he began one night at their campfire, soon after crossing the border into Falkreath.

"What?"

"Eh…Cicero was just wondering…"

"Speak." The monosyllabic response was typical of Marcus these days, and the flat tone, without inflection, indicated neither impatience nor interest.

"Well, isn't it about time we headed to Windhelm?" He cocked his head slightly at the Dragonborn, and the bells on his hat jingled softly in the darkness. They were a new addition that Cicero was quickly regretting as they interfered with his sneaking. He'd had to stuff his hat into his pocket on more than one occasion to keep it quiet.

"Why?"

"Cicero thought that was Marcus' plan, to go to Windhelm, to speak with the Jarl," the jester replied. "Cicero would be just as happy not to go, of course—"

"Then don't. You're free to leave."

This wasn't going well. While the little Imperial was feeling the distinct urge to return home to care for the Night Mother, he knew he wouldn't abandon the Dragonborn while he was in this condition.

"What I meant was—"

"Enough talk." The hard edge of Marcus' voice was enough to even give Cicero pause. Few spoke to the Last Son of Sithis in that manner and lived to tell of it, but this was Marcus, his Sworn Brother and the Dragonborn.

"So, we're not going to Windhelm, then?" Cicero asked, eyes narrowing.

"We make for Ancient's Ascent," was all Marcus would say.

And no doubt another Word Wall, Cicero thought sourly. If they weren't going to go to Windhelm, then what was the plan? Traipse all over Skyrim looking for the Word Walls? While that might be entertaining in the short run, Cicero had no desire to make that his life's calling. He had other duties and obligations. What would sweet Tamsyn do if she were here, he wondered.

She would probably try to encourage him to remember his duty, but Cicero had a strong feeling that wouldn't get him anywhere. If the ones controlling his dear brother gave a skeever's ass about duty, they would already have gone to Eastmarch. No, he would need to try another tactic.

"Does the Dragonborn think we will be going through Whiterun anytime soon?" he asked, innocently enough.

"Why?"

"Well, we'll need supplies, of course. And we can drop off some things you want to keep at your home there." He gave an indulgent sigh. "It will be so good to see the children again! Sofie promised Cicero sweet rolls the next time he came to visit. Blaise has probably mastered iron smithing by now, and wasn't little Lucia was working on a new song?" He watched his brother carefully.

The Dragonborn sat rigidly on the log, staring into the fire. He appeared not to have heard Cicero, until he muttered, barely above a whisper, "Lucia…"

"Yes, sweet little Lucia!" Cicero smiled in fond remembrance. "She has such lively eyes, and such a merry laugh. She would laugh at all Cicero's jokes, no matter how many times he told them. And dear Sofie…such a bright child! And so grown up for all that she's ten—"

"Eleven," Marcus murmured. "Sofie's eleven."

Cicero watched carefully as a series of conflicting expressions flitted over the Dragonborn's face. He had planted a seed. Now all he could do was wait to see if it took root.

---

It had happened so fast he had had no time to prepare himself. One moment he was fighting the ancient dragon in Solitude, near Castle Dour. He had just absorbed its soul. The next moment he was dazed and disoriented as the dragons within him ambushed him, combined their forces of personality and separating his soul to take over control of his body.

I'm a prisoner in my own mind, Marcus realized with horror.

The two Ancient Ones – the one whose soul he took at Bonestrewn Crest – whom he privately called "Boney" – and the one he took in Solitude – "Solly" – had somehow pushed him to the back of his own mind, unable to speak or act on his own. He saw his body, as if through a long, dark tunnel, approaching General Tullius; he heard the general speaking, yelled and screamed to make himself heard, but the body did not respond.

"Foolish mortal," one of the dragons – he believed it to be "Boney" – mocked him. "This body responds only to us now. You are no longer in control."

The Ancient Ones spoke in dovahzul, the language of the dragons, and Marcus realized with a shock that he could understand them. His dragon soul and blood gave him the latent knowledge; his exposure to it here in his own mind gave him the comprehension.

"What do you want with me?" Marcus demanded.

"We want nothing from you," Solly sneered, "except perhaps your experiences."

"You will give them to us," Boney told him. "Willing or unwilling, it matters not."

Marcus struggled violently against the forces which held his soul in place. "You don't know what you're doing!" he cried out. "You're not human. You don't know how to function in a human world! They'll know you're not me."

The presence he called "Solly" derided him again. "Mortals are fools. They will only know that the one they call 'Dragonborn' is acting strangely. They will believe you have gone mad. They will not interfere in our plans."

Marcus had a sinking feeling they were right. Desperately he renewed his efforts to free himself, but it was useless. The two Ancient dragon souls were just too powerful. Resigned for now to simply watch and wait, he settled back and explored this new perspective to attempt to find and exploit any possible weaknesses.

He noticed immediately that the Ancient Ones had no grasp of human speech. They simply didn't know the language. When General Tullius spoke to him, Boney had been in control, but did not know how to formulate an answer. The presence turned to him, but Marcus shrugged his metaphorical shoulders.

"You want me to answer him? Give me back my body," he said. Fuming, Boney simply stared back at the General before turning and leaving. "Suit yourself," Marcus said shortly. He was grateful to notice that Cicero had trailed after him. Perhaps he might not be as bad off as he thought.

Two days later he was revising that opinion. Two days of being unable to speak or act on his own behalf. He was glad that Cicero was there, but annoyed that the little Imperial seemed content to simply follow along without doing anything to help him. He had tried screaming out to his dark brother again and again until the others dominated him into submission. Cicero had not responded.

He tried reaching out to Akatosh, but either the Ancient Ones were blocking his attempts, or his conduit to the Dragon God of Time had been severed. That thought terrified him more than anything else. He hadn't realized just how much he had come to depend on that quiet voice of counsel in his mind. For now, since there seemed to be little he could do but wait, he settled back and watched for an opportunity to make a break for it.

At least he was not in pain. The worst the Ancient Ones could do to him was force him into the smallest corner of his mind and keep him there. From that perspective, he could see little of what happened to his body. It was rather like entering a tunnel from one end and being able to see the light from the other, but nothing else.

At first he thought he might be able to take advantage of the frailties of his body. While he might have been able to go on for hours and hours at a time, eventually the body needed to rest and refuel. Even the Ancient Ones couldn't stop that. Marcus hoped he might be able to overpower them at that point, but they were far too wily for that. When one rested, the other was always alert, keeping him pinned down with the help of the lesser souls they were picking up along the way. Here in his mind, there were no weapons, no armor, no actual hacking and slashing of battle. It was a contest of wills, and while Marcus always thought of himself as determined and confident, he soon realized he had a long way to go to defeat the will of a dragon that had lived for centuries.

Having nothing else to do during those times, he explored where he was and found memories he had forgotten about: Lynne's smile when he proposed to her; his sister Anne's tenth birthday when he gave her the tickets to a concert she was desperately hoping to go to; holding his son for the first time; the cowboy costume he dressed up in for Halloween when he was eight. He heard his mother's voice telling him to keep stirring the pot so it wouldn't boil over; felt the touch of his father's rough hands as they showed him how to sand a plank of wood; smelled the acrid scent of the first meal Lynne had cooked – and burned – for him after they were married.

Not all the memories were pleasant. He experienced once more the pain of breaking his leg the first time he tried to water-ski; felt the fear when his daughter Kelly's appendix ruptured when she was four – they barely got her to the hospital in time; saw the look of betrayal on an old girlfriend's face when she found out he'd been with another girl. He squirmed at that last one. She hadn't deserved that; he should have told her it was over, instead of her finding out the way she had, but he was young, stupid, and hormonally charged.

Marcus faced the memories. Denying their existence didn't make them untrue. They happened, and it was past. There was nothing here that would help his current situation. He kept exploring.

He saw with perfect clarity now the night his old life ended, when the truck slammed into his car; he saw how Lynne had desperately tried to avoid the accident, but could not, just before the memory blacked out. He saw the bleeding, broken bodies in the tangled mess that had been the Land Rover, and the black shadow that was Alduin who reached out his maw to claim his soul, before Lynne threw herself against it, giving him time to escape. The pain was as raw and fresh now as it had been then.

Opening that metaphorical door flooded him with memories of everything that had happened since coming to Tamriel. And in exploring these new experiences of the past year – had it really been almost a year? - Marcus found the place where the Words he had learned from the Dragon Walls were held. Kaan was there, and drem and klo, but he didn't know what they meant.

"What do they mean?" he asked Boney, who was using lesser souls they had gathered to help keep him restrained.

"They are unimportant," the Ancient One said dismissively. "We will unlock them eventually, but there are other, more important Words of Power to be learned."

"I thought you guys knew all the Shouts already," Marcus couldn't keep from taunting.

"But you do not," Boney sneered. "And this body of yours must know the deepest meanings of the rotmulag if we are to be able to use them as thu'ums. The Words of Power must become integrated into every fiber of your being. Every dovah knows this. You are a pathetic joor who must be taught as a hatchling must be taught."

"Hatchling?" Marcus asked. "You mean baby dragons?" This was a revelation. "I didn't know there were baby dragons out there."

"There are not, anymore," Boney admitted gruffly. "But all dovah were once hatchlings that were taught by our father, Akatosh."

"Oh, yeah?" Marcus said doubtfully. "I don't believe you. Let me talk to Akatosh and we'll see if he confirms your story."

"I do not care what you believe or discount," Boney growled. "Your opinions mean nothing. You are merely a tool we must use to achieve our goal."

Marcus knew what their goal was, of course; it wasn't very different from his own. They wanted to defeat Alduin, but only to take over and rule Tamriel as its new overlord. This in itself gave him cause to hope. Dragons were avaricious and domineering by nature. Eventually, it would come to a point where he might be able to use that flaw to his advantage. So he waited.

The lesser souls that were harvested came and went, devoured when the Ancient Ones defeated the dragons with his body, and consumed when a new Shout was learned which they felt would be needed for their ultimate plan. As galling as it was to have to sit back and be a spectator to his own life, he had to admit they seemed to know where the best Shouts were. Very quickly, within the space of several days, he had learned the second Word to Elemental Fury, which would allow him to wield his weapons much faster, the third Word to Whirlwind Sprint, the second of Aura Whisper, and at a place called Sunderstone Gorge they found the last Word to the Fire Breath Shout, which pleased Marcus no end. What was a dragon, after all – or a Dragonborn, for that matter – if he couldn't breathe fire?

Through it all, Cicero remained at his side. The Ancient Ones seemed not to mind the little jester tagging along after him, and he was certainly deadly in a pitched fight. Perhaps they appreciated that, or perhaps they could see – as Marcus could, now that he was inside – the dark shadow of Sithis that lay over the assassin. It was likely that even the dragons weren't willing to take on Sithis himself in the form of his last loyal follower.

It was uncharacteristic of the little Imperial, however, to hold his tongue for so long. Usually he chattered like a magpie – he could give Lucia lessons in prattling – but Cicero seemed to sense there was something else going on, and kept his comments to a minimum. For the Ancient Ones, however, speech in the human tongue was something of a challenge, and if they spoke to Cicero at all, it was usually short, terse, and composed of as few words as possible.

So it was that Cicero finally gave him an opportunity to make his move against his captors.

"Does the Dragonborn think we will be going to Whiterun any time soon?" the Jester asked, innocently enough.

"Hey!" Marcus called out to the Ancient Ones. "Which one of you gets to rule Tamriel in my body?"

Distracted, "Solly" snarled at him to be quiet, while "Boney" said, "Foolish mortal! I am the eldest. It will be me." They had no names, of course, no form except a sort of presence, but their personalities were very distinct, and Marcus knew which one had come from Bonestrewn Crest and which one from Solitude.

"You? Eldest?" Solly sneered. "That is foolishness. We are of the same age. If it comes to ruling, I am the more qualified."

"By what measure?" challenged Boney. "You were taken down by a Fool."

Solly snarled, its attention torn between answering that same Fool and warring for dominance over its associate. Marcus felt the tendrils of control over him slipping.

"You are a Fool if you think you can take me down," Solly snapped. "At least I didn't let a slip of a girl defeat me!"

Marcus thought it rather amusing that they both acted as though the Dragonborn hadn't been part of both those battles. But he said nothing, not wanting to jeopardize this chance of freeing himself from their control. As of this moment, there was only one lesser soul still unused, cowering in a corner out of the way, and two Words to Kyne's Peace that had not yet been unlocked.

Keep talking, Cicero! he prayed. The battle of wills between the two Ancient Ones was heating up, and very soon, one of them would make a mistake. It might be his only chance.

"And dear Sofie," Cicero continued. "Such a bright child! And so grown up, for all that she's ten—"

"Eleven!" Marcus called out.

"What?" Boney demanded harshly, struggling to dominate Solly.

"Sofie's eleven," Marcus insisted. "Tell him that, or he'll know you're not me!"

And without thinking, Boney did just that. Its grip on Marcus relaxed just enough for him to throw his willpower against Solly, forcing it into the part of his mind where kaan was stored. There was a bright flash of illumination and understanding – kaan meant the Goddess Kyne – and Solly was gone, the soul sacrificed for the deeper understanding of the Word.

Taken off-guard, Boney tried to dominate Marcus again, reaching for the lesser soul that shrank from its grasp, straight into the waiting snare of the Dragonborn. Without knowing or understanding how he did it, he bonded the lesser soul to his, using the combined willpower to slam Boney's soul into drem, unlocking the profoundest meaning of 'peace'. Another flash faded, and Marcus focused his intimidation at the lesser soul which was still trying desperately not to be noticed.

"You want to start something?" he demanded of it. It shook its metaphorical head in submission. "Good." Feeling a sense of triumph, and without quite understanding how he did it, Marcus released his hold on the dragon soul and took back control of his own body.

"Well done, my son", came an approving voice. "I feared for your safety". His link to the Dragon God of Time had been restored, and Marcus truly felt at peace for the first time since the ordeal had begun.

"Thanks, 'Dad'," he grinned to himself. "It feels good to be back."

"And what have you learned from this?"

Marcus gave an inward grimace. "Don't stockpile souls", he thought. "I'll remember."

There was a familiar, dry chuckle in his mind. "Well, that's perhaps not quite the lesson I was hoping you would learn, but it's a start. Just be prepared the next time you face one of my elder children." And then the presence was gone.

Seeing through his own eyes once more, Marcus focused on the red and black clad Jester in front of him and breathed a deep sigh of clean, fresh air. The stars were brilliant pin-points of light overhead, the sparks from the fire flying up as if trying to become a part of the majestic display above. Cicero's face was taut with caution and worry, and one hand had strayed to his dagger-hilt.

Marcus smiled, and he could see his brother visibly relax.

"It's okay, Cicero," he said finally. "It's me. I'm back."

"Oh! Cicero is so…jubilant!" the little man cried. Unable to hold back, he threw himself into Marcus' arms, hugging him and slapping his back. To the Jester's delight, this time the Dragonborn didn't recoil, accepting the brotherly embrace and returning it.

"It feels good to be back," Marcus said, and quickly explained what had occurred. "I could see," he finished finally, "but I just couldn't do anything. Now, tell me what I've missed."

The stars wheeled overhead and the fire burned low as Cicero filled him in on what Marcus had only seen second-hand.

"We've lost a lot of time, then," Marcus said finally. "We're going to have to hustle to make it up. Where are we now?"

"In Falkreath," Cicero said promptly. "We just cleared out Sunderstone Gorge, and you learned another Word from the curved wall there, but you've never told Cicero what any of the Words are, and since Cicero can't read the scratchings, he doesn't know—"

"Shul," Marcus said quietly, not as a Shout. "It means 'sun'. It's the last word of the Fire Breath Shout."

Cicero's eyes widened. "So does this mean my brother can now breathe fire like the dragons do?"

Marcus chuckled. "Technically, I could do it before, though I haven't that often. This new word simply means my Shout will be at its most powerful."

Cicero's eyes danced in the firelight. "Cicero would love to learn how to breathe fire! Can dear Marcus teach him?"

"Maybe," Marcus hedged, not certain a fire-breathing Cicero set loose on the world was a good idea. "But it takes a long time and lots of meditation and study to learn just one word. At least, that's what Master Arngeir told me, anyway. He said that my dragon blood and soul gives me the ability to learn them more quickly than those who aren't Dragonborn."

Cicero looked crestfallen, but he rallied. "But you will try? Please?"

"I owe you for sticking so close to me," Marcus said. "Believe it or not, when I was being held prisoner in my own mind, it gave me great comfort to know you were still with me, watching my back."

The jester's voice dropped two octaves and his face grew somber as he said, "You are my Sworn Brother, Marcus. I will always have your back."

Not trusting himself to speak, Marcus simply thumped Cicero on the back once more. In his wildest dreams he would never have imagined that his closest friend in this strange new world would be someone like Cicero.

"Thank you, brother," he whispered, releasing him. "That means a lot to me. But now it's late. We should get some rest. We'll need to head to Windhelm as soon as we can."

"So we're not going to Ancient's Ascent, then?" Cicero asked, his voice rising to its usual high pitch with the question.

"Ancient's Ascent? Where's that? What's at Ancient's Ascent?"

"Cicero doesn't know, but that's what you – or rather, the Old Ones – told him before you came back to yourself. Here it is, on the map."

He held up a bit of flaming wood for illumination and pointed to it on Marcus' well-worn map. Located south and east of the town of Falkreath, Marcus realized that was where the Ancient Ones had been heading when he had finally regained control. No doubt there was a Word Wall there, and quite possibly a dragon.

"Get some sleep, Cicero," he said finally. "I'll take the first watch. We'll go ahead and find out what's at Ancient's Ascent. After that I want to check in on the kids in Whiterun. We'll need to pick up supplies there, anyway. Then we'll head to Windhelm."

"And dear Marcus will teach Cicero how to breathe fire?" the jester asked hopefully.

"I promise, I'll try," Marcus grinned. "It will really depend on how good a teacher I am, I suppose, and how quick you are to learn."

Cicero settled happily down on his bedroll and closed his eyes. Marcus remained awake, on watch, for a few more hours, turning things over in his mind. He had just barely averted disaster, he knew. In his desire to hold on to the souls he had taken, in hopes a better, more useful Shout would be learned, he had allowed them to combine their willpower against him. He couldn't let that happen again.

Master Arngeir had told him, many months ago while he had been training at High Hrothgar, that learning the Shouts too quickly might lead to the temptation to dominate, and that it had been the downfall of many Dragonborn before him. But Marcus didn't think that was completely accurate…not now. He had no doubt that some who learned the thu'ums abused their power simply because they could, but he was also convinced that some had allowed the dragon souls to take them over, to attempt to rule the world through their human – or non-human – hosts.

But what happens if I fight more dragons than I have Words for? he brooded. There was the distinct possibility that could happen. He had no control over taking a dragon's soul; it just happened. But he had no idea how many Word Walls were out there. There had to be a limit to them, but there seemed to be no limit on dragon souls. Akatosh had advised him to use caution when going up against the elder dov. Perhaps Master Arngeir would know more. He'd have to ask when he returned to High Hrothgar.

I'll figure it out, he vowed to himself. I'm never letting that happen again!

---

The dragon at Ancient's Ascent turned out to be a frost dragon, and Marcus thoroughly enjoyed the look of surprise on its face when he unleashed his fully-voiced Fire Breath Shout, to Cicero's extreme delight. In spite of this advantage, it was still a tough fight; the dragon used the surrounding peaks to its advantage as it wheeled and dove at them, avoiding arrows and landing only briefly to belch out a wall of frost before taking off again. Using Dragonrend only worked when he was able to hit the beast, and this one was faster than any frost dragon he'd yet seen.

The conclusion, however, was inevitable – at least in Cicero's mind – and when the battle was finally over, Marcus approached the Wall and quickly unlocked raan, "animal", with its soul. This appeared to be a new Shout, and one which – according to the knowledge he had absorbed – would enable him to form alliances with the local wildlife for a short time. That could be useful, if there happened to be any wildlife around.

By mutual consent, they pushed on to Whiterun without stopping to pick up supplies at either Gray Pine Goods in Falkreath or the Trader in Riverwood, though they did pause for a midday meal at the Sleeping Giant. Marcus wanted to make sure the children were alright before heading to Windhelm. Besides, they could take the carriage to the capitol of Eastmarch; he was feeling a bit foot-sore, and the carriage was faster. Time was now of the essence – too much of it had been lost while he had been possessed.

Along the way Marcus kept his promise to try to teach Cicero yol, and while nothing had happened yet, the little Imperial wasn't giving up easily.

"It's more than just imagining yourself blowing out fire," he told the Jester. "You have to feel it inside, like all your insides are molten, and you want to make everything around you a maelstrom of flame. You have to put everything you have and everything you are into it. If you only know the one Word, it comes out as a short burst, quickly extinguished. But knowing all three—" Marcus left that hanging. Cicero had already seen the result of the full thu'um.

It was difficult to put into words the understanding he had of "fire" as the dragons knew it, but he was determined to be as patient as possible with Cicero, since it meant so much to his brother to want to learn it.

"Yol!" Cicero kept shouting again and again. "Yol! Do you see any fire yet, brother?" he asked.

"No," Marcus grinned indulgently. "But I think I'm smelling brimstone."

"Oh," Cicero chuckled weakly. "Er…Cicero may have to brush his teeth again. The garlic chicken they served at the Sleeping Giant was very good!"

"I know," Marcus grinned. "You had two servings of it!"

"Well, Cicero doesn't normally eat that well, when he's on his own," the Jester said, matter-of-factly. He began to whistle a merry tune which Marcus didn't recognize, but the Dragonborn couldn't help but wonder if the little Imperial was attempting to deflect attention from his lonely life.

Finally Marcus spoke. "You don't need to stay at the Sanctuary, you know," he began slowly.

"What?"

"I said you don't need to stay there all alone at the Sanctuary," Marcus repeated. "I have a house in Markarth, Vlindrel Hall it's called. Or there's Honeyside in Riften. There's no one staying in Honeyside right now, but both homes are in the cities. You'd be around people again. And if you stayed at Vlindrel Hall, Argis would be there."

Cicero flashed him a grin. "Cicero would very much like to see Argis again, dear Marcus. But you needn't worry about your poor, demented brother. Cicero must remain where he is. Mother needs me."

Of course. Marcus realized he should have thought of that. Cicero would never leave the Night Mother.

"Well, consider it a standing offer," he said. "I'm worried about you."

Blaise was the first to see them enter the city gates, and he left the forge with a whoop and leaped the retaining wall easily, leaving Adrienne standing there holding hot iron. When she saw who it was, however, she smiled and the frown across her brow smoothed away.

"PAPA!"

Marcus was quite certain that folks in Riverwood had heard Lucia's delighted shriek as she raced down the street to throw herself into Marcus' arms. He was glad he'd been prepared to catch her. Sofie followed at a more sedate, though brisk walk.

"I'm so glad you're home, Papa!" she sighed, hugging him.

By now a small crowd was gathering, expressing their relief at the Dragonborn's return, and Alesan wormed his way through to be scooped into a bear hug from his father before the little family retired to Breezehome.

"Come by for supper tonight, you and Ulfberth," Marcus invited Adrienne. "I'll fill you in on the details."

The blacksmith graciously accepted, and dinner that evening was a lively affair as the children told their Papa everything they'd been up to while he'd been gone.

"I lost another tooth!" Lucia announced, opening her mouth wide to show him. "That makes three this month!"

"I can see I'll have to have someone carved you some wooden teeth so you can eat," Marcus teased.

"She don't miss any meals," Alesan teased.

"Doesn't," Marcus and Lydia said at the same time.

"I'll make her some iron teeth," Blaise offered. "Then she'll be able to eat anything."

"Wouldn't they rust in her mouth, though?" Sofie asked.

"Details," Blaise grinned dismissively.

"Did you tell your father about your latest escapade?" Lydia asked Alesan, fixing him with a keen gaze.

Marcus was immediately on alert. "What have you done?" he asked as neutrally as he could.

"Nothing!" Alesan protested, a bit too loudly. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

"I didn't say you'd done anything wrong," Marcus reminded him. "Just tell me what you did. Then I'll decide."

"Me an' Lars—"

"Lars and I," Marcus and Lydia said simultaneously and automatically.

The boy gave a deep, exasperated sigh. "Lars and I," he continued, "went to the Hall of the Dead."

"Why?" Marcus asked.

"We wanted to see a dead body," Alesan replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to want to do.

"That's it?"

"Well, not exactly," the boy admitted.

"They snuck in," Lydia answered for him. "And when Andurs caught them, he made them go retrieve his Amulet of Arkay for him, which he'd left down in one of the crypts."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like much of a punishment," he observed mildly.

"I don't think it was meant to be," Lydia replied. "I think Andurs just wanted them to do him a favor and satisfy their curiosity at the same time."

"So what are you not saying, dear Alesan?" Cicero inquired innocently. "Did something happen in the crypt?"

"Uh…yeah, it did," Alesan squirmed. "A couple of the skeletons got up and started chasing us, and me an' – I mean, Lars and me…I – had to kill them. I mean, they were already dead, but…well, you know."

"Oh ho ho!" Cicero chortled. "Sticks and stones will break the bones, but Alesan's sword will cut them!"

"You're not helping," Marcus murmured his aside as the boy preened. To Lydia he asked, "Was Andurs upset at their desecrating the tombs?"

Alesan's mood shifted quickly back to subdued.

"No," Lydia said. "Not really. In fact, he thanked them for not only recovering his amulet, but taking care of the undead. He rewarded them."

"You're not angry, are you Pa?" Alesan asked, watching his father carefully.

Marcus considered this. "No," he said finally. "I suppose if Andurs was grateful for the help, I really can't complain. But try not to make a habit of sneaking in where you're not supposed to be, okay?"

"Cicero wouldn't have been caught," the Jester mumbled.

"Really not helping," Marcus muttered back.

"I've got some news, Papa," Sofie said shyly, and Marcus could tell his older daughter was bursting with the urge to tell him.

"Go ahead, sweetheart."

"Miss Arcadia asked me to ask you to see her as soon as you got back."

Marcus' brow furrowed. "Why? Is there a problem?" He knew he'd be more than happy to postpone his departure if the alchemist needed anything. He depended on her elixirs and potions too much to deny her request for aid.

"No," Sofie assured him. "There's no problem. But she really wants to talk to you."

"Alright," Marcus nodded. "I need to go there tomorrow anyway, before we leave. I'll talk to her then."

When the supper had been cleared away and everyone settled in the main room over mead for the adults and milk for the children, Marcus noticed for the first time that Blaise was drinking mead. And was that the shadow of a moustache on his upper lip? It seemed to him the boy had shot up another inch since he'd been away, and the muscles on his arms were larger and harder than they'd been before.

Or maybe I'm just so glad to be home that I'm noticing everything more, he thought to himself. Lucia's hair was longer and caught back in two braids that merged to one down her back. The hem of Sofie's dress was longer, and she seemed to be taller as well, and developing teen-aged curves. Alesan had a couple new scars he didn't remember; possibly the result of his scuffle with the skeletons, but who could tell? The fact that the boy had enough confidence to hold his own against undead spoke volumes to him.

They're growing up, he thought frantically. And I'm missing it! Once again, the urgency of his ultimate mission pressed on him, and he knew he couldn't linger long at home. I hate this! he railed silently. I didn't ask for this! I just wanted a home and a family!

But if he ever hoped to have that, he needed to finish what he started.

Lucia brought out her lute and played the song Marcus had taught her before he'd left for Ivarstead weeks ago. She was very proficient with it now, and only made a couple of small mistakes. Adrienne and Ulfberth were delighted with her performance.

"You're sending her to the Bards College when she's older, I take it?" Ulfberth asked. "She's got real talent."

"I think so, too," Marcus agreed, hugging his little girl, who was becoming not-so-little. "And yes, when she's old enough, I'll have a talk with Master Viarmo to see if they'll take her."

"So," Adrienne began, "are you going to share with us what's been going on while you were gone?"

"I think I'll let my brother Cicero tell you," Marcus grinned. "He'd better at telling stories than I am."

"Ooo!" Cicero squealed in delight, jumping to his feet. "Cicero will be happy to tell you everything we did! Yes, yes, yes!"

Well, not everything, Marcus grimaced to himself. By mutual, private consent earlier, Cicero left out any references to Marcus being possessed; it wouldn't do for everyone to know how close they'd come to losing their Dragonborn – or their father. The sensitive information Marcus had divulged to Jarl Elisif, Falk Firebeard and General Tullius was also left out, since Marcus hadn't yet had his conversation with Windhelm's Jarl.

"And because of the side quests that needed my help," Marcus said after Cicero had finished, "Cicero and I will have to leave in the morning to go to Windhelm. I still need to speak with Jarl Ulfric."

"Awww!" the children chorused.

"But you only just got back, Papa!" Lucia whined.

"I know, sweetheart," Marcus said, feeling his heart break. "But this is something I have to do. I need to get Jarl Ulfric to agree to talk peace, so we can put an end to the war."

"That's right, Lu," Blaise said. "He's got General Tullius to agree. It wouldn't be much of a peace talk if Jarl Ulfric doesn't show up."

"Are you going to have the con—confr—" Alesan stumbled.

"Conference," Sofie supplied.

"Yeah, that," Alesan grinned sheepishly. "Are you going to have that here in Whiterun?" Hope danced in his brown eyes, echoed in three other sets: blue, green and gray.

Marcus smiled sadly. He hated to disappoint them. He knew they were hoping he would stay home for a while. "I'm afraid not, son," he said kindly. "Jarl Ulfric won't come here, because he thinks Jarl Balgruuf sides with the Imperials. We'll have to go someplace neutral, where no one has taken sides."

"Good luck finding a place like that," Ulfberth drawled.

"High Hrothgar," Sofie said softly. "You're going to have it there, aren't you, Papa?"

"That's my hope," Marcus admitted, giving her a hug. "I just need to convince Master Arngeir it's the right thing to do."

"You'll need to get an early start then," Adrienne said, rising and giving Ulfberth a nudge in the ribs with her elbow. "Good luck, Marcus. Cicero, it's been nice meeting you. I didn't even know Marcus had any brothers or sisters."

The jester gave a flourishing bow and kissed her hand the way they do in the Imperial City, while Ulfberth glared at him. "The pleasure has been all mine, dear lady! Cicero is indeed fortunate to have met such a beautiful and talented woman! If ever I need my blades sharpened, or my armor repaired, I shall come to you!"

Ulfberth growled under his breath and Adrienne hurried him towards the door, waving goodbye. But she couldn't hide the blush of color on her tanned cheeks, or the delight in her brown eyes at Cicero's flowery compliments.

"You do realize they're husband and wife, don't you?" Lydia drawled as the door closed behind them.

"Of course!" Cicero giggled. "But Cicero thinks that perhaps the dear blacksmith is only married, not dead. What woman doesn't love to hear how beautiful she is, dear, sweet, lovely Lydia?"

Lydia went bright pink and sputtered, before fleeing to the kitchen.

Marcus grinned at his brother. "You're hopeless, you know that?"

Cicero merely giggled again as the children smirked around him.

Marcus tucked the children in that night – though the boys insisted they were too old to be "tucked in", and he read two stories to Lucia until her eyes drooped, she gave a small sigh and snuggled deeper under the covers with her doll. Smiling tenderly, Marcus kissed her forehead and turned to put out the candle.

"Papa?" Sofie whispered from the top bunk.

"Yes, dear?"

"May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, sweetheart," Marcus replied. "What's on your mind?"

"Were you—were you…safe…while you were gone?"

Trust his older daughter to be the sensitive, perceptive one. As with Alesan before, Marcus knew that nothing but the truth would suffice here.

"I was as safe as I could be, with your Uncle Cicero watching my back," he said carefully.

"But he might not always be there," Sofie pointed out.

"Yes, that's true. Your uncle has…other duties and obligations. He can't always be with me."

"What if—what if something would happen—" Her lower lip began to tremble.

"Sofie! Sofie!" Marcus crooned, reaching up and pulling her off the bunk. He settled back into the chair with her in his lap. She was bigger than Lucia, but not by a whole lot. He rocked her for a moment while she struggled to get her fears under control.

"Lucia kept asking us every day while you were gone," she whispered. "'When is Papa coming home? Why hasn't he come back?' I didn't know what to tell her. None of us knew what to say."

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry you were so worried," Marcus murmured, his heart breaking all over again. He had to end this soon! It wasn't fair to the children to drag this out. "I wasn't able to send word," he continued. True enough. While the Ancient Ones held him prisoner, contacting his family was impossible.

"Is this what it's like?" she asked. "To have the Dragonborn as my Papa? To always worry if you're going to come home?"

It cut him like a knife. "I'm sorry, baby," he said again, hugging her tight. "But it's only for a little while longer. I've got to get Jarl Balgruuf to allow me to use Dragonsreach to catch a dragon. But he won't unless he's sure Ulfric won't attack."

"Why do you need to catch a dragon, Papa? And why not one of the ones you fight out there?" she made a small gesture indicating the rest of Skyrim.

So he told her; he told her what Tamsyn had explained to him, that he would need to track Alduin down to his Temple where the portal to Sovngarde lay; that the only way to get there would be if he could fly, and since he couldn't fly—

"You need to trap a dragon," Sofie finished. She sniffled a little and nodded. "I understand now, Papa." She gave a small smile. "Thank you for explaining it to me."

"You deserve nothing less than the truth, sweetheart," he said, hugging her again. "And I don't want you or your brothers or sister to worry about the future. You'll be taken care of."

"You mean—"

"I mean that I'm going to do everything in my power to come back to all of you," Marcus said firmly. "Let's concentrate on that for right now, okay?"

"Okay, Papa," Sofie sighed, snuggling deeper into his arms. After a few moments she said, "I think I'd like to go back to bed now."

For a long while after the children had fallen asleep and Cicero had sought his own bed, Marcus sat staring at the flames in the fireplace until they subsided to glowing red embers. So deep in thought was he that it was several moment before he felt the presence of his Housecarl behind him.

"Is there anything you need, my Thane?" she asked.

"No, Lydia," he said quietly. "You should get some rest."

"I will, Thane," she replied, but didn't move from her spot behind his chair.

"Something on your mind, Lydia?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing, my Thane."

Marcus sighed. Lydia had always been the perceptive one. He wondered if she was giving Sofie private lessons.

"Am I doing the right thing?" he wondered softly.

"You're the only one who can answer that, Marcus."

The use of his name surprised him. It was seldom that Lydia ever called him by it. He turned back to gaze at her, then motioned her to sit. She took the chair next to his.

"You don't even know to what I'm referring, do you?" he snorted.

"I heard your conversation with Sofie," Lydia said quietly. "Forgive me, Marcus, but the door was open, and I was passing by."

He gave a hollow chuckle. "Sounds like you stayed for the duration, then, or else you walk really slow." At the compressing of her lips, he relented. "I'm not angry," he told her. "Hell, if anything I'm grateful. You probably know them better than I do." The self-recrimination in his voice was unmistakable. Lydia softened.

"You've given them a better life than they could have hoped to have," she reminded him. "And they're all basically good children." She rolled her eyes. "Of course, Lucia gets querulous at times, and Alesan is always up to something. Sofie broods a lot and Blaise tends to rub in their faces that he has a job and is earning his own money, but all in all, they're fine children. You could have done far worse in choosing who to adopt."

I almost did, Marcus thought, thinking of Aventus Aretino. The shame he felt at leaving the boy at the orphanage still rankled. But in all fairness, there was a dark stain on the boy's soul that he knew would have been disastrous to bring into his own home. Aventus would have needed a full-time parent to help him readjust, not a Dragonborn father who was gone more than he was home.

Even now, the effect of this on his own family was riddling him with guilt.

"This won't last forever, Marcus," Lydia reminded him. "One day soon, with your intervention, the war will be over and Alduin slain. We can all go on with our lives in peace, then."

Marcus smiled. "You make it sound like it's a done deal," he said.

"I have faith in you, my Thane," she said simply. "And so do others. We all believe in you."

"Thanks," he said simply. "That means a lot to me."

Lydia rose and collected the empty mead bottles from the table at his side. "Will you require anything else, Thane?" she asked, setting aside the familiar and reverting back to her professional demeanor.

"No, Lydia," he said. "I'm headed for bed. And…thanks."

"Not at all, Thane," she smiled, and disappeared down the stairs to her own quarters.

---

While Marcus wanted to get on the road to Windhelm as soon as the sun was up, he knew they would need to restock their supplies of food, arrows and potions before they could leave. In addition, there was all the loot they'd picked up during his enforced incarceration that had to be sorted through. Cicero unpacked his backpack and Marcus whistled in surprise as Cicero laid them out.

"We picked up that much stuff?" he asked, impressed.

"It would have been more, if dear Marcus had carried anything," Cicero said sourly. "As it was, it was left to poor, overburdened Cicero to be the pack mule on that trip!"

Marcus chuckled. "Well, I can see you have good taste," he praised. "Only the finest quality weapons, armor and treasures, eh?"

Cicero sniffed. "They're still not as good as Cicero's armor and weapons," he scoffed. "And Cicero wasn't sure what his brother would want to do with this." He pulled a gleaming, glowing gold sword from the pile. Marcus had noticed it first thing. He whistled again.

"That's the sword we picked up at Meridia's Shrine, isn't it?" he asked, remembering the trip, but only from a spectator viewpoint. "She called it 'Dawnbreaker', and demanded I use it in her name to rid the world of corruption."

"Hmm," Cicero mused. "Well, then, if you don't want to tire out your sword arm, stay away from the Imperial City."

Marcus laughed out loud.

"I think I'll just keep that here," he said, "unless you want it?"

"No, no!" Cicero back-pedaled. "Cicero would rather not have that too near him. It makes him feel…uneasy."

"At least it's a better influence than the last Daedric sword I picked up," Marcus scowled, still upset over losing the Ebony Blade.

"Cicero remembers you telling Meridia to – how did you put it? – 'stay out of my mind, bitch!'" the Jester giggled.

"I said that?" Marcus blinked.

"Oh yes!" the little Imperial smirked. "Cicero found it most amusing! What does my brother want to do with the lightning staff and the masks?" he continued.

"I think I'd like Tamsyn's opinion on those," Marcus hedged. "Better leave them here. Put them in that trunk over there."

When they finished sorting through everything and dividing it up, Cicero offered to sell off the unwanted items, or trade them for the best arrows he could find while Marcus handled the potions.

Arcadia greeted him warmly as he entered.

"I heard you were back in town, Marcus," she said. "I'm glad you stopped by. I wanted to talk with you."

"That's what Sofie said," Marcus smiled.

"Did she tell you why?"

"Uh..no," he answered uncertainly. "Is there a problem? I don't owe you money, do I?"

Arcadia tinkled a laugh. "No, no," she grinned. "Nothing like that. I don't know why Sofie didn't say. It's not a big secret. I just wanted to ask how you felt about her becoming my apprentice."

"Apprentice," Marcus repeated dumbly. "Isn't she a bit young for that?"

The alchemist shrugged. "No younger than I was when I first started learning," she replied. "I find that the younger they are, the quicker they learn. Their little minds are like sponges, just waiting to soak up the knowledge. And your Sofie is a bright girl. She already knows quite a bit about alchemy. She knows all the beneficial and detrimental properties of at least a dozen common ingredients, and has already learned to brew her own potions from the things she's gathered around the city and farms."

Marcus remembered the healing potion he'd found tucked in his backpack before he left, with a parchment note wrapped around it:

"Dear Papa; I hope this keeps you safe. Love, Sofie."

It was just a minor potion that really only stopped some bleeding, but the fact that she had made it herself hadn't occurred to him. He'd thought she had bought it. Now it meant so much more to him to know that she had done that for him.

He realized Arcadia was looking at him, waiting for a response.

"Well?" she asked again. "What do you think? Is it alright with you if I take her under my wing?"

Marcus smiled. "How could I say no, Arcadia? If this means so much to both you and Sofie, you have my blessing. I'll tell her when I get back home."

Finally, the time arrived where Marcus and Cicero could wait no longer to leave Whiterun and board the carriage to Windhelm. Sofie and Lucia gave them tearful hugs and kisses, and Blaise thumped them on the back from his post by the bellows.

"Where's your brother?" Marcus asked. He hadn't seen Alesan since earlier that morning when Lars had stopped by to collect him.

"I don't know, Dad," the older boy said. "I've been kind of busy here."

"Have you seen your brother?" Cicero asked the girls.

"I haven't," Sofie admitted. "He was gone right after breakfast."

"I know where he is," Lucia sing-songed.

Sofie glared at her sister. "You do?"

"Uh huh!"

"Well why didn't you say anything?" she demanded irritably.

"Because they made me promise not to," Lucia sniffed. "Lars even gave me a septim!"

Marcus exchanged looks with Cicero.

"Don't look at me, brother," the little Imperial said, rolling his eyes. "Cicero does not have any children – that he's aware of, anyway – so he can be of no assistance in this matter."

Marcus crouched down and gathered his younger daughter close. "Now Lucia, this is very important," he began. "Keeping secrets is important only if no one is getting hurt."

"I know, Papa," she nodded. "But Ally and Lars aren't getting hurt – at least, I don't think so."

"Where are they, honey?"

"I can't tell you, Papa!" she insisted, squirming to get free. "They made me promise. You wouldn't want me to break my word!"

"Lucia—" he began with a warning edge to his voice.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you," she pouted. "They're at Jorrvaskr."

Marcus blinked. That was certainly the last place he expected to find them. "Jorrvaskr?" he repeated. "The Companions mead hall? What are they doing there?"

"Mister Farkas has been training them," the little girl said. "Lars was jealous because Braith liked Mister Farkas, so he and Alesan challenged him, but Mister Farkas told them Braith was too young for him, and why didn't he teach them some things instead. They've been going up there every morning ever since."

Dumbfounded, Marcus set Lucia aside and muttered, "Wait here," to Cicero, striding purposefully up the street.

"Do you think Papa's mad?" Lucia asked worried.

"No, sweet child," Cicero assured her. "Surprised, yes. Mad? No."

It wasn't necessary to enter Jorrvaskr to look for the boys. The commotion around the back drew his attention. In the center of a circle of Companions, two boys in scaled-down Blades armor were slashing away – rather effectively, Marcus noted – at two practice dummies. Those at the back of the crowd noticed the Dragonborn and immediately found other places to be.

At the forefront were two men and a woman. The men were both Nords, but the woman was an Imperial.

"Keep those shields up," she ordered the boys sternly as she swung the quintain around once more. Each successive hit Alesan and Lars made swung the equipment back in the opposite direction for the other to attempt to block or deflect.

"You have to hit it harder," one of the Nords said. He was young, with dark hair and deep-set dark eyes. The other Nord was much older, with white hair and beard flowing down his back and chest. The older Nord wore armor carved with wolf's head motifs. He saw Marcus approach and raised his hand to the woman.

"That's enough for now, Ria and Farkas. I think our two young trainees need to spend some time educating their minds as well as their bodies. Lars, go on in to Vilkas. He's waiting for you. Alesan, put the equipment back where it was and then come back. I think your father is preparing to leave."

"Yes, Kodlak," the boy nodded. He gave Marcus a guilty look before slinking away to help Ria with the quintain.

"That's a fine young man you have there, Dragonborn," Kodlak Whitemane said. "He learns quickly, though his exuberance still exceeds his technique. But I think he'll find a happy medium."

Marcus swallowed. So this was the heralded Harbinger of the Companions. This was the man he had wanted to speak with when he first came to Whiterun with Tamsyn, all those months ago, before everything else got in the way. And now his son had accomplished what he had wanted to do. He didn't know whether to feel happy for the boy, or jealous as hell of him.

"To be honest, Harbinger," he began carefully. "I didn't even know he was coming here."

Kodlak nodded and gestured for the Dragonborn to join him on the veranda, and offered him a tankard of mead.

"I'm aware of that, Dragonborn," he said. "Alesan confessed to me shortly after I discovered him and young Lars Battle-Born training with Farkas. Farkas is…a gentle giant," Kodlak finished diplomatically. "He has a big heart, but he doesn't always think things through. I wasn't sure we should interfere in whatever training you already taught them – yes, Alesan told us of his trip to the Reach with you, but he left out quite a few details. In any case, the boys already had armor sized for them, though Eorland had to adjust the fit for them. And we had Idolaf's permission to train young Lars. Personally, I hoped you wouldn't mind if we included Alesan in the training."

Marcus' head was reeling. Alesan was only ten. He was still trying to wrap his mind about Sofie being apprenticed to Arcadia. "He's a bit young," he began hesitantly.

"I know you think that, Dragonborn," Kodlak said kindly, "and – no offense meant – that's a very Imperial way of thinking. But here in Skyrim, life can be harsh and short. There isn't a lot of time for a long childhood. Alesan told me of his life before you adopted him. He was already taking care of himself. He has a lot of high energy, and that energy needs an outlet. If you don't provide one for him, he will create one for himself: one that might not be viewed upon kindly by the Jarl or the city guards."

Marcus nodded. It made sense. His mind still thought of the children as children. It wasn't just an Imperial way of thinking, it was a Twenty-first Century American way of thinking, which had no place here in Skyrim.

"I understand, Harbinger," he said finally. "I guess I wasn't looking at things that way."

"Don't mistake my counsel for criticism, Dragonborn," the older man said. "You've done a fine thing by adopting them and bringing them here. They will have opportunities now they could not have expected to have had they stayed where they were. And Alesan is receiving training not just in arms and armor; I am a firm believer that the mind should be trained as well. Vilkas has been very thorough in teaching them the histories and legends. They are learning to read and write under his tutelage. Did you know that Alesan could do neither?

Marcus shook his head guiltily. "No, I thought my Housecarl was taking care of that."

"Alesan chaffed under her schooling," Kodlak explained. "There were too many things to distract him at home. Here, he is under Vilkas' watchful eye – and Vilkas doesn't tolerate any tom-foolery."

"Then I'm in your debt, Harbinger," Marcus said humbly.

"Not at all, Dragonborn," Kodlak replied. "I didn't tell you these things to embarrass or humiliate you. I merely wished you to see that Alesan needs more than just a roof over his head and food in his belly. If that was all he needed, he might as well have stayed in Dawnstar. He knows that you are the Dragonborn, and he knows that until you fulfill your destiny, you will not be able to spend as much time with him and his siblings as he would like, but he loves you and is willing to wait for you. Just," and here the old man's eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth quirked, "just not patiently."

When Alesan returned, Marcus hugged him close and told him how proud he was of him. The young Redguard's eyes shone as Marcus told him, "Work hard here, son. Do what they tell you to do, and listen to their advice. It may save your life someday."

"I will, Pa, I promise!" Alesan said eagerly. "You're not mad, then?"

"No, son," Marcus said. "But the next time you're planning on a surprise like this, just come to me and tell me. Don't sneak around about it, and don't involve your sister, okay?"

"Alright, Pa, I promise," the boy answered, throwing a guilty look at the Harbinger.

"Now, Alesan," the older man said sternly, fixing him with a keen eye. "I believe Vilkas and Lars are inside already. You shouldn't keep them waiting."

Alesan gulped and nodded, hugged his father one last time and waved as he went inside Jorrvaskr.

"Thanks again, Harbinger, for everything," Marcus said, clasping wrists with the white-haired warrior. "To be honest, when I first came to Whiterun, I was hoping to come here for training, as I had a lot to learn. But other things got in my way."

"You are the Dragonborn, Marcus of Whiterun," Kodlak said simply. "You have a higher destiny that calls to you, which you must answer. However, if you find, when your tasks are done, that you still wish our fellowship, we would be honored to have you numbered among us."

When Marcus returned to Cicero, who was lounging by the wall near the smithy, the Jester peered closely at him. "Is everything alright, Brother?" he asked.

Marcus smiled, but it was a wistful one just the same. "Everything's fine," he said. "Let's get going. It's a long way to Windhelm."

They arrived well after dark due to the carriage having lost a wheel near Mixwater Mill. It was too late to seek an audience with Ulfric Stormcloak at this hour, so the two men took rooms at the Candlehearth and waited until morning.

The Steward, Jorleif, remembered Marcus from the whole, sordid, "Butcher" affair, and promised to try and get him in to see the Jarl as soon as possible. Still, it was another day before a private audience could be arranged. Cicero had dutifully promised to remain in town and keep a "low profile" while Marcus had his meeting.

Now, standing before the Jarl of Windhelm in his private study, with the bear-like personage who was his Housecarl Galmar Stone-fist, Marcus felt more than a little intimidated. He was certain that was Ulfric's intent, glaring down at him from his seat on the raised dais. It was foolish of him to think this man would agree to anything short of a swift, decisive victory for the Stormcloaks. He should not have come.

But he remembered the journals and dossiers, tucked safely in his bag; he thought of Tamsyn, his children, Lydia, and all the people of Skyrim who just wanted peace and the chance to live out their lives without fear of the World-Eater looming over them. He remembered he was the Dragonborn. He might not be a Jarl, but he was at least their equal in importance, if not in rank. The fate of the world – this world that was now his home – rested in his hands. He took a long, slow, deep breath. Time to turn on the Imperial charm.

"So," Ulfric drawled. "You're the one they call 'Dragonborn'. You seem familiar to me."

Marcus decided there was no point in denying the connection. "We've already met, Jarl Ulfric," he said. "We were both at Helgen."

Ulfric's eyes narrowed. "I remember you now. You were with that pretty little Breton girl." His cold grey eyes raked Marcus up and down. "Tell me…Dragonborn…whatever happened to her? Did she make it out of Helgen?" There was a feral gleam in his eyes that Marcus didn't like, but he kept his temper on a short leash.

"As far as I know she did, Jarl," he replied noncommittally. There was no way he was going to point Ulfric in Tamsyn's direction if he could help it. "But I didn't come here to discuss Helgen."

"No, of course not," the Jarl of Windhelm acknowledged. "Tell me then, Dragonborn. Why are you here?"

"I seek an immediate cessation of hostilities between Imperials and Stormcloaks for a period of time to be determined," Marcus replied formally.

"Do you, now?" Ulfric growled, while Galmar next to him roared, "We will never give in to the cursed Imperial milk-drinkers!"

"Quiet, Galmar," Ulfric said quietly, yet with an edge to his voice that would not be challenged. Galmar seethed, but held his peace. "I would hear what the Dragonborn has to say. Tell me, Dragonborn—" Marcus gritted his teeth each time Ulfric pronounced his title. It came out more as an insult than an honorific. "Tell me why, when I am winning this war, that I should consent to any talk of peace between our two factions?"

"Are you winning the war?" Marcus challenged. "It seems to me that things have stagnated."

"You've been listening to Imperialist propaganda, then," Galmar sneered.

"No," Marcus said. "I've been observing with my own eyes, and listening with my own ears. There are nine Holds in Skyrim. You are in possession of only four. The Empire also controls four. Whiterun is the only Hold that remains neutral."

"Not for long," Galmar declared, and would have said more, but Ulfric silenced him with a look.

"Continue, Dragonborn," the Jarl nodded.

Marcus inclined his head briefly. "It seems to me that both sides want the same thing," Marcus said. "You both want peace in Skyrim. The terms of that peace are what's pulling you apart. You feel that the Empire has stomped all over your traditions, and I can appreciate that. I wouldn't want anyone coming into my house and telling me what to do. The Empire feels that Skyrim is still a part of her and must obey her laws. I can appreciate that, too. When I tell my children to do their chores, I don't want to hear an argument from them. What neither of you seem to realize is that you are both playing right into the hands of the true enemy here."

"What do you mean?" Ulfric demanded, his face impassive. If he objected to be compared to a child, he didn't show it.

"I mean the Thalmor, Jarl Ulfric," Marcus said. "I know they lied to you during the Great War. I know they captured and tortured you and extracted information from you – information they claim led to the downfall of the Imperial City, when in truth, the City had already fallen before they broke you."

"No one has broken me!" Ulfric roared, springing to his feet. Galmar drew his axe.

Marcus didn't flinch.

"Elenwen did," he said quietly. "She was the one who interrogated you."

Galmar glanced uncertainly at his lord. Ulfric had gone pale. "My lord?" the Housecarl said.

Ulfric sat down hard in his seat. "How could you possibly know that?" he whispered. "No one knew that. Not even Galmar here. And you're too young to have even been born then!"

"My lord, is this true?" Galmar said in disbelief. Ulfric only nodded shortly.

"I read the dossier the Thalmor kept on you when I infiltrated their Embassy," Marcus said.

Ulfric goggled. "You infil—you?" Very little shook the unflappable Jarl of Windhelm, but Marcus had his full attention now.

The Dragonborn merely inclined his head again. Galmar was still looking between the hated Imperial before him, and the Jarl he would gladly give his life for.

"I found several sensitive documents there as well," Marcus continued, patting the pouch at his side. "Documents I think you should read. And before you ask, no – I didn't kill her." His voice grew grim. "Though I seriously considered it. She abducted my children."

Ulfric took a deep breath and nodded. "Galmar, lock that door. I don't wish to be disturbed."

"My lord—"

"You're to stay here as well, don't worry." A faint smile crossed Ulfric's face. "I have trusted you with my life for many years, old friend. I will not leave you out of this. But it might be as well to have food and drink brought in before we proceed." Here he gave a nod towards Marcus. "We might as well get comfortable. I have a feeling this may take some time."

It did; it was well over an hour before both Ulfric and Galmar finished reading the information contained in all the dossiers, journals and letters Marcus had brought with him. It took a little longer for both Jarl and Housecarl to accept that perhaps the Empire – which they still didn't trust – might have probable cause to want the Thalmor gone as badly as the Stormcloaks did. Marcus was exhausted with trying to persuade and convince the Housecarl to at least give him a chance to bring the two sides together. Ulfric was only a little easier.

"If I agree to this meeting, Dragonborn," he began, "and I haven't said yet that I have, I need to know who will be present. And where will you hold it?"

"I've already got General Tullius to agree," Marcus said, keeping his own doubts at bay. His meeting with the Imperial general had been weeks ago. Would Tullius still agree? "And Jarl Elisif knows the truth now. She will be there as well."

"Yes, Elisif," Ulfric frowned. "That is my one true regret. Not that I killed her husband. He was a traitor to Skyrim and deserved it. But I caused that sweet child great pain. I don't believe she will forgive me for that."

"An apology might go a long way towards easing that pain," Marcus pointed out. "If she knows that you regret causing it."

"Perhaps," Ulfric nodded stiffly. "But apologies are not easy for me. They make one appear weak."

"That's your opinion, of course," Marcus shrugged. "Personally, I've always felt that an apology is required when I've fubarred something. It means I've owned up to my mistake and I've regretted my action that caused harm. It tells the other person that if I could take it back and do it differently so as not to hurt them, then I would. It makes me the bigger man."

"'Fubarred'?" Ulfric blinked.

Marcus sighed. "Fubar," he explained. "It's an acronym. F-U-B-A-R. It means 'fucked up beyond all recognition'."

Galmar stared at him, and Ulfric furrowed his brow for a long moment. Slowly a grin spread across his battle-worn yet still handsome features. "Fubar," he mused, rolling the word around on his tongue. "I like the sound of that. I may start using it."

Marcus grinned back. "Feel free," he said. "So does this mean you'll agree to the negotiations?"

Ulfric's face settled back into his regal scowl. "Perhaps. Where will it be held?"

"High Hrothgar," Marcus said. "As soon as I speak with Master Arngeir."

"Hmm," Ulfric rumbled. "It's about time they turned their gaze from the heavens, back to our bleeding homeland." He took a deep breath and blew it out. "I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, Dragonborn," he continued, and Marcus felt his title didn't feel quite so much like an insult now. "And the dragon attacks are a growing plague. But you must understand that the political situation here is still very delicate. Not all the Jarls are fully committed to supporting me as High King. I can't afford to appear weak. You are sure Tullius will be there?" He fixed a keen grey eye on Marcus, who gulped inwardly, but held his gaze and nodded. "Very well. I'll give Tullius one more chance to leave Skyrim with his tail between his legs."

Or join him against the common enemy, Marcus thought privately. Baby steps, he reminded himself once more. Baby steps.

---

Marcus parted company with Cicero in Windhelm. His dark brother had expressed a need to return to his Sanctuary to "tend to Mother", and Marcus made his way south to High Hrothgar alone, encountering little trouble along the way.

Master Arngeir was at first reluctant to host what he considered a "war party", but Marcus put on his best persuasive voice again and convinced the elder Greybeard the need to negotiate at least a temporary truce so that he could defeat Alduin.

"I do not like it, Dragonborn," he told Marcus. "These are men of war. They do not seek peace. But if you feel this is necessary in order to achieve your ultimate goal, then so be it. You may bring the interested parties here and we will do our best to find a solution agreeable to all."

"Thank you, Master Arngeir," Marcus bowed. "You won't regret it."

"I am already, Dragonborn," the Greybeard said laconically, "but that is neither here nor there."

Marcus smiled weakly as Arngeir left him to seek a quiet place to meditate. Marcus sought out Master Bolli, and found him eating a simple meal of fruit and cheese.

Join me, Dovahkiin, Bolli signed to him, and Marcus gladly sat down and helped himself to a piece of bread, and a wedge of cheese.

Have you done this, yet, Dovahkiin? Bolli asked, and breathed on the cheese. "YOL!" With the cheese now suitably softened, Bolli spread it across his bread.

Marcus chuckled. "No, I haven't thought to do that yet, but I will from now on!"

I prefer it this way, Bolli grinned as he bit into the open-faced treat. My love for sweets has been…rough on my teeth.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Master," Marcus said sympathetically. They ate in companionable silence for several moments before Marcus spoke. "Master Bolli, may I ask you a question?

Of course, Dovahkiin, came the reply. I am always here should you need advice. What troubles you?

Before he knew it, Marcus found himself confiding in the Greybeard his experiences under possession, finally asking, "How do I prevent that sort of thing from happening again? I mean, it's a simple law of averages that I'm eventually going to gain more dragon souls than there are thu'ums. What's to prevent this from repeating itself?"

You are, Dovahkiin, Bolli replied simply. The strength is within you.

"Yeah, well that didn't work out so well last time, Master."

You were unprepared, Bolli explained with a sigh that made the stones beneath their feet tremble. The Ancient Ones caught you off guard. Knowing what you know now, it will not happen again unless you want it to happen.

"Is that what Master Arngeir meant when he said that growing my gift too quickly would be dangerous?"

Yes, Bolli nodded. Because the need to dominate is inherent in the dragon blood, many Dragonborn before you have succumbed to the lust for power. It would be easy for the souls to either take over or ally themselves with such a Dragonborn. But you are not like them. Your desire for power is a drive, not a lust, and is focused more on the desire to do good with that power, not to dominate. That does not mean the lust is not there; it simply means that your innate desire to do good overrules it and keeps it in check.

"So my drive to do good dominates my need to dominate," Marcus smiled wryly.

Exactly, Bolli smiled back.

"Hey, wait a minute," Marcus began, realization dawning. "You didn't use your hands to sign that whole time!"

Bolli gave him a sheepish grin. I was wondering when you would catch on.

"You mean you can communicate with me – with the others – you mean all of you—"

It is part of being who we are, Dovahkiin, Bolli admitted. Arngeir is our spokesperson, partly because our Voices are so strong we could possibly start a landslide, or bring down an avalanche. But also because it is far easier for us to communicate this way.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Can you teach me to do that?"

Bolli shrugged. Quite possibly. But it takes years of study, even for a Dragonborn. Ask Arngeir.

Marcus felt dazed. "Master Arngeir is a Dragonborn?"

Bolli smiled. No, but he knew the last one to come here.

"The last one?" Marcus asked. "But I thought the last Dragonborn lived over two hundred years ago."

I didn't misinform you, Dovahkiin, Bolli chided gently. We are the chosen of Kyne, of Shor and of Atmora of Old. Don't you remember from the greeting ceremony? We are the keepers of the ancient knowledge. Not many would choose this way of life, so we must remain until one does. Only then will the eldest among us find his final rest. In the meantime, we are blessed with an extended life. Bolli rose. It is time for me to seek my meditation. I have enjoyed our 'talk', Dovahkiin. He bowed. Sky above, Voice within.

For a long time Marcus sat there, his mind whirling with all he had learned. It was too much to take in at once. He would have to think on this – meditate, perhaps, as the Greybeards did. Part of the training he had received in tae kwon do in his past life had included meditation. He had never been very good at it. Perhaps it was time to take it up again. For now, there was one more "person" he wanted to see before he made his way back down the mountain.

"Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax greeted him an hour later. "I did not expect to see you so soon. Have you then found a way to reach my brother at his hidden temple?"

"Not yet," Marcus admitted. "I came here to warn you of something."

"Indeed," the old dragon murmured. "Speak, then. What troubles your hadrim…your mind?"

"I'm required to negotiate a peace treaty to end the hostilities in this war," Marcus said. "At least long enough for me to use the hofkahsejun to trap a dov. Many of these people are bitter hokorone…I mean, enemies."

Paarthurnax chuckled. "I knew what you meant, Dovahkiin. Your command of the dovah tinvaak is improving."

Marcus grinned wryly. "I had some help."

"You spoke of a warning," Paarthurnax reminded him gently.

"Yes. Two of them are Blades. They know about you. They wanted me to kill you, but I told them to get stuffed."

"And yet, you invited them here."

Marcus ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he sighed. "You see, the thing is, Delphine – she's the one who first told me about the Blades – well, she's got one of the sharpest minds I've ever met, and I need her to help me work out a plan to defeat the Thalmor. Except she's got an axe to grind about dragons, and she'd love to start by sharpening it on you. I needed her here for the conference, but I'm not one hundred percent sure she'll toe the line and stay away from you."

Paarthurnax looked pensive. "Does this Delphine know the thu'um?" he asked.

"What?" Marcus blinked. "No. I'm sure she doesn't, or she would have used it when we were fighting other dragons that needed putting down."

Paarthurnax rumbled approvingly. "Then you have little to fear, Dovahkiin," the great grey dragon said. "My followers would not allow her access to the gate. And without the Clear Skies Shout, she would not be able to pass through it. Does Arngeir know to expect them?"

A stab of guilt ran through Marcus. "I…uh…haven't exactly told him who was coming," he admitted.

Another rumble rippled through the ancient drake, but this one was somewhat disapproving. "Deception is not becoming of a student to a teacher," Paarthurnax said. "You have the soul of a dov, but that does not mean you should act like one all the time."

Marcus swallowed hard. "You're right," he nodded. "I'll tell him before I head back down to Ivarstead."

"One thing more, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said as Marcus turned to go. "The Blades are wise not to trust me. Onikaan ni ov. I would not trust another dovah. We were made to dominate. Dov wahlaan fah rel. The will to power is in our blood. You feel it in yourself, do you not?"

Marcus could only nod in response. The wise old dragon continued. "I can be trusted. I know this. But they do not. Onikaan ni ov dovah. It is always wise to mistrust a dovah. I have overcome my nature only through meditation and long study of the Way of the Voice. No day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature. Zin krif horvut se suleyk. But I ask you this: what is better – to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"

Marcus pondered the great dragon's words all the way back down to High Hrothgar.

Master Arngeir was furious about hosting the Blades, and at first patently refused to allow them access to High Hrothgar. It was a long, sometimes heated conversation and required all of Marcus' persuasive powers to get him to agree to accept that they needed to be present.

"If you feel this is necessary, Dragonborn, I will allow them to remain present for the peace talks, but they are not welcome here," he said stiffly.

"I understand, Master," Marcus said. "And they won't stay here. There's an inn down in Ivarstead."

Arngeir fixed him with an icy blue glare. "I hope you know what you're doing, Dragonborn," he warned.

So do I, the Dragonborn thought to himself. He made his way back down the mountain to the town and took a room at the Vilemyr. Wilhelm was more than happy to rent him a room. Marcus knew he could have stayed at High Hrothgar, but he had letters to write and send, and he doubted a courier would have been very happy schlepping up a mountainside to retrieve letters to be sent or deliver responses.

The first letter he wrote was to his children, telling them that he was well, and that he missed them, and that it would be a several more days before he could return home. Next he sent letters to Ulfric Stormcloak and Jarl Elisif, and to Delphine, care of the Forsworn encampment at the Karthspire.

The letter to Tamsyn was briefer than he would have liked, but he didn't want to put too much sensitive information in it, in case it was waylaid and fell into hands that shouldn't have it. He merely told her his "business trip" went well, and that he was anxious for her to meet his "old friend" he'd told her about weeks ago, and would she be able to join him at a party he was hosting?

Finally, he wrote the letter he'd been dreading, but which he knew would be necessary.

"General Tullius; I offer you my profoundest apologies for my long absence. As the Dragonborn, several issues came up which I was required to deal with, lest they interfere with our common goal, which is, of course, the eradication of dragons in Skyrim. I have arranged to hold the conference at High Hrothgar as soon as all interested parties can meet there. The Greybeards have graciously agreed to host the event, and will provide you with basic comforts until the proceedings can begin. I will meet you there. Sincerely, Marcus Dragonborn."

There. That was about as diplomatic an apology as he could create without revealing too much. It would have to do. He paid the couriers three times their usual fee to get the letters to their recipients as quickly as possible, then settled himself in to wait for the arrivals. His head already hurt with all the countless number of things he needed to remember, as well as all the myriad ways in which things could go wrong, and it was a long while before he was finally able to drift off into an uneasy slumber.

---

[Author's Note: This was probably the hardest chapter for me to write so far. In fact, I scrapped at least two previous attempts because they just sounded wrong. This chapter is the result of a lot of heavy editing to get it to this point, and I owe a great debt of gratitude to my daughter Amanda for listening as I read it and giving me her input. Several of her ideas were included in here.

Next up is Season Unending, in Marcus' own inimitable style. While the original featured Elenwen as the first hurdle to cross, this version will introduce the new Thalmor Ambassador. What could possibly go wrong?]