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!

39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

[Author's Note: "Season Unending" at last! Though perhaps not quite the way you remember it in the game.]

---

The morning sun streamed in wan and pale through the narrow window slits of the monastery of High Hrothgar, falling in cold comfort across the empty bed of Jarl Elisif of Haafingar. "Elisif the Fair", they called her, but she didn't feel very fair at the moment. She'd slept very little the night before, and what sleep she did manage to get was riddled with heart-aching dreams.

She had seen him kissing her last night. Marcus, the handsome Dragonborn she'd had her heart set on, had kissed the Arch-Mage – what was her name? Tamsyn, that was it – with all the passion Elisif wanted for herself. They hadn't seen her in the gloom of the corridor as she backed away and fled to her room, to fall upon her bed and sob her heart out.

It's not fair! she raged to herself. I wanted him! I was going to make him love me!

It was just her luck to finally find someone she wanted, someone who hadn't been picked by her parents, someone who was kind and decent and gentle – all the things she thought Torygg had been but wasn't – only to find out he was already in love with someone else. The first man Mother and Father had picked out for her was a much older man; too old, as it turned out, because he died on the way to Riften for the ceremony, leaving her standing at the altar while the Housecarl explained things to her stunned parents. She was just barely sixteen at the time.

But the man had been a close friend of High King Istlod's, who had been one of the witnesses that day. Seeing her in her bridal gown, nervously awaiting a husband who never made it to the ceremony had given him an idea, and before she knew it, she was betrothed to Torygg. Backing out would have been unthinkable, but her first look at Torygg – which wasn't until the marriage ceremony a year later – had her hoping that maybe her fairytale dream of love at first sight had finally come true. It had, but not for him, as she came to learn.

Oh, he was kind to her, and gentle, but never really spent much time with her. She realized now that her entire usefulness depended on whether she could give him a son. Daughters could inherit in Skyrim, she knew, but Torygg had his heart set on a male heir. And Elisif couldn't even deliver that in the year they had been married before—

Before Ulfric had cut him down…

"The Jarl of Windhelm," Falk Firebeard announced, and Elisif, glancing at Torygg in surprise, couldn't miss the momentary flash of annoyance that crossed her handsome husband's face.

"Jarl Ulfric?" she asked him. "I didn't know you had invited him."

"I didn't," Torygg replied tightly, smoothing his features as the tall, imposing Nord ascended the steps to the Main Hall and stood at its summit.

"High King Torygg," the Jarl intoned, danger flashing in his eyes. "I challenge you by our ancient laws, to the Right of Trial by Combat. You are a traitor to Skyrim, consorting with her enemies and undermining our independence."

"What heresy is this?" Falk demanded, outraged. Next to him Bolgeir drew his axe, and across the room Sybille brought electricity into her hands, tensed and waiting. Beyond them, Elisif saw the two Thanes, Erikur and Bryling, rise quickly and press themselves against the far wall, keeping well away from any potential harm.

"This is no heresy, Steward," Ulfric rumbled. "I demand my right as a true son of Skyrim to challenge a King unfit to rule. What say you, boy?" he sneered. "Will you hide behind the skirts of your gods-cursed Thalmor friends, and your milk-drinking Imperial allies? Or will you meet me in fair combat, according to the laws of our land…OUR land," he emphasized.

"Where is your proof, Jarl Ulfric?" Torygg inquired innocently. "How have I betrayed Skyrim? The Empire rules Tamriel, and Skyrim is a part of the Empire. I am only serving my Province by maintaining good diplomatic relations with our neighbors. How does that make me a traitor?"

"And what of your ties to the Dominion?" Ulfric threw at him. "Our people suffer from their atrocities, and you will do nothing to stop them."

"YOUR people, you mean," Torygg countered, "those rebels who call themselves 'Stormcloaks' in your honor. The Concordat clearly states that worship of the hero Tiber Septim, called Talos, is against the law. If your people insist on openly disregarding the laws then they must be punished accordingly. I cannot and will not make exceptions in this matter, you know this."

Elisif thought that Torygg was being completely reasonable about this, but it only served to anger the Jarl of Windhelm further.

"And when the Thalmor kidnap our people from their own homes," he snarled. "When their farms are torched and the sons and daughters are tortured and violated for the slightest affronts, do you still say the Thalmor have the right?"

Torygg smiled. "Again, Jarl Ulfric, I say, 'where is your proof?' I have heard nothing of these atrocities you claim have occurred. Ambassador Elenwen assures me—"

"Elenwen will only tell you what she wants you to hear!" Ulfric roared. "She's the worst offender of them all, and a sadistic Thalmor bitch!"

Torygg shook his head and tsk'd. "Now you've sunken to name-calling, Ulfric," he said sadly, sitting back in his seat. "And I used to have such respect for you."

"So, you're a coward, then," Ulfric sneered. "You'll hide behind your pretty, twisted words. You won't prove the proof of your beliefs on my body."

"Let me kill him for you, my Liege," Bolgeir roared. "It would be my honor to ram those words down his throat."

"Quiet, Bolgeir," Torygg said mildly. "I can fight my own battles."

"Your Highness," Falk began, "you haven't fought—"

"I don't need advice from YOU, Firebeard," Torygg cut him off. "Keep your old man's opinions to yourself!"

"But your Highness—"

"I said enough, Falk!" Torygg glared. "Hold your tongue, or I'll cut it off and find another Steward who won't prattle like a senile old man!"

Beside him, Elisif gasped. She knew Torygg didn't get along particularly well with his Steward, but he had never spoken to him so harshly.

"I don't need to fight you, Stormcloak," Torygg sneered now, standing up. The dais upon which he stood gave him the advantage of looking down at Ulfric, who would normally have towered over him. "You're already defeated. You proved that after the Markarth Incident. The Dominion won the war and set the rules of peace afterwards. If you can't accept that, then perhaps it's time to find a Jarl for Windhelm more sympathetic to the Empire than someone only willing to continually stir the pot. You call me a traitor? Then what do you call someone who doesn't support his High King and foments rebellion against him? You're not a hero, like your beloved Tiber Septim. You're nothing more than a rabble-rouser now, and the sooner your pathetic little rebel band realizes that, the quicker we can all get back to our peaceful lives."

Ulfric glowered at the younger man in simmering rage. "All of Skyrim will know how you have sold her out," he vowed. "You and your Thalmor toadies will destroy this country, and I will be damned to Oblivion before I let you do it! You're a coward, Torygg," he spat. "A spineless, sniveling cunt for the Thalmor bastards to shove their golden cocks into! It's no wonder you haven't put a child in your wife's belly yet—"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Torygg ripped Bolgeir's axe out of his hands, staggering only a little at the unfamiliar weight before correcting his stance.

"Torygg, no!" Elisif begged, pulling at his arm, but he shoved her away, not caring if he hurt her, not looking back to see if she was okay.

"Die, you filthy Talos-loving bastard!" Torygg roared, and closed the distance between him and the Jarl he despised. He raised the axe to swing, but never got the chance.

"FUS RO DAH!" Ulfric Shouted at the same time as he ducked under Torygg's impending blow and struck with his own sword, and suddenly Torygg found himself picked up like a leaf on an autumn breeze and flung against the far wall of the chamber. Everyone gasped, Bryling screamed, and Falk rushed over to Elisif to help her back on her feet.

Bolgeir made a move forward before realizing he no longer held his axe. Sybille cast fire and lightning at Ulfric, but her aim was off and the spells impacted harmlessly against stone. Erikur slipped around a corner to stay out of harm's way, but made sure he had a clear view of the room. Several guards rushed up the stairs, but Ulfric leaped lightly down from the balcony past them into the planter below and made a break for the doors. There was no one there to stop him, and he never looked back.

On her feet again, Elisif shook her head to clear it and assure Falk she was fine, then rushed to Torygg's side to help him up. Bolgeir was already there, as well as Sybille Stentor. The court mage was frantically placing her hands on a gaping wound across Torygg's unprotected midsection, golden magical energy spilling forth, but it was too little, too late. Torygg's eyes fixed on a point past them all, and the light went out of them.

"NOOOOO!" Elisif wailed. After that, her world went dark.

She had relived that horrible day in her mind every night for months, hating the Jarl of Windhelm with a passion that was almost holy. Until the Dragonborn had come to visit with the journals and letters he had admitted stealing from the Thalmor Embassy. It had taken some time to process everything she had read, but when she did, she realized that Ulfric Stormcloak had been right all the time. Torygg had played them all – her, most bitterly.

It was several weeks before she could think of Torygg again without feeling like a damned fool. Weeks before she realized that her dreams had changed from that horrible day when Torygg had died, to a more thrilling day when the Dragonborn had walked into her life. And then, just as quickly, he was gone, no one knew where, but there had been reports of him from all over western Skyrim, that he had been seen in the company of a small, red-haired Imperial man in an archaic jester's motley, killing dragons, eliminating draugr, slaying wild beasts. The stories lost nothing in the re-telling, and Elisif ate them up.

He had been so kind to her, down below in Ivarstead, letting her sob out her insecurities on his shoulder – though to be fair, he really hadn't known why she was crying. When he had suggested she established a court chosen by her, she realized that here was an opportunity to also choose a husband. Until she saw him last night, kissing the Arch-Mage, Tamsyn.

Elisif tried to hate the Breton girl, but she found she couldn't. She'd been too kind, taking her and Rikke to a more private room than Jarl Balgruuf or General Tullius would be enjoying. They would be sharing their room – one of the larger ones – with the contingent of guards they'd brought along with them for protection. Now they were here, it seemed ridiculous to have brought them in the first place. The Greybeards, though intimidating and silent, had been nothing but hospitable, and she was more afraid of the Thalmor than she was even of the Stormcloaks.

Tamsyn had inquired after their needs and made sure they were comfortable, informed them of food and drink available in the dining hall, and offered to bring her books to read from the tiny library, if she wanted.

No, Tamsyn wasn't to blame for her hurt feelings, and neither was Marcus. The only one she could blame was herself. She'd spent weeks building up another fairytale for herself when her old one crashed down around her. She'd been in mourning so long she'd latched on to the first person to be kind to her. Was she really that helpless? Or foolish? Or immature? She grimaced.

'There's no use crying over spilt milk, Ellie,' she could almost hear her mother saying. 'What's done is done.' But it still didn't keep her from feeling humiliated all over again.

I'm eighteen – almost nineteen – and condemned to live alone for the rest of my life, she thought melodramatically. A solitary Jarl for Solitude. Maybe I should change the name of my city to Companionship? No, that would just make them move Jorrvaskr up from Whiterun, and no one wants that.

It was still very early. Rikke was still asleep across the room, and the woman slept so deeply that even if Elisif had allowed herself to sob out loud, she doubted the Legate would have heard her. But Elisif never sobbed out loud; her father would never have permitted it.

"Keep your grief to yourself, young lady," he would say. "No one wants to see a beautiful woman's face looking like a pig's behind when she's been crying. And no one wants to hear your banshee wails when your feelings are hurt."

So she had cried her silent tears while her roommate slept, and as the pre-dawn slowly turned the near-pitch-black room to a barely perceptible charcoal, she dressed herself in a simple robe of embroidered blue velvet trimmed with fur that brought out the copper in her hair and slipped out to see if there was still a cup of wine in the dining hall – which would become the conference room on the morrow, she had been told.

One of the Greybeards looked up as she entered and bowed courteously, but did not speak to her. She didn't know which one he was. The one called Arngeir, she knew, kept his beard in a loose, tidy knot, but this one looked just like the others she had seen, and she couldn't remember their names now.

The Greybeard smiled and gestured to the table, which had been freshly laid out with breads, fruits, jugs of wine and wheels of sliced cheese. Indicating she should help herself, he bowed again and left her to it.

Elisif shuddered. The Greybeards seemed nice enough, but their silence unnerved her and made her jump at shadows. She knew they could kill someone just by speaking, so she quickly found a cup of wine to steady her nerves and picked up a slice of cheese to nibble on, though she didn't feel hungry in the least.

"Oh," came a deep voice. "I beg your pardon, Jarl Elisif. I didn't know anyone was here."

Elisif jumped up so quickly, and spun around so fast, her hand hit a pitcher of cool water and sent it flying off the table. In one swift, smooth motion, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak leaped forward to catch the pottery jug before it could crash to the stone floor.

"You startled me!" Elisif gasped, marveling at the older man's reflexes. She had never thought of Ulfric Stormcloak as being so lithe. In point of fact, she had rarely thought of Ulfric at all, except with horror and rage. After reading the papers the Dragonborn had brought to her, however, she realized her assessment of the man had been completely wrong.

"Forgive me, Jarl Elisif," Ulfric mumbled. "I never meant to frighten you."

Was it her imagination, or did the infamous Jarl of Windhelm just beg her forgiveness twice? The man who was never soft or cowardly; the man who never backed down from his convictions; the man who had murdered her husband in cold blood, though now she knew why he had done it.

"You didn't…I mean, I wasn't…I—"

"No, Jarl, I know you weren't expecting anyone to come in," he broke in soberly. "Least of all the man responsible for causing you the profoundest grief."

Elisif was confused. This didn't sound like the Bear of Markarth she had read about. Was Ulfric…apologizing to her? "The Greybeards have set the table for all of us," she managed to say. "It would be foolish of me to think we wouldn't see each other before the conference tomorrow."

"But I highly doubt most of our traveling companions will rise before the sun, as we have done," he smiled, gray eyes twinkling a little. "When I left, Galmar was snoring so loudly, he sounded like a sawmill."

In spite of herself, Elisif giggled. "Rikke snores, too," she admitted. "Would you…would you care to join me, Jarl Ulfric?" she invited, gesturing to the table.

"Are you sure you want the company of—" He hesitated before plunging ahead "—of your husband's murderer?" he finished.

Elisif sobered. General Tullius would certainly not be happy about this, and Rikke would caution her about 'collaborating with the enemy'. Falk would frankly be horrified. But Elisif sensed that here was an opportunity to find out exactly what had motivated Ulfric to do what he had done. And it was as good a time as any, with none of the others around, to let him know she knew at least as much about Torygg's true nature as the Jarl of Windhelm did.

"Torygg had us all fooled," she said seriously. "Me, most of all. But I don't like to eat alone, Jarl Ulfric. I would enjoy some company."

For a long moment, Ulfric stared at her, and Elisif caught several undefinable emotions flitting through that steely gaze. The one she recognized, that stayed, was relief as he smiled and seated himself to her left.

Back in her room, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, her eyes closed in meditation, with a knowing smile playing across her lips.

---

Marcus spent part of the morning with Madanach and Delphine in their chambers. Though Tamsyn had attempted to put the women together in one room and Madanach in another, the Reach King had favored her with a leering smile.

"Why, Arch-Mage, what a thing to suggest!" he declared, grinning. "Kaie is my daughter; 'Delafane' is my niece. There's nothing improper going on here, and we Reachfolk are used to living in family groups."

"I…see," was all the Breton girl commented, but with the Thalmor Ambassador hovering in the background she decided any other protesting on her part might arouse suspicions they didn't want raised.

"I've quartered the Ambassador at the far end of the other wing," she whispered to them upon leaving, and noted the look of relief on 'Delafane's' face.

Now, the Dragonborn, the Blade and the Reach King had their heads together in a private conference of their own.

"You've got to find some way of getting the Thalmor Ambassador out of here," Delphine said. "This conference is going to go nowhere if he's allowed to stay."

"I know that," Marcus grumbled. "But short of Shouting him off the top of the Throat of the World, what else can I do? He invited himself along."

"Can you really do that?" Madanach asked, a bit too eagerly.

"Yes, I can," Marcus replied, glaring at him. "And don't get any ideas. We're here at the grace of Master Arngeir and the other Greybeards. I won't violate their hospitality by instigating violence."

"You were the one who suggested it," Madanach said sourly.

"Look," Delphine said with some exasperation. "We need to find a way to get him out of the way so we can talk about how to wipe out his order. With him present, all we'll be able to manage is to negotiate a temporary cessation of hostilities long enough for the Dragonborn here to get permission to use Dragonsreach and kill Alduin."

"I'm open to ideas," Marcus muttered.

"Put him in a round room and tell him there's a Talos-worshipper in the corner?" Borkul suggested. Marcus chuckled in spite of himself. Borkul grinned.

"Maybe give him a message," Kaie suggested. "Something that would look like it came from his superiors, asking him to get his butt back to the Embassy."

"He'd never buy that," Marcus said. "It's a good idea, though, and might have worked if we were in Solitude. But here?" He shook his head. "He already knows he's in hostile territory. He'd be expecting some kind of ruse like that. Besides, the type of parchment the Greybeards have up here is different from the kind of paper the Dominion uses."

"How do you know that?" Delphine asked.

Marcus gave a lop-sided grin. "I've had enough Thalmor toadies come after me to try and eliminate me. I've kept their authorization letters at home."

"Any signatures on them?" Madanach asked hopefully.

The Dragonborn shook his head. "No, they're too clever for that. Nothing I can pin on anyone. And right now that's not really the point."

"Marcus is right," Delphine said. "I really don't want to go into these talks dressed like a Reachwoman. No offense, Kaie," she added, for the woman's benefit.

"None taken, Del," the younger girl said. "If I were you, I'd want the dignity of my position to be respected, too. Though I have to say, you look good in that armor."

"Doesn't she, though?" Madanach leered.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably, and though Delphine chuckled, he wondered if she was blushing under all that warpaint.

After another half-hour, however, they finally gave it up. None of them could find a reasonable solution to the problem, and Delphine said, "We'll just have to see how this plays out. I don't like it, and I'll keep trying to come up with something, but for now, let's just try to—"

"Fly under the radar?" Marcus asked. At their perplexed looks he shook his head. "I mean, keep a low profile, stay unnoticed." They nodded. He left, shaking his own head at himself.

You know, Marcus, he told himself, most of the time you can forget you weren't born here. And then you go and say things like that!

He stopped by Tamsyn's room, but she wasn't there. He poked his head into the conference room, which still had food spread out, and saw General Tullius and Legate Rikke in one corner, breaking their fast. His stomach rumbled slightly, and he realized he hadn't eaten yet.

"Dragonborn!" Legate Rikke called out. "You haven't seen Jarl Elisif, have you?"

Marcus shook his head. "No, I haven't," he told her. "But this is High Hrothgar. There's not much to see here, and she can't have gone far. She's safe, though, wherever she is. I'm sure of it."

"You're sure," Tullius growled. "But I'm not. That child is under my protection!"

"That 'child' is a Jarl in her own right, General," Balgruuf said as he entered the room and sat down. He helped himself to some grilled vegetables, some dried fish and a tankard of mead. "She doesn't answer to you or anyone else in the Empire except the Emperor."

"And I'm his representative here, Balgruuf," Tullius reminded him, an edge to his voice.

"I'm sure she's fine," Marcus said calmly, trying to smooth ruffled feathers. He had to admit, he was on Balgruuf's side in this. But the General was already acting like a man outnumbered and out of his element. A little diplomacy now wouldn't hurt. "She may be with Master Arngeir, taking a tour of High Hrothgar. You all arrived too late last night to see much of the monastery. If you like, I'll see if I can find her and let her know you'd like to speak with her."

The General seemed to realize he was overreacting, because he backed down. "That won't be necessary, Dragonborn," he said finally. "You're….right, and she's probably not in any danger. But if you see her," he added, as he raised his mug of wine to his lips, "let her know I asked after her."

Marcus nodded, hiding a smug smile, and grabbed a branch of jazzbay grapes before nodding to the others and exiting. Rolling his eyes, he popped a handful of the sweet, juicy fruit into his mouth as he continued his search for the Arch-Mage.

He found her in what could loosely be called the 'library' here at High Hrothgar. One nook of a dead-end corridor had been lined with shelves, and a couple of chairs and an end table had been set here with candle sconces illuminating the place with a soft glow. Tamsyn was sprawled in one of the chairs in a most undignified, un-Mage-like attitude, her back resting against one arm and her legs hanging over the other, with her bare feet kicking the air gently.

She didn't see or hear him approach, so engrossed in her book was she, and he twisted his head to read the title on the cover: The Great War, by Justianus Quintius.

"That's a good book," Marcus commented, and chuckled to see her whip her legs off the arm of the chair and sit up straight. "I'm not going to tell on you," he grinned. "You can slouch like a sloth if you want."

Tamsyn gave a rueful smile. "This is the most comfortable chair I've ever sat in," she said, searching around for her boots. "The ones I have back at the College are all hard wood. I think Arch-Mage Savos was a masochist."

"That's Master Einarth's favorite spot," Marcus said. "Anytime I needed to find him, he'd be here."

"I hope I haven't put him off his regular schedule," Tamsyn frowned.

Marcus sighed. "We've all put them off their regular schedules," Marcus admitted. "The best we can hope for is to conclude the peace talks to the satisfaction of all concerned as quickly as possible so we can get out of here and let them get back to their lives."

"Hmm," Tamsyn hummed. "It is very peaceful here, current population notwithstanding. What's up?"

"I was looking for Jarl Elisif," Marcus said, after a quick, careful glance around. He hadn't seen the Thalmor Ambassador all morning, and that made him nervous. "General Tullius is having a panic attack."

"The General?" Tamsyn queried, arching an eyebrow. "A panic attack?" Disbelief was all over her tone.

"Yeah, I think I saw his nostrils flare."

Tamsyn chuckled. "Oh, dear," she giggled. "Whatever shall we do? Perhaps some medicine would help? Or a Calm spell? I think I can manage that."

Marcus laughed with her. "Have you seen the Jarl?" he finally asked.

Tamsyn gave him a knowing look. "I have, but I think you need to leave them alone for a bit longer."

"Them?"

"She's with Ulfric."

"ULFRIC?" Real concern gripped Marcus. "Are you crazy? Why would you leave those two together? Where are they?" He moved as if to bolt as soon as he heard, but Tamsyn put a hand on his arm and stopped him.

"She's fine, Marcus," Tamsyn said firmly. "They're both fine. And they're both healing, so give them that chance."

Marcus furrowed his brow. "I don't understand," he said.

Tamsyn grinned smugly. "You will, in time," she said. "Now, why don't you show me the courtyard? I noticed a sort of observation tower on the far side, near an archway."

"That's the Wind Gate," Marcus said, allowing himself to be pulled along. "It's dedicated to Kynareth. It's really cold out there, though, so—"

"I can make a fire rune when we get there," she smiled slyly, glancing up at him through her lashes.

"Oh, well, sure—" The shoe dropped and realization hit. Far be it from him to deny the Arch-Mage some much-valued private time with her intended. He grinned. "Oh! Well, of course, Arch-Mage," he smiled broadly. "Please allow me to take you on a tour of the grounds." He took her by the hand and led her out the back door, grabbing a couple of cloaks off the nearby hooks as they went. He pulled one around her and threw the other around himself as he guided her across the frozen courtyard to the steps leading up to the watchtower. At the top she threw down a fire rune, which – at first – Marcus eyed with suspicion.

"Won't that hurt if we step on it?" he asked. He had to raise his voice against the roar of the wind through Kynareth's Gate behind them.

"It's modified," Tamsyn smirked. "It gives off heat, but it won't detonate. It only lasts for an hour or so," she admitted, "so I have to recast it if I want to keep it going. I have a frost rune I'm working on, also. I've almost got it to the point of making a permanent rune."

"This country is already freezing cold," Marcus shivered in spite of himself. "Why would you want a prolonged frost rune?"

"For refrigeration purposes, of course," Tamsyn replied, as if the reason were obvious. "I've already got a 'chill chest' at the College in my quarters. Helps to keep things from spoiling too quickly, you see."

Marcus threw back his head and laughed. "Brilliant!" he crowed. "I'd like to put in an order in advance, when you get it ready," he chuckled. "So this is what you've been working on up there, then?" he asked.

Tamsyn's face grew serious. "Not entirely," she admitted. "But it's stuff like this that will help to throw Illarion off our trail. By making it look like we're working on innocuous things, it will hopefully keep the Thalmor from realizing more practical, military uses for the same things."

"Don't underestimate them," Marcus warned. "That new Ambassador of theirs knows more than he lets on, I'm sure of it. I haven't even seen him this morning, so I'm not sure where he is."

"So use your Aura Whisper," Tamsyn advised.

Marcus face-palmed himself. "Duh!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Tamsyn gave him a hug. "You've already got so much on your mind," she soothed.

He grumbled, still angry with himself for forgetting who he was. "Laas yah," he breathed, and the world lit up around him as every life form in the vicinity glowed red. He saw Master Wulfgar exit the monastery and approach the shrine at the base of the watchtower. Master Arngeir was sitting out on the precipice facing the rising sun, as he often liked to do. Masters Bolli and Einarth were inside, along with fifteen other red blobs. The Ambassador and the three Thalmor guards with him were moving slowly along the northern perimeter of the grounds.

"Did you find them?" Tamsyn asked.

"Yeah," he said. "They're on the north side of the monastery, outside, moving slowly. Seems like they're searching for something."

"Looking for weaknesses, do you think?" Tamsyn frowned. "Or maybe a way past the Wind Gate?"

"Maybe," Marcus replied. "I don't know. And I really don't want to confront them about it. Not right now. I don't think they'll find a way past the Gate, though."

"Do you think they're trying to reach Paarthurnax?" the Arch-Mage asked, worried.

"I don't think they even know about him, but if they do, they'll get more than they bargained for," Marcus said grimly. "Paarthurnax can take care of himself."

Tamsyn was still concerned. "But the Time Wound is up there, too," she pointed out. "If they find a way to manipulate that—"

"Even I couldn't do that without the Elder Scroll," Marcus shrugged. "And all it did was give me a window through time. I couldn't actually do anything once I got there, just observe."

Tamsyn subsided, but he could tell she wasn't going to forget about this. "Come on," he said, bringing her closer. "Let's not think about the Thalmor right now. This might be the last chance we get to have some time to ourselves before all Oblivion breaks loose tomorrow."

Tamsyn chuckled tiredly. "No, that happened two hundred years ago," she joked. "And you're the Dragonborn, not the Savior of Bruma." But she allowed him to cuddle her close, which soon turned to kissing. At least for now, Marcus thought vaguely, before he couldn't think anymore, he'd pull a Scarlet O'Hara and worry about it tomorrow.

---

By mutual consent, Madanach and the rest of the Reachfolk remained in their quarters, though Borkul paced restlessly and Kaie was nearly driven mad by the enforced incarceration.

"I can't stand this!" she cried at one point. "I need some air! How can they live like this, sealed up in this tomb of a monastery?"

"Wasn't much better in Cidhna Mine," Borkul grumbled.

"Yeah, try it for thirty years, daughter," Madanach growled.

Delphine gave an exasperated sigh. "You know why we have to stay here," she said for the fifteenth time. "We can't risk the Thalmor finding out who we are."

"You mean finding out who you are, Delphi—I mean, Delafane," Kaie caught herself. "But just because you're hiding out from them doesn't mean we have to stay here!"

"It's not safe for your father to wander around either," Delphine pointed out. "Both General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak would be more than happy to arrange for him to have an unexplained 'accident' before the talks even begin."

"They'd have to get through me, first," Borkul growled menacingly, patting the war axe at his back.

"And me," Kaie said staunchly, hefting her bow.

"And then they'd have to get through me," Madanach added for good measure. "I might be old, but I'm not without my own resources." He flexed his hands at his sides, and immediately lightning crackled in one hand and fire in the other.

"Oh, stop it," Delphine said irritably. "You're all acting like a bunch of children. Do you think I like being cooped up here?"

"What's the worst that can happen if you go out there, though?" Madanach asked reasonably. "I mean, get back into your Blades armor and clean your face off and sling that Akaviri blade at your hip? Do you really think the Thalmor Ambassador is going to call you out into the courtyard for a showdown at high noon?"

"No, don't be ridiculous," Delphine said, but she couldn't prevent a smile from touching her lips at the absurdity of the image. "The worst that can happen is that now the Thalmor will know I'm alive, instead of just guessing. They'll know my last known location and can project where I might go from here. They'll know I've been seen in the company of the Reachfolk and will begin a purge of all your settlements, where before they ignored you. I'd prefer that they just keep ignoring you."

Madanach considered this. "Yes, well," he muttered, "I'd prefer that too, I suppose. Though to be fair, they'll already know we're here for this summit meeting."

"To discuss getting rid of the dragons," Delphine pointed out. "That's a problem that concerns everyone, so it's natural to expect that a representative of the Reachfolk would be here."

"So we're just going to sit here?" Kaie whined.

Her father let out a heavy sigh. "No, daughter," he said finally. "I'm just going to sit here. And your…cousin…is just going to sit here. You and Borkul can go out and get some fresh air if you like."

"You sure about that, boss?" Borkul asked, though the lightness of his tone belied his disinterest.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Madanach sighed again. "Go on, you two crazy kids. Go out and raise some Oblivion. Just be home by dark."

Borkul and Kaie looked at each other for a long moment before the Orc shrugged. "Sure, boss. If that's okay by you." He beat Kaie to the door by mere inches.

Madanach chuckled and Delphine shook her head. "I thought they'd never leave," the Reach-King said finally. "Come here, you." Delphine went into his arms.

A long time later he helped her back into her armor and freshened her face-paint. "Del," he sighed, "what do you see in an old man like me?"

Delphine blinked. "Are you kidding me?" she asked. She snuggled in closer, kissing his jawline. "You are the most amazing, sexy, powerful man I've ever met – and that's saying something. I've been around a long time. How could I not fall in love with you?"

He grinned, only slightly mollified by her accolades. "Taught you a few things, though, didn't I?" he leered. The flush of color at her neck made him smirk. "And you've taught me quite a few things, too," he said.

"Like?" she prompted. The afterglow of a very satisfying session made her voice softer than usual.

"Like trusting someone again," he began. "But it's more than that. You taught me to hope again. I'm closer now to having my country back than the Reachfolk have been in a long time."

"Marcus is only one man against an entire Empire," Delphine cautioned. "He might not be able to persuade the others to give up the Reach to you."

Madanach nodded. "I know that," he said. "But he doesn't know I know it. And I know this whole dragon thing is a top priority for him."

"It's really the only priority," Delphine reminded him, shifting position so she could see his face. "If Alduin wins, we all lose. No one will survive the aftermath."

"So you've said," the Reach-King nodded. "But my soul is ready for the Void," he continued, giving her a gentle squeeze. "I'm only sorry you might not be there with me."

"Don't be too sure," Delphine said. "I'm not a Nord, so my final destination won't be Sovngarde, but I'm not an Imperial, either. I'm a Breton, and my ancestors paid as much homage to the Old Gods as yours. I might end up in Aetherius, but there's no guarantee of that. I've done some pretty bad things in my day. They might not want me there."

"Well, there's plenty of room in the Void if they don't," Madanach grinned. "Come look up an old man when you get there."

"That won't be for a long time yet, I'm hoping," Delphine said tenderly, leaning down to claim his lips with hers. Any thought of serious discussion after that was really pointless.

---

Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun paced the corridors of High Hrothgar. There was little else he could do at this point. He didn't understand why they couldn't just hold the peace talks now and get it done and over with. He knew Ulfric wanted the Reach in exchange for not attacking Whiterun, and he was far from willing to concede that point. He'd never liked Igmund, but he liked Ulfric less, and the thought of having Stormcloaks flanking both sides of his Hold made him uneasy. Still, if it meant getting rid of a far greater threat in the form of the World-Eater, he supposed some sacrifices would have to be made. He just wished they would be made with some other Hold than his at stake.

What he couldn't understand was why in the world Madanach was here. The man was a blackguard of the first degree. His kind had been robbing, pillaging and murdering their way through the Reach for thousands of years. There had been rumors that the Dragonborn had been seen in their company after they had broken out of Cidhna Mine, but other conflicting reports had said that he had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that the jailbreak had been long in the planning. That it had happened soon after the Dragonborn had been thrown in there was purely coincidental. Balgruuf wasn't so sure. He knew Marcus, and knew how persuasive the man could be. It was possible the Imperial had talked his way into getting Madanach to step up his plans to break out, but it was also entirely possible that Marcus had simply taken advantage of circumstances that were happening around him without any intervention on his part. Maybe.

What was clear to Balgruuf was that Igmund had clearly lost control of things going on in his own Hold. How could he have let the Silver-Blood family get so powerful that they would throw someone as notable as the Dragonborn into prison without even a trial? And when Igmund had learned of it, why hadn't he demanded Marcus be released? If he had, the whole, messy business of the break-out might have been avoided, Thonar and Thongvor Silver-Blood might still be alive – though their deaths were no great loss; they were Stormcloak sympathizers – and Madanach might still be serving out his life-sentence digging up silver chunks. Igmund just hadn't been paying attention, and a Jarl – if he wanted to remain the Jarl – couldn't afford to do that.

Balgruuf had done some covert investigating into the matter himself, and had already brought it before General Tullius. Igmund had been furious when he learned that Balgruuf was calling for his removal, but Balgruuf didn't care. If Igmund was that ineffective, they needed someone better to take over as Jarl. His investigations into the citizens of Markarth had led him to only one possible candidate: a man with the unusual moniker of Nepos the Nose. Nepos, it appeared, was a well-respected Breton merchant who often donated money to the poor, helped bring in goods and materials for other merchants, and kept himself off the Silver-Blood's payroll with the help of his own fortune, amassed through his interest in the Sanuarach Mine in Karthwasten, which was owned by his sister's son, Ainethach.

The only sticking point might be that Nepos was not a Nord, but he had lived in Markarth for so long that no one could really remember a time when he hadn't been there. The fact that he was well-liked and respected by the people might go some distance towards his acceptance at least as an interim Jarl until the matter could be made official by a seated High King – or Queen, he reminded himself. Which brought him back to the present situation.

Balgruuf blew out an exasperated breath as he reached the end of the corridor and turned back. He had gone no more than a few dozen paces of the return trip when one of the Greybeards, the one call Arngeir, stepped out of a side corridor.

"Something troubles you, Jarl Balgruuf?" he asked kindly.

"No, Master Greybeard," Balgruuf denied. "I—" He slumped. You couldn't lie to a Greybeard. That just wasn't right. "Aye, Master Arngeir," he confessed. "But please don't be concerned."

"Perhaps a sympathetic ear will help ease the conflict in your mind," the old monk offered. "Please," he invited, gesturing within the smaller chamber. "Sit down. Have a cup of wine."

"Thank you," Jarl Balgruuf said, seating himself. He refused the wine, however. With so many Thalmor and Stormcloaks about, he wanted to keep a clear head.

Master Arngeir also left the wine untouched, and settled himself on a nearby bench. "Now, tell me what is troubling you," he smiled.

"What do you know of this plan of the Dragonborn's, to capture a dragon in my castle?" the Jarl blurted.

Arngeir blinked. "Very little, I'm afraid, Jarl Balgruuf," the Greybeard replied. "The plan was concocted by our Master, Paarthurnax, to enable the Dragonborn to possibly turn an ally of Alduin's against the World-Eater. Beyond that, all I know is that you yourself have refused this plan unless you are assured that Ulfric Stormcloak will not attack your borders. I assumed that was why you are all here, to discuss the terms of the truce."

Balgruuf stood and paced the floor. "It's more than that," he said. He stopped himself before saying too much. The Thalmor were here, after all. And there was no telling where they might be listening, to overhear private conversations.

Arngeir seemed to understand. "Laas," he whispered, and the floor rumbled beneath their feet.

"Now," the old monk nodded, satisfied, after a moment, "tell me what's on your mind."

"I'm concerned about the Thalmor," Balgruuf confessed. "I don't like that they're here. I don't see any reason for them to be here, but I also can't stand the thought of having to bargain with Jarl Ulfric. I feel like my Hold and my people are going to end up of the short end of the stick here, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"I'm afraid there is little I can do to help with that, Jarl Balgruuf," Master Arngeir said. "We Greybeards must remain neutral in all of this, or the integrity of the peace talks would be compromised. You will have to come to your own solutions tomorrow without our interference."

"I understand that, Master Arngeir," Balgruuf answered. "I don't hold that against you, either."

"It would not matter if you did," Arngeir replied blandly. "We are well aware we are not viewed with respect by all peoples. All we ask is that until the talks have concluded, and you leave here to return to your homes, that you refrain from any potential hostilities. If that means you must avoid contact with those whom you do not like, then do what you must. You may find, however, that in conversing with someone outside of the formal talks, that you find a commonality which will make compromise that much easier. It is always far easier for people to see what is different about another person, than to see what is similar."

"Are you suggesting that Ulfric Stormcloak and I are alike?" Balgruuf asked skeptically.

"More so, perhaps, than either of you would care to admit, Jarl Balgruuf," Arngeir answered. "You forget that Jarl Ulfric spent many years here, studying under us. We…used to know him quite well. He is, perhaps, not the same man he was when he left our doors, but the boy he used to be is still there, somewhere, under the man he was forced to become. And you are much like him. You both value honor and integrity above all else. But where Ulfric has focused his energy in preserving what he feels is important to Skyrim – its old ways and traditions – you have focused yours on keeping Skyrim safe by conforming to the Empire's ideals. I have seen the conflict in you."

"You're telling me I'm wrong."

"Not at all," Arngeir replied, passively. "But do not become so focused on what you feel is right to the point of discounting anyone else's viewpoint. You may find there is value in each, and a common, middle ground can be found."

"Why are the Forsworn here, then?" Balgruuf demanded. "They're about as different from us as two peoples could possibly be. What kind of commonality could we find with them?"

"The Dragonborn has not confided his intentions to us," Arngeir reminded the Jarl. "If you are concerned for your safety, rest assured my brothers and I are fully capable of enforcing the peace here, if necessary. If it is information you seek, however, I would suggest you speak to the source. Speak with the Dragonborn. Perhaps he will reveal to you what he has kept from us."

So saying, the Greybeard rose to his feet, bowed and intoned, "Sky above, Voice within," before leaving Whiterun's Jarl to think about a very unsatisfying conversation.

He rose and made his way back to the room he shared with Tullius, but ran into the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage, returning from outside.

"Marcus!" he called. "There you are! I'd like to speak with you."

The two younger people shared a glance. "About what, Jarl Balgruuf?" the Arch-Mage asked. "The talks will begin tomorrow. Is this something that can wait until then?"

"No," Balgruuf frowned. He didn't know the Arch-Mage very well at all, not recognizing her as the same red-haired girl that had come in to Dragonsreach with Marcus on that day so long ago, when he first heard the news about Helgen. "This can't wait." He glanced around. "Is there somewhere we can go to speak…privately?"

Again, the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage shared a private glance and the Breton girl shrugged.

"We can talk in my room, Jarl," Marcus offered. "But whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Arch-Mage Tamsyn, here. She holds my confidence."

Balgruuf stared at the woman who looked far too young to be Arch-Mage. She gave him a gentle, genuine smile, and he nodded curtly. "Very well, Dragonborn. Lead on, then."

Once in the Dragonborn's quarters – the same room he'd used during his training nearly a year before – Marcus locked the door behind him and stepped back for Tamsyn to cast her spell.

"What was that for?" Balgruuf demanded.

"It's a Muffle spell, Jarl," Tamsyn explained, "so we can speak freely, without fear of being overheard."

The Jarl's eyes widened, then narrowed slightly as the corner of his mouth quirked. "So you truly are the Arch-Mage, then?" he asked. "I don't think we've had the pleasure yet."

"We have," Tamsyn smiled. "But you don't remember me. I pretty much stayed in the background on purpose then."

Balgruuf's eyes narrowed further as he frowned, deep in thought. Finally he breathed, "Of course. I remember now. You came in with the Dragonborn that first night."

Tamsyn smiled. "That's right."

"And now you're Arch-Mage."

She nodded.

"What's on your mind, Balgruuf?" Marcus asked. Months before, the Jarl had given him permission to address him without his title in private.

"I want to know why that murderer Madanach is here."

"Oh boy," Marcus groaned, while Tamsyn muttered, "Here we go."

It was well over an hour – an hour of much yelling, fist-pounding and pacing; an hour of reading and more yelling and cursing – before Marcus finally felt Balgruuf was convinced he wasn't going mad.

"Do you understand why now?" Marcus asked him.

"Aye," the Jarl of Whiterun said, shaken to the core. "I understand it, but I don't like it. Has Elisif read these?" he asked.

"Yes, I showed them to her," Marcus said, "and to General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak, too. I was planning to show them to you later this evening, but you pre-empted me."

"That poor child," Balgruuf said. "I should probably go to her."

"No, don't, please," Tamsyn pleaded. "You'll only muddy the waters."

Balgruuf glared at her. "What do you mean?"

Tamsyn drew herself up to her full height, but she was still much shorter than the Jarl of Whiterun. "I've been keeping my eye on the future of Tamriel, Jarl," she said firmly. "I've spent months following all sorts of possible futures, and have narrowed the thousands down to the handful or so of the best possible ones. And I've been trying to guide events into paths that would make one of those best possible choices happen."

Balgruuf's eyes widened in wonder. "Is this true?" he asked Marcus.

"Tamsyn has always had an uncanny ability to foresee the future," he admitted, feeling it was easier to perpetuate the myth than admit the truth in this matter. "I trust her implicitly. She's never steered me wrong yet."

Tamsyn threw him a beaming smile before turning back to the Jarl.

"Right now both Elisif and Jarl Ulfric have been spending most of the day in each other's company, away from everyone else, except Galmar, of course, who's been keeping a discreet distance. I specifically asked him to stay out of sight. Ulfric and Elisif are healing, together. We need to give them that time. It will make things much easier if we do."

"I'm not sure I understand," Balgruuf said, puzzled.

"I mean, you nosy little man," Tamsyn said with some asperity, poking him in the chest, "that a united Skyrim is better for everyone. And a political marriage that is also based on mutual affection and trust is the best possible future for Skyrim."

Marcus couldn't keep the smirk off his face. Balgruuf's face was priceless. Marcus doubted anyone had dared have the temerity to call him a 'nosy little man', much less poke him in the chest.

Still, the Jarl of Whiterun held on to his personal dislike of the Stormcloak. "He's too old for her," he declared.

"Your last wife was fifteen years younger than you," Marcus felt obliged to point out. Balgruuf glared at him.

"Ulfric is a murderer," he declared.

"There are murderers on both sides of every war," Tamsyn sighed. "If you want to hate the man for his past, that's your prerogative, but don't ruin this chance for peace."

"Fine, then," Balgruuf grumbled. "Does Tullius know?"

"No," Marcus said. "Not yet. And you're not going to tell him, either. We've given you some insider information. Now, just sit back and let things play out as they will. Ulfric and Elisif aren't going to declare undying love today, and they aren't going to be picking out curtains for the Palace of the Kings tomorrow. But with some luck and some support from people who care about them, it might just be the best thing for both of them, and certainly for Skyrim."

Defeated, Balgruuf turned his attention to the other matter on his mind. "What about the Forsworn, then?" he demanded. "Why are they even here? The civil war has nothing to do with them."

"Oh boy," Marcus groaned.

"Here we go again," Tamsyn muttered.

---

It was late in the day when the Thalmor Ambassador, Ramallion z'ha Cirdain, returned to the monastery, chilled, soaked to the skin, and thoroughly disgruntled. His feet were killing him, and he was sure it would be weeks before the nails on his hands grew back out, so chipped and broken were they. Had it all been a lie, then? Could his information have been wrong? He might have thought so, except for the fact that there was clearly something beyond the monastery further up the slope of the Throat of the World; something that the sheer cliff walls and the archway they called the Wind Gate – which no amount of spells could calm – prevented him from finding out about. And Ambassador Ramallion did not like mysteries.

The only thing he knew for certain was that his source at the College had told him the Dragonborn – some unknown yokel hero – had come to inquire about Elder Scrolls, and that he had parted soon after speaking with the surly Orc librarian, who adamantly refused to reveal what the discussion had been about.

Attempts to find out more about the Dragonborn had proved problematic as well. There was nothing about him in Elenwen's ransacked files, and messages to and from the Thalmor Headquarters in Summerset were taking far too long to be of use for the immediate future. Actually meeting the man himself down below in Ivarstead had him revising his opinion of this 'yokel'. This was no brutish, club-wielding Nord, clad in iron and grunting past the mead tankard at his mouth. The man was actually an Imperial, and Ramallion had been around long enough to recognize the Blades armor and the Akaviri steel that swung battle-ready at his hips. He even recognized one of them: the one on the Dragonborn's left hip, that crackled with energy, was Dragonbane, or he was an Orc.

Deciding to spend the rest of the evening interrogating the delegates was a challenge he was well-prepared for. It was far easier to get information from someone when they didn't realize they were being manipulated. Speaking with the Stormcloak heretic was out of the question, of course. Though the dossier on Ulfric had been missing from the Embassy, the report was old enough for Ramallion to have seen a copy of it at Headquarters. Ulfric was still considered an asset, but a hostile one, and the advised approach for him was 'hands-off'. Elenwen had really bungled that one, he thought smugly. Had it been left to him, they could have cultivated a willing accomplice much sooner, rather than waiting for a beardless boy to grow up and become arrogant enough to get killed by the very same hostile asset that he would face across the table tomorrow.

Tullius, on the other hand, was a different matter. Though he claimed to be a military man, not a politician, his keen mind recognized intelligence-gathering methods when he heard them. No, Tullius was too smart to fall for flattery, cajoling, bribing, or any of the other techniques Ramallion employed to get information from an unwilling subject. Even misinformation wouldn't work on the man. He always insisted on two or three independent confirmations before he believed any report.

Elisif, now, might be easier to manipulate. Barely out of childhood, she had been married to the man the Thalmor had hoped to put on Tamriel's throne, replacing the cursed Titus Mede, the bane of the Dominion. Though he had unwillingly submitted to the terms of the White-Gold Concordat – the same terms they had offered to him four years previously – Mede nevertheless fought a silent battle against the Dominion by refusing to lift restrictions and sanctions against the Thalmor within the Imperial City itself.

By pouring flattery and sweet poison in the boy's ear from the time he could walk, the Thalmor Ambassadors and their agents had convinced Torygg, son of Istlod, that a new day for Skyrim would dawn when he became High King. They promised to pave the way to make him Emperor of all Tamriel, and the silly fool had bought into it, as they knew he would. He might have been Emperor, but it would be the Thalmor whispering in his ear and pulling his strings, as they had ever done. If only that bastard, Ulfric Stormcloak, hadn't been so damned righteous about it all. If only Elenwen hadn't fouled things up so badly that the Jarl of Windhelm ended up their bitterest enemy.

And if only I had wings, I could have flown up to the Top of the Throat of the World and found out what these idiot Greybeards are hiding up here, he thought sourly, even as he smoothed his face into a mask of diplomatic pleasantry to mingle with the others who had shown up for an evening meal.

Attempts to pull Jarl Elisif into a private conversation proved impossible. For some reason she had attached herself to the very same 'hostile asset' who had killed her husband, and he glared at the Ambassador with such hatred in his eyes that even Ramallion blinked and paused for the barest moment before veering away to speak with the small band of Forsworn who had been inexplicably invited to attend the conference. He still hadn't figured that one out.

"Ah, Ambassador Raganimal, isn't it?" Madanach greeted him cheerily. The Orc behind him glared brutishly, but that was typical of Orcs.

"It's Ramallion," the Ambassador corrected.

"Whatever," the savage said dismissively. "Kaie, scoot over. Give the Ambassador a place to sit. Ambassador, this is my daughter, Kaie, and my niece, Delafane."

"How do you do, Ambassador?" Kaie said courteously, while the niece merely nodded and shifted closer to the Orc.

"Quite well," Ramallion smiled, pleasantly enough. "I must say, I'm surprised to find members of the Forsworn here," he commented.

"Reachfolk," Madanach said sharply. "We prefer that term."

"Of course," said the Ambassador, in much the same tone as Madanach had used to say, "Whatever."

He sent a keen glance toward the niece, who wasn't looking at him at the moment, but across the room towards the Dragonborn. In profile now, he could see lines on her face under the warpaint that suggested she was much older than her cousin. He also noted no familial resemblance whatsoever. While part of that could be attributed to taking after the non-Madanach side of her heritage, something in Ramallion's gut told him she was not who she appeared to be. And Ramallion had learned long ago to trust his gut.

"I was not aware that the Reachfolk," he stressed the term, "had any vested interest in the outcome of this internal conflict of the Nords," he continued.

"We don't," Madanach said succinctly. "But dragons….that's a different matter altogether."

"To be sure," Ramallion mused. "But if the whole point of this meeting is to manage a temporary truce between the Empire and the Stormcloaks for the sake of using Dragonsreach to trap a dragon – I have gotten that correct, haven't I? – then I fail to see why the Reachfolk are even getting involved. What happens in Whiterun surely doesn't concern you."

Madanach leaned forward and gave the Ambassador a feral smile. "What happens in Whiterun may affect the Reach," he said. "And that does concern me. If the Reach changes hands, my people may be affected by it, and you'd better damn well believe that concerns me."

"You don't look old enough to have a niece that old," Ramallion said, switching the subject so quickly Madanach almost didn't make the turn.

"I have a sister much older than me," he said in an off-hand manner. "Half-sister, really. Same father, different mother. Delafane's been living in the northern part of the Reach up until I…was released," he finished slyly. "She suffered an injury to her neck a while back, so she doesn't talk much now." He rubbed his own neck under his chin. "Hurts her throat, you see."

"My condolences," the Ambassador said without a trace of sympathy. "Where exactly did you live in the Reach, Delafane, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Druadach Redoubt," she mumbled, and Madanach was pleased to note she had pronounced it the way the Reachfolk did.

"I'm very familiar with that area," the Ambassador purred. "Tell me, have you had any trouble with dragons near Northwind Summit?"

'Delafane' gave him a blank stare. "Don't know that place," she said so quietly he had to strain to hear it. "Never heard of it."

"Northwind Summit is in the Rift, Ambassador," Kaie informed him.

"Oh, so it is," Ramallion smiled, a flicker of irritation in his slanted green eyes. "Silly me, to have forgotten that. But there is a place in that area that has attracted dragons, is there not, Delafane?"

"You must be thinking of Dragontooth Crater," Borkul, the Orc, said helpfully. "That's near Druadach Redoubt."

"Yes," the Ambassador said, barely disguising a frown. "That must have been the place."

"We've had some problems, up until recently," Madanach offered. "As I understand it, the Dragonborn came through the area and took care of it." He smirked. "Shouldn't be a problem now. When the Dragonborn kills something, it stays dead." The Ambassador had the distinct feeling there was an underlying message in that comment.

He excused himself shortly after, stating he wished to speak with the Arch-Mage before he retired. When he was far enough away, Madanach let out a barely-audible sigh of relief.

"I think I need to use the chamber pot," he murmured.

"Too much information, Da," Kaie grumbled. "What a nosy bastard!"

"Can I kill him yet?" Borkul rumbled.

"No," Madanach said. "Just stay on your toes. Good job covering for Delafane, by the way, you two. I'm proud of you both."

"I thought he was going to explode with frustration," Delafane smirked.

"I was hoping he would," Madanach growled wistfully.

The Thalmor Ambassador worked his way over to where the Arch-Mage stood near one of the Greybeards. Since he knew the monks didn't speak – except for the one with the knot in his beard – he felt it would be an opportunity to find out more about what was going on at the College. The reports he had received from Illarion were frustratingly vague.

"Ah, Arch-Mage Tamsyn," he oozed. "I trust you're finding this gathering…entertaining? I can't imagine what could bring you down from Winterhold just to watch a bunch of old men harangue about who did what to whom."

"It goes quite a bit deeper than that, as you well know, Ambassador," Tamsyn replied. "There are wounds on both sides that run deep, and will need time to heal. Hopefully the truce will give them that time while Marcus deals with the more immediate problem."

"I quite understand," he nodded smoothly. "Perhaps you could explain to me exactly what the Dragonborn intends to do if he isn't able to catch a dragon?"

"Oh, he'll catch one," the Arch-Mage stated confidently.

"Yes, but how?" Ramallion pressed. "I mean, it's not like one will come to him if he calls."

Tamsyn threw a look at the Greybeard next to her, and both seemed to find this statement very amusing.

"I'm sure he'll find a way, Ambassador," Tamsyn managed to say without it sounding condescending. "And even if he doesn't – which I find highly unlikely – there may be other ways for him to reach the World-Eater before too much more time goes by. We'll just have to wait and see what happens."

"Your confidence is…charming," Ramallion said. "Ah, the enthusiasm of youth! You're very young, aren't you, Arch-Mage?"

"Youth is a matter of perception, Ambassador," Tamsyn shrugged. "I'm sure that as Altmer live such a long time, most humans seem very young to you. But I'm old enough to have been entrusted with the position of Arch-Mage, and I intend to do the best I can for as long as I can."

"Yes," the Ambassador mused. "I heard about the debacle at your College. What a pity you weren't able to keep the Eye of Magnus under control."

"Yes, it was," Tamsyn said with a hint of frost in her tone. "And it was even more of a pity that the advisor your people sent was clearly so unbalanced that a little bit of power went to his head."

Ramallion stared at her for a few heartbeats. "Point taken, Arch-Mage," he nodded. "Forgive me if I seemed…intemperate."

Tamsyn kept her face completely neutral. "Apology accepted, Ambassador," she replied. "Was there anything else you'd like to know about the College? I understand Illarion's reports are quite thorough. You'll be pleased to hear, I'm sure, that we've expanded the alchemy lab to include an interior garden area, and several of the new students have decided to focus on mastering the School of Restoration."

"Delighted to hear it," Ramallion smiled thinly. "And what studies do you pursue under the other Schools? Illusion…Conjuration…Destruction?"

"Oh, you know," she replied in an off-hand manner, "what we usually teach them to get by with. Most find that the higher level spells cost too much magicka, or are just too difficult to master, and they soon get bored and go on to other studies."

"How…disappointing that must be for you," the Ambassador smiled. He glanced around. The Forsworn had retired, as had Ulfric Stormcloak and that ursine Housecarl of his. The Imperial Legate, Rikke, was leading Jarl Elisif away, and the Dragonborn, Jarl Balgruuf and General Tullius were in a corner talking about the history of the monastery.

"It's late, Arch-Mage," Ramallion inclined his head. "Forgive me from keeping you up. I'm sure we'll speak again soon. Good night."

"Good night, Ambassador." I suppose it's too much to hope you expire from apnea overnight, she thought. Beside her, Master Bolli smirked.

I heard that, he said in her mind.

I figured you would, Master Bolli, she grinned. But thankfully he didn't!

He was right about one thing, Bolli said in a serious tone. It is late, and you all have much to discuss tomorrow. I will bid you good night as well, Arch-Mage Tamsyn. It has been a delight conversing with you. I did not expect anyone from the College of Winterhold to have grasped the nuances of communicating with the mind alone.

I'm still learning, but I had a good teacher, she replied, thinking of the Auger. Good night, Master Bolli. Sleep well.

She smiled fondly at the old man as she watched him leave the room to find his own rest, and turned to the three men standing at the far end. Deep in conversation, she figured nothing short of a nuclear explosion would make them sit up and take notice that everyone else had gone to bed. She left them to it and made her way back to her room to try and get some sleep. Bolli was right: they all had a big day tomorrow.

---

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, the table in the dining hall was cleared. Master Wulfgar and Master Einarth set tables against a wall along one side and set out pitchers of wine, pewter tankards and bottles of mead, as well as an assortment of breads, fruits and cheeses. The food was there in case anyone became hungry before a conclusion could be reached, but Marcus felt that just the thought of food right now would make his stomach roil. Butterflies had taken up permanent residence in his intestinal tract, and he found himself taking deep breaths to steady his nerves.

"It's like getting ready for prom all over again," he told Tamsyn, trying to smile and failing. "I haven't been this nervous since I popped the question to Lynne."

"You were a lot younger then," she reminded him. "And that was a lifetime ago in another world. Try to focus on what you know about negotiating," she advised. "Remember how you dealt with all those squabbling Methodists back home."

They were in Marcus' room, and Tamsyn was helping him put on his armor, which he had taken time to buff the night before so that now it gleamed, darkly black in the light from the narrow windows. Everyone would be dressed in their most impressive state armor and clothing, and Tamsyn was wearing her official robes as Arch-Mage, though she had the hood thrown back behind her head. "I hate that thing," she had said to him many times. "I'd rather just wear simple Master's robes." But this was an official summit meeting, so Arch-Mage's robes were required.

"Wow," she said now, appreciatively, stepping back. "You look amazing in that!"

"Yeah," Marcus grimaced sourly. "Nothing screams, 'Look at me, Thalmor! I've had dealings with the Blades, your sworn enemies,' like this armor."

"Has he said anything to you about it?" Tamsyn frowned.

"No," Marcus admitted. "But I never really gave him the chance to." He gave her a sheepish grin. "I've kind of been avoiding him."

"Milk-drinker," she gently mocked him.

"Hey, I like milk," he protested. "Anyway, at least all the important, interested parties know what's really going on. We might not be able to discuss it openly this time around, but we've at least laid some groundwork."

"The wild card here is going to be Madanach, you know," Tamsyn said, fastening the leather straps that held his greaves in place.

Marcus barked a short, unpleasant laugh. "More like a loose cannon," he moaned. "Why did I ever make that promise?"

"Because it was the right thing to do," Tamsyn said. "We'll need his support later."

"What if he won't give it, though, because I'm forced to trade his land away today?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we get to it," she suggested.

Marcus grumbled, but subsided. He had a feeling he was burning bridges, rather than crossing them. He would have liked to have strapped on the two Akaviri swords, but it was his own imperative that all the delegates leave their weapons behind in their chambers. Anyone with any talent for magic, he realized, would not find that a hardship. Well, he couldn't have everything. He squared his shoulders. "Well," he sighed. "I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

A soft gong sounded from somewhere down the corridor.

"There it is," Tamsyn said. "That's the signal to come to the conference table."

"Let's do it, then," Marcus muttered, pulling open the door. By earlier request, Tamsyn held on to the important journals and papers he'd brought with him. They were tucked carefully into a satchel slung at her side. He honestly didn't think they'd get a chance to discuss them openly today, but he had no intention of leaving them lying around his room for one of the Thalmor soldiers to find while everyone else was in conference.

Outside the dining hall, turned conference room, Master Arngeir stopped Marcus.

"So, you've done it," he said severely. "The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace."

"They're not going to be violent, Master," Marcus insisted. "I've made sure they've left all their weapons behind in their rooms. See? I'm not even carrying mine." He tried to smile reassuringly, but Arngeir was having none of it.

"But you wear their armor," he said shortly. "They may put their weapons down for a moment, but only to gather strength for the next bloodletting. They are not yet tired of war; far from it. Do you know the ancient Nord word for war?" he demanded.

Marcus shook his head. "Season unending," the Greybeard intoned. "So it has proved." He turned and led the other arriving delegates into the hall.

General Tullius, Legate Rikke, Jarl Balgruuf and Jarl Elisif were already there when Marcus stepped into the room, seated along one side of the table. Jarl Ulfric and Galmar Stone-fist entered before him and settled along the other side, at the end farthest away from Master Arngeir, who stood at one end of the table, closest to the door. Next to Galmar, Madanach and 'Delafane' took their places, and Tamsyn settled herself down between Galmar and Delafane, which left only one chair between Jarl Balgruuf and Master Arngeir free, and one at the far end of the table, between the delegates and opposite Master Arngeir. The last person to arrive was Ambassador Ramallion. Marcus reluctantly sat down at the far end of the table. The position made him appear to be the focus of attention, and he didn't like it. This meeting wasn't supposed to be about him.

"Now that we are all assembled," Master Arngeir began, "it is time—"

"Wait a moment," Jarl Ulfric said, standing. "I want that man removed from these proceedings." He pointed a finger toward Ambassador Ramallion.

"What insolence is this?" the Thalmor Ambassador sputtered.

"Are you out of your mind, Jarl Ulfric?" Balgruuf demanded harshly.

"You're not in a position to be making demands, Stormcloak," General Tullius growled.

"That man is a Thalmor and an affront to me," Ulfric continued. "I won't sit down at the same table with him. Either he goes, or I do."

"You can't be serious, Ulfric!" Legate Rikke exclaimed. "The Ambassador has every right—"

"He's got no right to be here," Galmar snapped. "The Thalmor are the reason our country is so divided."

"Gentlemen, ladies, please!" Arngeir thundered. "We will get nowhere with the proceedings if we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiating!"

Marcus noticed that Jarl Elisif had remained seated and quiet during the uproar. Tamsyn had, as well, but he'd expected that. Madanach and 'Delafane' also seemed to be staying out of it.

"What does the Dragonborn say?" General Tullius asked. "Does the Ambassador stay, or should he leave?"

"Yes," drawled Ulfric Stormcloak. "Let the Dragonborn decide…and it had better be the right decision." He glared at the man to his left ominously.

"That's fair enough, don't you think?" Jarl Balgruuf added. The others around the table either nodded, shrugged, or simmered.

This was not starting out well, Marcus thought with no small measure of panic. He glanced at Tamsyn, but her face remained impassive. He had to admit, though, that it was the opportunity he'd wished for, but hadn't really expected to get.

"This really is just an internal matter," he said slowly, as if carefully considering the matter. "All we're really trying to accomplish here is a temporary cessation of hostilities until I can complete my mission – to kill Alduin." He turned to the Ambassador with a façade of sincere disappointment on his face. "I'm sorry, Ambassador, but I really can't afford to have one of the principle delegates walk out. I'm afraid this has been a wasted trip for you."

Ambassador Ramallion rose stiffly and faced the room. "It really doesn't matter," he remarked, with a tone just short of snide. "The Dominion will work with whichever side wins your petty war. It's inevitable, you know. We can afford to be patient." He turned on his heel and left, and Master Arngeir called a temporary recess while the Thalmor gathered their belongings and left High Hrothgar.

As soon as the doors had closed behind the elves and they were headed back down the Seven Thousand Steps, Jarl Balgruuf gave a joyful "WHOOP!" and laughed.

"That showed them!" he grinned. "I have to admit, Ulfric, I didn't think you'd manage to pull it off!"

"It wasn't that difficult," the Jarl of Windhelm shrugged with only a small measure of humility. "I just remembered how much I hated Elenwen and put all that feeling into my response to that toady."

"You were so good!" Elisif beamed, smiling up at him. "I could never act the way you did!"

"Perhaps I should consider attending the Bard's College, if I ever get tired of being Jarl," he grinned. "I'd be able to see you more often."

Elisif blushed bright red and Galmar laughed.

"Wait a minute," General Tullius said slowly. "You mean that was all a…a trick? A sham?"

"Don't be mad at them, General," Elisif said. "It was my idea."

Marcus blinked at the Jarl of Solitude, and the General practically goggled. Tamsyn smirked, and next to her Madanach laughed out loud.

"You thought of this?" the General gaped. "Elisif…you?" while Delphine murmured, "Well done, Jarl Elisif!"

"I'm not completely stupid, General," the young Jarl replied with some asperity. "I saw the journals and papers the Dragonborn brought, the same as you and Ulfric—I mean, Jarl Ulfric," she amended shyly, coloring again. "I knew what was at stake here. And I knew none of you would be able to speak freely with Ambassador Ramallion here. We couldn't let you in on it – Balgruuf, Ulfric and I – because we needed your reactions to be genuine, to keep the Ambassador from guessing it was a set-up."

Marcus found himself chuckling, and the chuckle grew to a guffaw, and finally to a full out laugh. "Jarl Elisif," he crowed, "you are brilliant! You have quite possibly saved this summit meeting!"

The Jarl of Solitude basked in the glow of congratulations from all around her.

"Does that mean we can all sit back down now and discuss the real issues?" Madanach grumbled good-naturedly. "And where's Delafa—I mean, Delphine?"

"I believe she retired to your chambers to change," Master Arngeir said reprovingly. He still wasn't happy to have a Blade under his roof.

"Ah, good," Madanach smiled. "I love seeing her in Reachfolk armor, but I don't like other people seeing her like that," he scowled.

"Did you know about this?" Marcus asked Master Arngeir. "About this little ploy of theirs, I mean?"

The Greybeard nodded. "Jarl Elisif informed me late last night there would be some sort of…altercation, and that I was to just go along with it, that she had things under control. She assured me it would be non-violent, so I saw no reason not to allow it."

"So you were acting, too?" Marcus asked in wonder.

"My dear, young Dragonborn," Arngeir said mildly, raising an eyebrow. "I wasn't always a Greybeard!"

An hour later the delegates were seated once again, and Marcus breathed an internal sigh of relief. One hurdle had been jumped, but there were still several yet to field. Ulfric and Balgruuf were still stealing sly smirks at each other across the table, which made Marcus feel that much better about coming up with an acceptable solution, but Tullius was frowning over having been kept out of the loop, and Madanach…well, Marcus couldn't really tell what the Reach King was thinking, but it was the point that worried him the most.

Master Arngeir cleared his throat. "And now, barring any other interruptions," he said, casting a severe look around the room, "perhaps we may begin the negotiations for the cessation of hostilities in this civil war of yours."

"If I may speak, Master Arngeir," Jarl Elisif said, tentatively, surprising most of those seated.

Arngeir smiled faintly and bowed his head. "Of course, Jarl Elisif. Proceed, please." He sat down.

Elisif rose and cleared her throat nervously. "Most of you who know me know that I'm not that good at speaking in public. I've never really been given the chance."

"We're not public, Jarl Elisif," Tamsyn smiled. "We're just a handful of people gathered together for a common cause. There's no need to feel nervous."

Marcus and the others murmured their agreement.

"Thank you, Arch-Mage," Elisif continued. "I'm going to guess that by now, you've all been shown the documents the Dragonborn came into possession of—"

"By illegal means," General Tullius growled. "I should still clap you in irons for that."

The others began shouting in protest, but Marcus answered calmly, "This is war, General. Any information gathered during a time of war is considered to be intelligence, no matter how it's acquired."

"We aren't at war with the Dominion," the General barked.

"Aren't we?" The Dragonborn's shortly snapped comment hushed the room. "Jarl Elisif, forgive us. You were saying?"

"Yes, well…thank you, Marcus," she stammered. "I only wanted to say that I think it ought to be easy for us to agree not to fight right now, since we know what the Thalmor are doing, and since the threat of…of Alduin…is so real. We need to let the Dragonborn do what he needs to do. I think we can agree to stop fighting amongst ourselves long enough for him to do that. That's all I wanted to say."

She sat down, her face red, her eyes downcast. Balgruuf patted her shoulder and Rikke on her other side took her hand and held it. "Well done," the Legate whispered encouragingly.

"That's all very well and good," General Tullius said, "but what about the atrocities the Stormcloaks have committed—"

"You can speak of atrocities," Galmar roared, "when the Empire is responsible for the massacre of scores of innocent people?"

"Those people were insurgents," Rikke shot back hotly. "They were fomenting rebellion—"

"They were trying to free prisoners who were being illegally detained by the Thalmor!" Galmar shouted.

"Enough!" Ulfric bellowed, and the floor trembled briefly. When Galmar and Rikke subsided he spoke again. "If you speak of atrocities, then we must accept that they have happened on both sides. Yes, we raided a Thalmor-held fortification in order to release some of our people. I doubt that General Tullius, were he in my place, would have done differently. And the Empire has raided our encampments, and attacked our patrols on the roads, as we have done to them. So, where does that leave us?"

"Can you guarantee me now, Ulfric, that you won't launch an attack against Whiterun?" Balgruuf asked suspiciously.

"No," Ulfric said. "I can't guarantee that. If my men are attacked, we will retaliate. But if compensation is to be given for the lives that were lost – innocent men, women and children, I'm speaking of, not my soldiers – then I will withhold my troops from your Hold."

"Compensation?" Tullius asked sharply. "What sort of compensation?"

"I want the Reach," Ulfric said simply.

"Out of the question!" Tullius exclaimed, while Madanach growled, "Over my dead body, Stormcloak!"

"I can arrange that, savage!" Ulfric grinned menacingly. "I don't even know why you're here!"

"I'm here to defend my people," Madanach gritted out. "I'm no fan of the Empire, they've screwed us over before. But you, you thrice-cursed snake…you and your Silver-Blood cronies have bled my people dry. You've stolen our silver, our homes, our land!"

"Skyrim belongs to the Nords, beast-man," Ulfric spat. "We wrested it from your people thousands of years ago when you were still living in caves and painting the walls with your own shit! Get over it. You lost!"

"I haven't lost yet, Nord," Madanach glared. "Not while I still have breath in my body!" He flexed his hands and lightning and fire leaped into them.

Marcus stood up, prepared to Shout as Rikke shifted herself in front of Elisif. Delphine moved to put herself more fully between the two men, but Tamsyn made a simple gesture with her hand, and suddenly all the fight seemed to go out of them. They glared at each other for a long moment, then shifted that glare to the Arch-Mage.

"Calm spell, Arch-Mage?" Madanach asked conversationally. "Really?"

"It seemed necessary," she shrugged. "Shall we get back on track? The subject at hand is the cessation of hostilities. I think that means here, too."

For another long moment both men glared at her, then Madanach began to chuckle and Ulfric's mouth lifted in a slight grin.

"Fine," he said. "We'll do it your way, Arch-Mage. You really have come far since Helgen, haven't you?"

So he remembered her, Marcus thought. He threw a grateful look at her and spoke to those assembled.

"The Arch-Mage is partially right," he said. "The cessation of hostilities is one of the main things I hoped to accomplish here. But I didn't go to the trouble of bringing those documents to you, and gathering you all here just to discuss trapping a dragon. Now that the Ambassador is on his way back down the mountain, we need to come up with a way to eradicate the Aldmeri Dominion once and for all. And I believe I have a way we can do that, if you will all cooperate."

The delegates exchanged glances around the room, Madanach and Ulfric still eyeing each other warily.

Finally General Tullius spoke. "You know that I am a representative of Emperor Titus Mede's interests here in Skyrim," he said slowly. "I am loyal to my Emperor, and the Empire. I will not approve of any plan that puts the treaty the Empire has struck with the Dominion at risk."

"General," Marcus said before anyone could protest, "the Dominion has already violated that treaty. You read the reports. They are already preparing for a second assault against the Empire, this time to wipe it out for good. They set up the conditions that led to the Markarth Incident, which created the Stormcloak rebellion in the first place. They have pitted the Empire against one of its staunchest allies during the Great War. They divided the rest of Tamriel up into neat little slices of Dominion pie. By allowing this civil war to continue, they count on it continuing to waste resources on both sides, so that neither will be in a position to fight back when they make their final move. The Dominion doesn't want slaves. They want genocide. They do not believe humans – or Argonians or Khajiit – have a right to exist. Hell, they don't even believe the other races of mer deserve to live! That's why they've taken over Valenwood and weakened Morrowind to the point where another assault against them would be their undoing. And the Orcs, while formidable fighters, aren't organized enough and are too widely scattered to pose a threat. The one thing the Altmer and the Dominion have going for them is also their greatest weakness: their extended lifespan."

"I don't follow you, Dragonborn," Tullius scowled.

"I've been doing a lot of research into this," Marcus continued. "While the Empire may have broken the siege at the Battle of the Red Ring, it cost them horribly, decimating their forces. But a huge, heavy blow was also struck against the Dominion at that time. Lord Naariffin's army was completely wiped out. At the same time, in Hammerfell, a combined force of Redguards and Imperial 'invalids' decimated the ranks of Lady Arannelya's forces."

"I know the history, young man," the General barked. "I was there!"

Marcus smiled equably. "Then you'll know better than most that the Aldmeri Dominion also suffered heavy losses. Now, here's the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow: while the elves live a long time and can afford to play the long game, while they can set things in motion decades in advance and wait for them to come to fruition, they don't reproduce nearly as fast as humans."

"What are you getting at, Dragonborn?" Jarl Balgruuf asked.

"I mean," Marcus grinned, "that it's going to take them far longer than us to get enough people together to make a final strike, while we humans tend to breed like rabbits – your pardon, Jarl Elisif, for being so indelicate."

She'd gone quite pink while he spoke but waved her hands in denial. "It's already, Marcus. I've been married before, you know."

"Elves have one child maybe once every twenty-five to fifty years or so," he continued. "It's the price they pay for their longevity."

Tamsyn spoke up. "The longer the Dominion can keep the Empire and Skyrim at each other's throats, the more time it gives them to recoup their losses, to enslave enough drones from other areas and have enough children in their next generation to train up as warriors. And in the meantime, more young men and women of our next generation will lose their lives in this senseless war."

There was silence around the table. Finally Tullius spoke.

"Seeing that the treaty has already been violated," the General said slowly, "I think I can speak on the Emperor's behalf when I ask, 'What do you propose to do about it?'"

"I propose we go underground," Marcus smiled. "I know you all have your differences that may never be resolved in this meeting, but I'm asking you to put them aside for the greater good here, which is the preservation of our species. To do this, we need to train up enough soldiers from both sides to work together. We need to use the Thalmor ploy of misdirection to our best advantage, send them erroneous reports and make them waste their resources chasing down rumors. We need battle mages, and people who are resistant to magic, who can use stealth and spells to the best advantage."

"You want my people to be your stealth fighters," Madanach said drily. It was a statement, not a question. "And what do I get out of this?"

Here was the sticking point to his plan, Marcus knew. If Madanach didn't get what he wanted, he was prepared to walk away from the table. His people would melt back into the hills of the Reach, and this coalition would lose the best guerilla fighters in Tamriel.

"What is it you want?" Ulfric demanded.

"You know what I want, Stormcloak," Madanach said. "It's what I've always wanted. It's what I fought you for twenty-odd years ago. I want my land back!"

"Out of the question!" General Tullius fumed, but Elisif cut in.

"If we give you the Reach, Madanach, will you swear loyalty to the Empire?" she asked.

"No," the Reach King said bluntly. "We were an independent country once, and we will be that again. We won't swear loyalty to Titus Mede or the Empire. But," he continued, we will sign an accord, promising to fight the enemies of the Empire, if in return the Empire leaves us in peace to govern ourselves as we deem fit, and if they fight our enemies when we call for help."

"I can't bring a demand like that to the Emperor," Tullius frowned. "He'd never agree to it!"

Jarl Balgruuf rose and spoke slowly. "I have no love for Madanach, who styles himself as King of the Reach," he began. "And I certainly don't think we should be breaking up Skyrim at a time when we need to stay together. There are more people in the Reach now than just For—I mean, Reachfolk. There are Orcs, Imperials, Nords, Dunmer and other races who call that place home. Also, if I remember our laws properly, only the High King – or High Queen of Skyrim," here he nodded politely to Elisif, "can unseat a Jarl and allow part of the land to be ceded to another entity. It's what was done when we gave Solstheim to Morrowind, to settle some of the Dunmer refugees after the explosion of the Red Mountain. And right now, we don't have a High King or Queen."

"What would you propose, then, Jarl Balgruuf?" Delphine asked.

"Well, to begin with, if you intend to give the Reach back to the Reachfolk, you would have to depose Jarl Igmund. Goodness knows the man has given us reason enough to remove him."

"I'm well aware of the charges you want brought against him, Balgruuf," Tullius growled. "Get to the point."

Balgruuf glared at him, but continued. "If we were to replace Igmund with someone who has the welfare of all the people in the Hold at heart, it would be easier to make the transition later, if it's clearly understood that that person would be an interim Jarl until confirmed or dismissed by the High King or Queen."

"Who did you have in mind, Jarl Balgruuf?" Tamsyn asked, watching him carefully.

"There's a man in Markarth known as Nepos – Nepos the Nose, he's called – who has come to my attention," Balgruuf said. "From all I can gather, he's well-liked by the people and runs his interests quietly and efficiently. After all the turmoil the City and the Hold have been through, it could use a man like Nepos."

"Nepos?" Madanach asked, a curious expression in his eyes. A faint grin played about his mouth, but he said no more. Marcus looked at Tamsyn, and she seemed equally amused.

"How would you put Nepos in place, though," Tamsyn asked, revealing nothing of her thoughts, "if you have no High King or Queen? And he isn't even a Nord, if I remember rightly."

"The Legion could declare a state of martial law," Rikke suggested, but Marcus vetoed that idea.

"No, Legate," he said. "The transition can't have the stamp of the Empire on it, or the Nords will never accept it."

"In cases such as these, however," Tullius said, "since Skyrim is still part of the Empire, we have the authority to launch an investigation into the corruption and remove those responsible for it, including those who were culpable but turned a blind eye. In the case of the Dragonborn's unlawful imprisonment, I think we would be within our rights to call for Igmund's removal, and facilitate putting this Nepos person in charge…at least until a permanent solution can be found."

"And as I said," Balgruuf interjected, "he is well-known and well-liked in the Hold. I think the people might accept him…at least on a temporary basis."

"I would accept that solution," Madanach said, a little too easily, "at least for now. But I'm not giving up on having my homeland back."

"Jarl Ulfric?" Master Arngeir turned to the Jarl of Windhelm. "Does that arrangement meet with your approval?"

For several heartbeats, the Jarl looked across the table at Elisif, who seemed to be pleading with him to accept it. Finally he spoke. "I will have to consider this," he said. "But the Empire must at least pay compensation for our losses…were-gild, if you will."

"Fine," Tullius snapped, "If you'll pay for ours."

The two men glared at each other across the table before Tamsyn quipped, "Looks like the two compensations cancel each other out."

"I have a feeling we'd have come out on the short end of that stick," Galmar muttered.

"So, the Reach stays in the hands of the Empire, and we don't get compensated for our wrongfully killed, honored dead," Ulfric complained bitterly. "If this is how it is to be, why summon us here in the first place, Dragonborn?"

"Because you have the best damned fighting force in Skyrim," Marcus said honestly. "And because if you hang around, you'll get to stick it to the Dominion. We stand on the verge of being able to wipe out the Thalmor once and for all. I was kind of hoping you'd want to be in on that."

"There's just one thing you haven't thought through, Dragonborn," General Tullius said.

"And what's that, General?" Marcus asked.

"How are you going to gather together that many soldiers and get them battle-ready without the Dominion finding out about it?"

Marcus grinned. "You'd be wrong, then, General," he smirked. "I have thought about it. This land is riddled with Dwemer ruins; very dangerous to go into, of course, unless you know what to watch out for. There are Dwarven traps and machines in them which are still active, but they can be taken out; I've done it. And there are Falmer there, as well, which would have to be eliminated. But a large enough force could infiltrate them and establish a permanent base of operations, secured against Falmer or Thalmor, to support and train several hundred soldiers."

He paused, and his grin grew broader. "There's also another place I've thought of that would give us not only space to train, but multiple points of entrance, and ores to mine which can be used for the war effort. I've been there, and it would be perfect, once we clear it of Falmer. It's called Blackreach."

---

[Author's Note: I would like to thank Mark Connors at Daughters of Skyrim on Facebook for his idea to use Blackreach as a training ground, and to my husband Jeff for the idea of using the Dwemer ruins.]