A/N - And so, we have come to the final chapter of Feren and Ulfric's story together; and honestly, down deep in my writer's bones, this was the only way I could see it end. Thank you to all who have read and reviewed.

Disclaimer: Woohoo! Last time...I do not own in any way, shape, or form Skyrim or its characters. All belong to Bethesda.

Flames lick at the stones of her fireplace, their dance a pleasant distraction from her depressing lack of focus. She has tried every trick in her repertoire to break her writer's block: a change of scenery, a new quill, a day away from her parchments—and nothing has helped even the tiniest bit. Never in her years has she suffered from such a drought, and though she has not been a scholar long, it still bothers her immensely. Like any writer, a day or two spent unproductive is commonplace, almost the status quo, but it has been almost two weeks. Twelve long, bitter days of frustration and confusion, and she feels, deep down, that she might be finally going crazy. Many of her kin already thought her daft, and now, she fears they might have been right.

A chill creeps through her library, and she pulls her housecoat closer around her body. Shifting in her chair, she has been sitting far too long in the same position, and she carefully rolls her head in circles in an attempt to stretch the stiff neck muscles. Really, it was probably no coincidence that the dry spell had hit right after the composing of her epic, and she cringes inwardly at the thought of having already reached her career's apex. "Skyrim's True Queen" had been an intense labor of love, something like a summer fling, brief and invigorating. The tale practically wrote itself—all she had to do was harness the raw energy and emotion contained within Queen Feren's descriptions of her husband and her time in Valenwood. A good story is told often, and so she had gathered that it would be popular, but she had grossly underestimated just how much so. Everyone in Skyrim, it seemed, from supporters to detractors to wafflers in the middle, wanted to hear or read about the Queen. Not that Lokir could blame them; she understood the curiosity, and had even suffered from it herself. More interesting to her was the reaction of Skyrim's citizens—a few used the opportunity to attack, but a far greater number supported their Queen, and both sides admired her bravery regardless of their opinion on anything else.

What she had not planned for was the boost in popularity that she had received, and while she did enjoy the recognition of her work, she could do without the distraction and notoriety. It had reached an aggravating pitch during the moot, so much so that she decided against traveling to Solitude. Her initial thought had been to sate her curiosity, to see with her own eyes if the Queen's plan would be successful, but ultimately, she realized that doubting Feren was a silly mistake. As predicted, Eliven was selected as High King, and with that, much of the storm seemed to subside. Or at least she had thought so, but then she received repeated, troublesome denials of her request for an audience with the Queen. She had no ill intentions; all she wished to do was speak with her muse, curious to know her thoughts on the published version of her story and the results of the moot. But, all she got for her inquiries were vague apologies and excuses that sounded far too phony, and Lokir knew with a certainty that Agnete and her meddling ways were behind them.

A singular knock interrupts her stewing, and she jumps, surprised to have company, especially at this time of night. Scrambling, she rushes from the room towards her entry, stopping to listen for any sound. Again, she hears the rap against wood, and she gathers herself before calling out, "Who calls?"

"Oktur, a courier...I come bearing a letter for the Lady Lokir."

Hesitating, she tries to put her unease aside, and opens the door far enough to see the young man's face framed by a hood and wet, scraggly hair that pokes out all around the sides. "That would be me."

He passes her a rolled piece of parchment from under his coat. "I am sorry to disturb you, but I was instructed to deliver this to you after sunset."

Dread, mixed with a sense of intrigue, washes over her at the messenger's words. "No apology is needed when doing your job. You also managed to answer a question that I had not yet had the chance to ask. Who asked you to bring this to me?"

"A servant at the Palace."

She assumed it was another trite, albeit weirdly timed rejection, until she rolled her delivery over, spotting the mark. She almost forgot to speak, "Thank you, Oktur."

He nods, walking away from her back into the damp chilly night, as her mind races. The Queen had finally responded, and she didn't even bother to fully shut the door before trying and failing to break the seal, her fingers trembling at the sight of the familiar emblem cast in wax. Eventually, several well-placed nails lift the insignia off the parchment, and she slowly unrolls the notice composed in tidy, matter-of-fact script:

Lokir,
Even you could not have guessed how my story was truly going to end. My final decision will most certainly disappoint and upset many whom I hold dear, including yourself, but again, just like the others I have made, I must make it and see it true. Centuries without Ulfric is no life at all, and I know he waits for me. Be strong.

Throwing open the door, pellets of frozen rain the size of sovereigns fall on her in droves, but her feet do not cease, her slippers barely clinging on amongst the mud and stone. She runs onward, obsessed by only one goal, and when she reaches the Palace of the Kings' entrance, she only pauses long enough to bark orders at the guards. "I must see the High King and I will see him now."

They eye her disheveled look, but they recognize the seal on her letter, and the importance it bears. Four of them flank her as she moves through the castle, coming to a standstill in the throne room while a puddle forms beneath her from her drenched clothes. Both the High King and his steward enter, looking disturbed, and Agnete fails to hide her contempt, "What are you doing here, Lokir?"

There is no time for her bitchy, petty behavior. "You need to check on Queen Feren. I received…"

"I am sure that the Queen is resting at this hour, and certainly doesn't need to be disturbed."

"You don't understand…"

"No, I don't. I haven't a clue why the Queen has taken a liking to you, or allowed you the honor of serving her. All you have ever been is a constant headache to both her and the King, Talos rest his soul."

"Get over yourself, Agnete. I know it burned your lover's britches that I was chosen by the Queen, but I am the better scholar. If you won't go to her, then I will."

Striding forward, she brushes past the first guard before he realizes her intent, but the others quickly corral her. Agnete warns, "Leave, Lokir. Or you will end up in a cell. Queen Feren's love for you does not entitle you to trespass."

She screams, frustration and panic raising her voice. "I will not. The Queen is in danger, and there is no time to waste!"

One of the guards hesitates in surprise of her rebellious display, and she took the opportunity, shoving him into another unsuspecting comrade as both end up sprawling on the floor. In the confusion and din of screams, she bolts headlong towards the stairs leading to the High King's throne. Her toes barely connect with the landing when the rest of the soldiers tackle her, and in desperation, she flings the letter from her fingers. The paper floats to the ground softly, coming to rest three stairs short of his feet, but she doesn't get the chance to see if he retrieves it. Her slippers slide helplessly against the stone as the guards drag her, their destination almost certainly the dungeon, and she yells until her lungs burn, "Go to her Eliven! Go to her now, please!"

Her throat is raw as they pull her along passages she doesn't recognize, but she doesn't stop yelling, cursing and threatening the men who are detaining her. "Fools! Does it take six men to put one woman in a cell? One of you thick-headed idiots should be checking on the Queen!"

Ignoring her, they push her into an empty cell that reeks of mildew and rotten food. Slamming the door, she continues taunting her captors through the bars, until she realizes that she is horribly alone and stuck. Frustration and expletives pour from her as she fights with her cage, time and time again, her fingers bleeding as she tries to dig and claw out furtively. With each minute that ticks by, she knows that it is less likely the she will be able to stop the Queen, but that just causes her to redouble her efforts. Hopefully, Eliven heeded her pleas and got to his mother in time. Pushing on, she has not a clue how long she struggles against the iron, but the pitter-patter of a single pair of footsteps diverts her attention. Pausing, she stands waiting for the shadow to step into the light, hoping for a miracle.

Instead, she is instantly crushed, gasping as the air flees from her lungs and tears start to pool in her eyes. Through the blurry field, the red, crestfallen face of the High King of Skyrim hovers above her as she collapses, her fingers sliding down the bars. In a pathetic heap, she cries silently as the click of the cell door lock echos off the stone. He steps inside, his fur-covered boots the only part of him she can bring herself to look at, and, in his voice, she could hear the defeat tinged with ire, "Why?"

Shaking her head, she could not even answer him. She has failed, and the knowledge makes her wretch, the remains of her dinner dangerously close to making a reappearance.

Crouching on his heels, he shoves the letter in front of her face, hands trembling, "When did you get this?"

"Tonight," she croaks, "I read it as soon as it arrived and I ran here, hoping to stop her."

"Why would she tell you?"

His mannerisms and tone made it clear that he was struggling with that fact, and she had no answer that would offer a logical explanation. "I do not know. Your mother trusted me, for reasons I still do not understand. It's possible that she wished to spare you some of the pain. She did not want to be a burden to you."

"A burden? I am her son! She would never be that to me."

He jumps to his feet, pacing, clearly aggravated—and she knows all too well that people deal with grief in different ways, so she would make no judgements. He continues, "It makes no sense. You are not her child, not a loyal friend, nor even a trusted servant—you are practically a stranger to her."

She tries not to bristle at his accurate description, and she barely manages to keep her voice steady, "The Queen was a proud woman, and I believe that she probably struggled a great deal with her decision."

Pausing, she inhales deeply before lying between her teeth, "We had no bond, no connection—who better to make a weighty confession to? She owed me nothing, and she could tell me anything. There would be no guilt, no disappointment in burdening me."

He shakes his head as he sighs, "This cannot be happening…"

Glassy, his eyes betray the pain he feels, and he sits dejectedly, joining her on the floor. She waits, not sure if he wants to hear a response. He continues, "It's not like her…my mother was stronger than this."

She still holds her tongue, realizing that anything she has to say will probably not be received well. He pauses, eyeing her carefully as he finally gives her a window, "You disagree?"

"Tread carefully, Lokir," she thinks to herself, recognizing that neither of them were in the most stable emotional state. "Queen Feren was an amazing person and incredibly willful. But, your father's death had taken its toll. She admitted as much when she told me about the night she found your father, after returning from Valenwood all those years ago. She did not fear her own death, but she was terrified of Ulfric's, and I suspect that she never really overcame that. She did not want to live without him."

"You speak as if you have known her for years…"

"I have, in a sense. She is the stuff of legend, and I have devoted almost all of my life to studying her and her reign."

"And all of your energy to her criticism."

"I will admit, quite a bit of what I said was wrong, given what has come to light recently. But, I can hardly be blamed for that. Clearly, your mother held no grudge against me—after all, she sought me out."

"I think you may have known her better than I did."

Before she realizes it, she's patting his arm, like she would a dear friend's. "I know that she loved you, as much as she loved your father."

The look he gives her makes her heart skip a beat, and, standing on his feet, he offers her a hand, "There is one thing that I am certain of. My mother would not want me to keep you in this cell any longer. I owe you an apology for that. Agnete is fiercely protective, and..."

She takes it, surprised at how strong and yet gentle his grasp feels. She cuts him off, "No apology is necessary. Agnete hates my guts, for her own nepotic reasons, and that matters not to me. She gave me a chance to leave, but that was not going to happen. And, well, I did technically threaten bodily harm if they did not check on the Queen."

There would be no beaming smiles from him, but she did notice a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you for doing what you could tonight, and all that you have, for my mother and for me."

His words are warm and inviting, like an embrace; they give her comfort unlike any she had ever known. "There is no need to thank me. I should have seen it sooner..."

"I disagree…" he offers, the set of his jaw showing his determination. "My mother was skilled at masking her emotions, and at times, I even questioned my own perceptions of her. If she managed to pull the wool over her own child's eyes, you should feel no shame."

He insists on walking her to the gate, the guards eyeing the pairing suspiciously, looks of shock and sadness on all of their faces as the news spread. When they reach their destination, he pauses, and for a second, she can see the unmistakable anguish at his loss written on his face. "Do you think they are together?"

There was no doubt of whom he was speaking. "I have always been an unrepentant realist when it comes to the religion and myths of our people. But, today, for the first time in my life, I pray that Sovngarde really does exist, and that they have somehow found one another there."

A small smile, hesitant but there, forms on his lips, and in that moment, she could see the Queen's own mirrored upon his handsome features. "May they rest in peace."