2 Heartfire 4E201, Falkreath

Ivar frowned as he examined the map, drawn on treated hide and stretched out across a table in the jarl's longhouse.

"General Tullius has managed to hold the roads open from the south, through Falkreath and up to Solitude," said a burly Nord in an Imperial uniform, standing on the other side of the table. "We hold the western half of the province securely enough: Falkreath, the Reach, Haafingar, even Hjaalmarch. Ulfric and his Stormcloaks hold the east: Eastmarch, the Rift, Winterhold, and the Pale."

"What about Whiterun?" Ivar asked.

Legate Skulnar frowned, his impressive auburn mustache drooping. "That's the key to this, I'll wager. Central position. Controls the plains and the valley of the White River. Not to mention the wealth and the prestige of the holding. So long as Whiterun stands neutral, neither side can truly come to grips with the other. Unfortunately, that means neither side is going to tolerate that neutrality forever. If Jarl Balgruuf keeps trying to stand on the edge of a blade, he's going to cut himself bad."

"Balgruuf is a good jarl."

"Did I say otherwise? I don't blame him for being cautious . . . but we need his lands and his men, and so do the bloody Stormcloaks. Sooner or later he's going to have to choose sides, or someone is going to choose for him."

Ivar made a noncommittal noise, his eyes still traveling across the map. For a while, there was no sound but that of heavy rain on the longhouse roof.

"I could say the same for you," said Skulnar after a time.

Ivar looked up to see the legate watching him, his face thoughtful rather than hostile. He shrugged. "I spent years enough serving the legions down south, as an auxiliary. The Empire doesn't have any claim on me. Besides, I'm just a smith. You want some armor repaired or a sword forged, I'm your man, so long as your gold is good."

"Dragonborn," said the legate quietly.

Ivar snorted in disgust. "If that's true, it's of the gods. I don't owe the Empire for it."

"I suppose. It would still be a great blessing, if it came in on the side of loyalty and tradition. Not to mention that sun-blade of yours."

"You speak of loyalty and tradition. What about loyalty to the gods to whom we owe our gratitude? What about loyalty to the hero who founded the Empire in the first place? What about the traditions that make us Nords who we are?"

"I hear you, brother." Skulnar shifted his weight uneasily. "It's not easy, putting away the holy symbols. Seeing the empty niche in the shrines. Wishing to hear the ancient stories once more, and hearing only an echoing silence in their stead."

"Then why do it? Isn't Jarl Ulfric right to fight for what he believes in? Isn't that what we Nords do?"

"I suppose it is. Yet the Emperor decrees, and we who are loyal to the Empire and our sworn oaths must obey. I have faith that all will be well in the end."

"All will never be well, unless we men work to make it so." Ivar shook his head. "Besides, apart from any argument over principle, I'm not fond of your General Tullius. I nearly got my head lopped off because he couldn't be bothered to sort out his prisoners and give them a fair hearing."

"Yes, I heard about that." Skulnar had the grace to look embarrassed. "Not one of his better moments, that's true. On the other hand, he has admitted his mistake, and corrected it. I got specific instructions about you from Solitude, telling me that all charges against you have been dropped and you're not to be harmed in any way."

"I have to wonder if that would have been done, had I turned out to be just another wayfarer."

"No sense worrying about might-have-beens."

"Easy for you to say. It might have been my neck." Ivar glared at the legate, and then shrugged, visibly letting go of his resentment. "Never mind. There was no harm done in the long run. Although it's ironic that I almost got executed by the Empire, for nothing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then my life was saved . . . by a dragon and Ulfric Stormcloak."

Skulnar snorted, enjoying the morbid jest.

"Tell your superiors that I'm thinking about it." Ivar looked down at the map once more. "I understand loyalty well enough. Seems to me this is a fight over what loyalty means, and that's always a hard decision to make."

"Fair enough. There's still time." Skulnar glanced sharply at the smith. "I'm reminded of another matter. I got an interesting report yesterday evening. A patrol came across three bodies just off the north road. Altmer. Violently dead."

Ivar's face gave nothing away. "That is interesting."

"Not to mention certain pieces of gear that turned up in Gray Pine Goods this morning. Elf-make, and Solaf was tight-lipped about where he got them."

"Solaf is tight-lipped about everything," observed the smith.

"You wouldn't know anything about all of that, would you? Having come down that road yesterday on your way back to Falkreath?"

Slowly, the smith shook his head.

"Good. After all, violence against our allies of the Aldmeri Dominion is a serious offense. If I knew who had done such a thing, I would have to take action. I might even have to charge someone with . . . oh, I don't know. Assault."

"That sounds serious."

"Oh yes. It carries a fine of forty septims."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Good." Skulnar extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation Ivar took it. "However you decide, whatever you choose to do, so long as it's not going over to those bloody Stormcloaks . . . well, I'm glad you're here. About time Falkreath got help from someone with a strong arm and a clear head."