King Dorian's marriage to Lady Josephine of Alcaire was a grand affair. The wedding was held on the steps of Castle Evermore, and afterwards the newlywed couple paraded through the city streets with a full honor guard. Townspeople lined the street, cheering in their passing and hailing the King and his new Queen. Bells were rung in the Chapel of Saint Pelin, and white doves were set loose to add to the display.

Josephine - Queen Josephine, now - could not have been happier, utterly infatuated with her new husband. King Dorian himself was even seen smiling; a sight that had become rarer since taking the responsibilities of the Iliac League unto himself. In celebration of the marriage, however, he had ample reason to smile - and not least because, as the tradition went, the newlyweds had received a month's worth of honey-wine to enjoy. Children were not long in coming after that, to the delight and relief of House Durand's royal family.

Bernard, the boy, had his mother's blonde hair. Mirabelle, the girl, had her father's dark hair. Both had gray eyes flecked with gold like their mother. Their faces were split by wide grins as they played with the new toy plush animals they'd received, one in the shape of a wolf and the other in the shape of a lion. Dorian watched them with a fond, loving smile, but also with a mote of sadness. Hard to believe that such gentle creatures are my children.

A soft hand touched his cheek, turned his face. His gaze met the green eyes of his wife. A faint smile played across Josephine 's lips as she studied him. "They are beautiful, are they not?"

"They are, indeed." Dorian turned to kiss her fingers before looking back at the children at play. 'Woof' and 'Leo' were currently engaged in a fierce debate over whether cakes or pies were better. Important matters for five-year-old children.

Josephine noticed the faint aura of somberness around her husband. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Something burdens your mind."

There was a hint of worry in her voice. He knew what she feared, and it struck a pang of melancholy in his chest. She still fears my love for Roland will supersede my love for the children we've made.

"Only matters regarding the Iliac League," he murmured at length, "nothing more."

"House Blackthorn?"

"No response to my latest letter."

Josephine frowned. "You ought to give up on them, husband. That brute Ganelon may grow impatient and send back a rebuke."

"It frustrates me to think that if he only had eyes to see beyond his walls, I might show him the state of the world and why a unified High Rock is more important than ever." Dorian spoke firmly, passionately, but with an even, level voice. The children did not even sense the shift in the mood, still absorbed in their play.

Josephine sighed, squeezed his fingers. "I agree. But our Houses have been rivals for so many years."

A somber Dorian nodded once, his eyes suddenly glazed with memory. "We were once allies, you know. Family, even. King Blackthorn may not like to remember that his ancestor married into Breton nobility - a Durand ancestor - many hundreds of years ago."

"A great deal can change in that time." Josephine's smile was grim. She nodded. "But I suppose nobody can question your commitment to your cause, my lord husband."

Dorian noticed how she watched their children with new interest. Bernard was showing his younger sister how to stack blocks in a tower. "I assure you, that commitment extends to matters at home as well as abroad."

This time, a wry smile grew on Josephine's face. "As best you can, I'm sure. Our children need their father in their lives so they may grow up strong. I won't have that obstructed by Wayrest nobles, or Forebear princes, or…"

She trailed off, shrugged, and let the matter go. But what went unsaid was left hanging in the air, and Dorian felt the sting of melancholy in his breast yet again.

Or bastard children.

Dorian had the good grace to leave the matter, though he hoped to try and soften his wife's view on his bastard child later in the day. He could understand that her feelings came from jealousy, from a fear that he might deprive Bernard and Mirabelle of his love or presence because of his bastard.

Such a thing was unfathomable to Dorian - Bernard and Mirabelle were his future, the future of House Durand! And Roland was the only thing he had left to remind him of Amelie, his only means of attempting to atone for his mistakes and failure to take responsibility for them, the crux of the promise he'd made to Amelie as she lay dying.

All his children were important to him, regardless of legitimacy. Nothing, not even his dealings in the Iliac League that demanded so much of his attention, would diminish his love for any of them.

But he did not speak this out loud. He would express some of these thoughts to his wife later, in their private chambers where nobody would eavesdrop. It was too open here in the children's room, too easy to be heard here. Someone who shouldn't hear of such things might be listening.

Unbeknownst to him, he was right.

Standing just past the doorway to the room was Roland. He mused on the last exchange he'd heard between his father and Queen Josephine. Despite himself, his attention clung to the queen's final remarks. The teenaged boy felt a knot of pain and sadness twist into his heart. She was talking about me.

Roland knew his intrusion would not be welcome. Not with the king and queen's attention firmly fixed on his siblings. At last, the boy pulled away from the open doorway and slunk back down the hall away from them, dragging two sparring swords along the carpeted floor behind him. His father had forgotten their promised outing again.

After gaining some distance from the doorway, the lad stopped at the intersection of halls, unsure of what to do with himself. He had been counting on his father spending some promised time with him. Cormac didn't even have lessons for him - his old teacher's time was consumed now by instructing Bernard and Mirabelle just as he'd done for a young Roland, and currently he was away on some other tasks anyway. Razig was busy with his own duties, training poleaxe men in the yards. Perhaps he would have to sneak off to Evermore again and find his own entertainment.

His trained senses felt a presence nearby. Roland turned to see Vivian appear next to him. There hadn't even been an echo of her footsteps; it was as if she'd materialized from the shadows. Spooky.

House Durand's steward greeted him with a casual smile. "Been standing there for a while now, young knight. Were you looking for Razig?"

Roland looked up at her, forced a smile. "I think he's busy training the new household troops until later today. No, I was waiting for my father, but I think he is busy, as well."

Vivian's smile faded. The woman reached over to grasp his shoulder. "Roland…"

"He's busy, he's king, he has better things to do. I know. Spare me the lecture this time, please." He pulled away, turning his back on her.

The Imperial woman frowned. "He's just doing his duties as king. Don't blame him for it. His family needs him."

Roland turned sharply, hissing, "I'm his family, too!"

The fire in him died as soon as he read Vivian's expression again. Her warm, brown eyes reflected sorrow and shame. "I know you are. I'm sorry."

He expected an addendum. Something patronizing, a lecture about the lot of bastard children and the delicacies of his father's position as king, and de facto leader of the Iliac League. But there was none of that - just sadness and sympathy.

Without warning, Vivian pulled him into an embrace. Roland's grip on the wooden swords relaxed, and he returned the embrace with a tight squeeze. The Imperial bent her head and kissed his hair, smoothing it out. "It's alright, lad. It hurts you, but don't think for a damned second that your father doesn't still love you."

"He could do a better job of showing it." His voice was muffled by Vivian's shirt.

"Perhaps he could." Vivian agreed. When he began to pull away, she kept a grip on his shoulders and made him look her in the eyes. She asked gently, "Do you feel angry at your siblings for this?"

After a short moment's consideration, Roland shook his head and sniffled. "How can I? I've been looking after them alongside the nannies. Queen Josephine just tolerates me, but Bernard and Mirabelle love me. I love them, too."

Vivian studied him. She read him as she'd read so many men before and found no deceit in his words. Then, she embraced him again. "You're a good lad, Roland. The true paragon of a knight. Your father would be proud."

"Flatterer." He sniffled and managed a wan smile. "I'm barely even a knight as it is. I haven't seen a true battle yet, aside from sparring with the other men-at-arms and Razig. And you, that one time."

The former Venator smiled. "You took quite the tumble when we last faced each other, young knight. Been practicing your footwork since then, I hope."

"I have. Razig seems to think so. He said if I were to fight on a muddy field, I just might make it through the battle without falling into the muck and shit."

"With all the foul language thrown in as well, I've no doubt." Vivian smiled dryly. "Your father told me that it rained at his first tourney, and he won in the melee because his last opponent standing fell into the mud at a crucial moment. Got his scabbard tangled in his legs."

"Really?" Roland chuckled, imagining the sight. How exhilarating that must've felt for his father! To be the last man standing in the melee and see the onlookers cheering him on, honoring him for his victory!

The idea occurred to him at that moment. Roland started, eyes widening. "Razig told me that there was to be a tourney in Evermore soon. I could enter the melee! Perhaps if I won, I could earn my own honor, and my father would no longer need to be ashamed of me."

Vivian arched a delicate eyebrow. "Daring of you, young knight. But I would be cautious with that sort of thinking."

Roland's expression fell. "Do you not think I could win?"

"It's not that, Roland." She shook her head and took hold of both his shoulders. "I think you've become a fine warrior under Razig's tutelage. But…" Vivian shrugged. "One victory in a melee won't be a fix-all curative. Such things take time. You don't need to win a melee to earn your father's respect - you have his respect already."

His shoulders slumped. "It hardly feels like it at times."

She squeezed the young lad's shoulders and shook her head. "Your father loves and respects you. He just doesn't know how to show it well. But I'm telling you now: Don't tie your worth to a single victory, please. You're better than that. I know you are."

You would be one to know, Roland thought, studying her face. Before she'd been a Venator, Vivian had been an Arena gladiator in the Imperial City desperate for glory. A faint scar on her cheek spoke of the brush with death the woman had faced during her last battle in the Arena. She had another scar, he knew, on her body from that same battle - one that marked the deep wound that had crippled her ability to have children of her own.

Vivian saw the thoughts run through his mind, studying the change in his expression. Biting her lip, she eventually said, "If you wish to test your own skill in the melee, I would not hold that against you."

Roland looked up. "Really?"

She nodded. "You would need your father's blessing, of course, and you would need Razig to help you prepare. I'm sure that neither will deny you. All I ask is that you temper your expectations."

The young knight smiled and nodded once. "I will heed your words. I swear!"

"Good lad." With a warm smile, Vivian reached down and picked up one of the wooden swords Roland had dropped. She gave it an experimental twirl in her hands, flourishing it deftly. "Now - let's go to the drill square. I think I could spare a few moments to make sure that Razig's training regimen is sticking to you."

Dorian had visited Hallin's Stand in southern Bangkorai a few times before, back when he was still a knight serving under his father Bernard, learning the ways of diplomacy and political acumen. Hot and arid, though reputedly not quite as bad as the Alik'r, this region of Bangkorai known as the Fallen Wastes was Forebear territory - the ruling family of the city-state was more welcoming of foreigners than their Crown cousins and were a more well-respected faction than the moderate Lhotunics. Being Evermore's southerly neighbor made Hallin's Stand an important trading partner, and in the years before the Great War, relationships between the two city-states had grown warmer. Now, the new King Dorian would build off the work of his late father in cementing the relationship.

The ruler of Hallin's Stand, Lord Derik at-Nuwarrah, was away on business in Sentinel. His son, Prince Farshad, next in line for the royal throne of Hallin's Stand, received House Durand's diplomatic party at the entrance to his stately palace. A grueling sun beat upon the Durand arrivals that day; despite having been forewarned and wearing lighter, thinner clothing to endure the southern heat, everyone in the diplomatic party was sweating heavily. Thankfully, their gracious host had anticipated this - as the diplomatic party approached the magnificent Redguard palace and the Prince's retinue that awaited them, robed servants came forth to provide water for them all.

While House Durand's retinue was given the usual courtesies befitting a visiting diplomatic mission, Dorian dismounted from his horse, and Prince Farshad breached protocol to step forth from his own retinue of honor guards and offer a handshake, exclaiming, "By Onsi's bright blade, it is good to finally lay eyes upon the great and terrible Dragon of the Red Ring!"

Prince Farshad's smile was broad, his dark hair flowing with the wind that tugged at his colorful robes - silk, embellished with golden threadwork; he'd brought out his finest garb for this meeting, Dorian noted. The Redguard's sharp eyes took in the sight of the Breton nobleman with interest at a glance, as only a warrior could. An ornate scimitar with a gem-encrusted handguard and a long, curved blade sat at his hip. "You honor us with your visit, your Majesty."

Dorian bowed his head with a friendly smile. It had been nearly twenty years since anybody had called him Dragon. "Your Highness, the honor is mine. The Fallen Wastes are looking livelier than ever."

"There has been a great deal of migration from the southern reaches, particularly refugees from Taneth." Farshad's smile faded at the edges. Dorian recalled how the Redguards' stolid resistance to the Thalmor in the five years after the end of the Great War had ravaged Hammerfell's southern border. The prince then waved him through as the nearby servants pushed open the gold-edged doors to his magnificent palace. "Come, friend. The sun is unforgiving on this day; let us conduct business under some blessed shade, lest we find your party melting around our feet."

While the main body of the diplomatic retinue awaited in the cool shade of the palace antechamber, Farshad brought Dorian and his bodyguards to a small yet comfortable common-room where they could discuss their matters. The chamber was decorated lavishly with brightly-colored rugs, hanging tapestries, and elegant vases painted with Yokudan symbols. Curtains of rich, crimson silk were pulled back from the windows to admit a cool breeze. Servants bearing trays of cold drinks served in slender, gilded goblets arrived shortly thereafter, and the men sipped their drinks to fend off the heat. Farshad raised his goblet. "Ah, your Majesty, it has been years since we last had the pleasure of hosting a Durand in our palace. I will admit, however: I had been hoping to see your son among the ranks of your retinue."

Dorian gave him a polite smile. "Young Bernard is still only five years old. He would not fare well traveling so far from home at his tender age, I fear."

Farshad looked at him over the rim of his goblet with a shrewd smile. "You had another son, did you not? A brave young knight of eighteen years or so?"

Dorian had to remind himself that Redguards did not view bastard children with the same stigma that Breton nobility did - Farshad meant no harm in the remark. He shook his head. "I would have offered, but Roland expressed wishes to attend a tourney back in Evermore. I encouraged him to partake."

"That is a shame. I would have liked to meet him and test his blade arm. If he is still under the tutelage of your fearsome Battlemaster, I would think he must already be a formidable opponent out in the sands." Farshad had a distant look as he laid a contemplative hand upon his sword's hilt.

Dorian looked out the open window. More servants toiled in the palace gardens, harvesting the fruit from date palms, transporting large jugs of water and wine on the backs of camels. "Your realm seems prosperous. It has fared well since I was last here."

"The Fallen Wastes have their own beauty, don't you think?" Farshad smiled, swirling the contents of his goblet as he looked out the window with him. "It is, however, a mere echo of the venerable Alik'r."

"Yet this land produces skilled and valiant swordsmen that are the envy of all Tamriel."

"You flatter me, your Majesty." A keen smile emerged on Farshad's lips. "But you need not dance around the subject any longer - I know we agreed to discuss terms of gaining membership in your alliance."

The Breton nodded, straightening in his seat. "The Iliac League has grown in the years since the end of the Great War, beyond the confines of the Bay. Our network of informants spans across eastern High Rock, keeping an eye on signs of Thalmor activity."

"And the other kingdoms of High Rock do not see this League as a threat to their political power?"

Dorian began to list them off: "The Kingdom of Wayrest has reason to be grateful to the League for sending them aid after those corsairs attacked the city of Wayrest - with King Barynia lost in the aftermath, the throne of Wayrest has been passed to his daughter. Further west, the powers in the Kingdom of Daggerfall have been undergoing negotiations with my fellow members of the League in Alcaire. Jehanna and Farrun have managed to agree to cooperation so long as certain provisions are met to ensure lasting peace between them."

Farshad hummed thoughtfully. "It is strange to see how fragmented your people are, yet you Bretons always manage to unify in the face of a great threat. I don't know how you manage it."

"Our people tend to know when it's time to bicker and when it's time to unite. Hopefully, given the political climate of the day, my fellow countrymen decide it is the latter."

"Quite right." Farshad nodded, sipping from his goblet. "And now you wish to extend the reach of your League into Hallin's Stand, yes?"

"That's correct." Dorian leaned forward on the table. "As the founder of the Iliac League, I would like to formally extend an invitation for Hallin's Stand to join our organization in keeping a watchful eye for Thalmor activity - and fighting together against the Dominion when the time comes."

"And I have no doubts that such a day will come." The Redguard leaned back in his chair, studying Dorian casually. "What will this agreement bring to my people, King Dorian?"

"Aside from a military alliance? Your trading caravans coming through the Bangkorai Pass would pay less for the toll for as long as you are part of the League. In addition, the League is ready to send aid to support Redguard efforts in holding the line against the Thalmor - we would prefer not to see another Taneth happen."

Farshad chuckled, though there was no humor in the sound. "I don't think anybody wants to see another Taneth happen, my friend. And what would be required of us, should Hallin's Stand join?"

King Dorian thought for a moment, sipping his drink. It was fruity, with a bite of strong liqueur. "We would request your cooperation in helping us extend our influence to Sentinel, if possible. In addition, any intelligence you have on Thalmor activity would be welcome."

The Redguard prince gave him a knowing look. "We may be able to offer you information, yes. Our king in Sentinel has a dedicated organization for tracking Thalmor activity."

"The Remnants."

"Or as we like to call them, the Eyes that Watch." After a long moment of consideration, Farshad nodded. "I believe these terms are acceptable."

Dorian did not react save for arching an eyebrow. "You arrived at that decision fairly quickly."

"Oh, do not think that my father and I have not been deliberating on the matter for months already." Mirth glittered in the Redguard's dark eyes. "Ever since we first caught wind of this Iliac League and heard of you spearheading the initiative, my father and I have wondered if we would fit in - and where."

The prince smiled widely. "Hammerfell may no longer be part of the Empire, but I believe that warmer relationships between Hallin's Stand and Evermore would benefit both our people. And if it brings me the chance to fight alongside a respected warrior such as yourself…"

"You may yet get your wish someday, Farshad." Dorian smiled thinly. Then, he extended his arm for Farshad to grip in a warrior's embrace. "Let this moment solidify our two domains' relationships."

The Redguard's grip was strong as he shook Dorian's hand. His teeth shone white. "Hallin's Stand shall welcome your aid in the hour of battle. May Tall Papa bless this union of powers."

Mud caked his greaves. Steel flashed and clashed, ringing in his ears. His tourney blade was slippery in his gauntleted hands. The inside of his helm smelled of sweat and blade oil. Roland wasn't sure he'd ever experienced such chaos before - and this was just a tourney in Evermore! Was this what it was like on a real battlefield, he wondered?

Razig's voice suddenly cut through the din of cheering spectators. "Get back on your feet, boy! You're gonna get trampled!"

I'm trying! Roland wanted to yell, but all that he could manage was a snarl of effort. He drove his tourney sword's pommel against the helm of the man beneath him one last time, to make sure he stayed down, before rising to his feet. Immediately, a man-at-arms in a red-green striped jupon appeared in front of him. The lad raised his shield, thwarting his foe's blow, then backhanded him with it. His foe staggered into a pair of dueling men, knocking one of them into the mud. The man in the mud tripped the red-green jupon man, and they began to grapple, while the last contender left standing - a Knight of the Rose from Wayrest, judging by the red blossom he wore - danced around the brawl and charged at Roland. This time, the lad sidestepped and lashed out with his sword's pommel again. It struck his foe's helm like the toll of a great bell. With a final kick, Roland sent his dazed opponent sprawling on his back into the mud.

He turned sharply in place, gasping for breath, eyes scanning. The fighting pit was a gray, sloppy morass host to a frenzied melee. Men fought and grappled in the slog, ranging from veteran adventurers to grizzled men-at-arms and valiant knights. Brightly colored jupons and tabards shone through the brawl in a riot of colors. Mud covered everything; even Roland's sky-blue House Durand jupon was a mess.

Razig's voice cut through the din once again: "Boy! Behind you, boy!"

Roland heard the squelch of mud underfoot. He ducked and turned, avoiding the cutting arc of a tourney sword only to receive a sabaton against his shield that sent him staggering back. His feet kept him upright in the mud, and he regained his balance before sizing up his attacker. This new opponent was no mere man-at-arms or adventurer: he stood a full head and shoulders taller than Roland, and his armor was an ornate steel plate suit. Bretonic triskelions decorated the crimson breastplate, and the jupon overlaying it was emblazoned with a thorny black briar vine writhing on a field of red, outlined in gold. The sight of it made Roland's breath catch in his throat. House Blackthorn.

The voice that spoke to him carried with it the distinct note of hauteur perfected by Northpoint nobility. "Do my eyes deceive me? A House Durand cretin faces me in this melee?"

He must be King Ganelon's son - William. Roland did not respond. His eyes flickered back and forth under the confines of his helm. Through the slit in his visor, he saw that the rest of the melee contenders had fallen - they were the last two men still standing. All eyes were upon them now, and the roar of the watching crowd was deafening to his ears.

William sensed his distraction and lunged. Roland backed away, raising his shield. He checked the larger, older man's sword-blows and ducked away from a savage shield punch. William laughed and let the younger knight retreat. He rang his sword against the rim of his heater shield in a taunt. "Who might you be, dog? A runt of King Dorian's household troops? You're little more than a boy."

"My name is Roland," growled the lad at last, feeling his temper flare. "And I am no boy. I'm a knight."

"Hah!" laughed William. The sound of it reverberated from within his helm. "King Dorian's royal bastard, is that right? I ought to whip you like the dog you are - consider it the closest that you'll get to recognition from a proper knight!"

Anger flashed across Roland's face. He charged at William with a battle cry. The large knight sidestepped, avoiding the slash and countering. His sword rang hard against Roland's helm. William followed with a shield punch to his foe's helm, and then a second one. Roland avoided the second blow and smashed his pommel against William's helm, then drove his shield into his jaw - had he not been wearing a helmet, it would have shattered. The Blackthorn knight stumbled to a knee with a grunt. Roland, sensing victory, closed in for the finishing blow.

It was a ruse. William's foot lashed out, catching Roland in the side of his knee. The lad's leg buckled, and he toppled sideways into the mud. He tried to stand, but William's knee fell hard against his back, pinning him. The Blackthorn knight took his shield and began striking Roland's helm over and over again. Each hammering blow sunk him deeper into the mud and rang painfully in his ears.

Roland struggled and tried to roll over, but his foe was too heavy. He dropped his sword and slapped an open hand against the ground, trying to yield. Either William could not see it or refused to acknowledge it - the repeated blows against his helm began to make Roland lose consciousness. Then a mailed fist closed around William's bicep, stopping him in his tracks. "That's enough. Get off him, William."

The Blackthorn prince turned his attention on the tall woman clad in Blackthorn plate armor who gripped his arm. "Ethie! Quit ruining my fun! I'm about to win the melee!"

"You've already won it, your Highness. See how he yields? Now get off the lad before you suffocate him." The armored woman did not budge, keeping a firm grip on his bicep.

William roughly yanked his arm away, but he obeyed grudgingly. As soon as the Blackthorn knight relieved the pressure on his victim's back, Roland flipped onto his side, scrabbling for his helmet straps so he could breathe. The armored woman knelt in the mud with him and helped him sit upright, managing to undo the straps that held his helm in place.

Roland gasped in relief when the helm was off. His face was muddy and sweaty, his dark hair a ragged mess that stuck to his forehead. Panting for breath, he turned his attention up at the woman who'd saved him. She wore the same jupon as William did. Another Blackthorn?

The confusion must've been written plain upon his face, for his savior shook her helmeted head. "The rivalry between Houses means little to me. Are you well, lad? Can you stand?"

"I can stand…"

Nearby, William pulled off his helm. Dirty blond hair and blue eyes set in a scowling face emerged. "Leave him in the mud, Ethie. It's where a cur like him belongs."

"Don't you have something better to do, Prince William?" The tall woman turned her head sharply in his direction. Even through the helmet, her glare was fearsome. "Go on, the wine tents are just over there. Drink your fill so you can mellow out some."

William continued to scowl at her for a moment longer. Then, he huffed and turned on his heel, stomping off toward the nearby tents where great casks of wine had been reserved for the melee participants. When he was gone, the Blackthorn woman gripped Roland's arm and helped him to his feet. "There. Hope you're alright."

Razig appeared in the crowd, roughly making his way through the crush of bodies leaving the melee sidelines. The Orc approached them, eyeing the Blackthorn woman for only a moment before turning his attention back to Roland. "You alright, boy? Let me take a look at you."

"I'm fine, Razig, just need to catch my breath."

The Orc snorted humorlessly as he took the Breton's head in his hands, turned his head this way and that. At length, he seemed satisfied and released him. "Took quite a beating from that Blackthorn prick."

He seemed to suddenly remember there was still a Blackthorn in their midst. Yet the woman only nodded once, wearily. "I agree. William can be quite the prick. I apologize for his behavior, Battlemaster."

Razig harrumphed and folded his arms. "Boy like that needs more discipline. This was just a melee, not a battlefield."

The armored woman sounded exasperated. "I've tried to teach him, believe me, but his lord father encourages ruthlessness."

Roland arched an eyebrow. He looked at Razig and the armored woman, then cleared his throat. "Razig? You know her?"

"Hmph! Hard not to." Razig jerked his chin at the woman. "She's King Ganelon's right-hand mer, but she's alright."

The Orc looked sidelong at the tall woman. She reached up to remove her helm, and an Altmer's face greeted them. Her golden visage was stern, marred by facial scarring on the left side, and her blonde hair was done up in a short bun. With a short bow of her head, she said, "Greetings, young knight. I am Dame Ethenriel of House Blackthorn."

Roland was embarrassed to realize he was staring. He mustered his wits and answered quickly, "My name is Roland. Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

She snorted indelicately. "Ma'am. How charming."

Razig cleared his throat. "I think we ought to find someplace to let you sit and rest, boy. You're swaying on your feet. You're welcome to join us, Dame."

The Altmer smiled faintly. "It would be a refreshing change of company. William will no doubt spend his prize winnings from this tourney drinking himself into a stupor - something he hardly needs my supervision for."

A whole fair surrounded the fighting pit of the melee - the tourney was host to performers and entertainers from all over, as well as jousting and other events to display martial prowess. The three of them made their way to some benches placed before a stage, where a group of bards sang and played their instruments before a crowd. Razig left to acquire some food for them, leaving Roland alone with Ethenriel.

The lad couldn't help but study her out of the corner of his eye. He'd not seen many Altmer before, and she was the most intimidating one he'd ever met. His father often spoke of the High Elves he'd faced in Cyrodiil as a proud, arrogant people, but Ethenriel did not strike him as either. She seemed stoic and reserved, unsmiling. The facial scars she bore were also quite striking - not only did they include scars left by weapons, but also some of them seemed congenital: A patch of angry, pink skin went over the left side of her face, encompassing the area around her eye.

"What's the matter, boy? Never seen an Altmer before?"

Roland nearly jumped out of his seat when he realized that her gaze was boring into him. The Breton hastily explained, "I— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

Ethenriel grunted. "It's all right. I know the scars are quite the sight. Everybody looks at them."

"I don't… mind the scars. Razig has plenty, too." He looked her over again, now with more curiosity and less fear. "How did you get them? A wizard's spell?"

"If only." Ethenriel pulled off her muddy gauntlet and brushed her fingertips against the angry, pink welts that marred her skin, spreading over her left eye. "I was born with these. One look at me, and my parents forsook me as an outcast."

Roland frowned. Tentatively, he said, "My father… has mentioned practices conducted by the… Thalmor…"

"Ah. You refer to the cullings, I take it? Yes, the Thalmor kill offspring who show unacceptable deformities." Ethenriel didn't bat an eye, though she seemed to scowl just a bit more deeply than before.

"Then, how did you… survive?"

She shrugged. "I was born before the Thalmor took over."

The Breton cocked his head. "I was told it was impolite to ask a woman her age…"

A dry smile spread across her lips. "Ever the gentleman, aren't you? I've hardly kept a close track, but I was around twenty one years of age when the Oblivion Crisis began."

Roland had to stop himself from gaping in awe. Two centuries old! He didn't know that an elf could live for so long! Ethenriel seemed to catch on to his thoughts and gave a humorless smile. "You get sick of the birthdays after the first hundred. I hardly celebrate them anymore."

"And how did you come to serve House Blackthorn?"

Ethenriel looked him over; even her keen eyes were golden, like orbs of amber. "You're a curious one, aren't you?"

Roland bowed his head. "Apologies. I didn't mean to pry."

They sat in silence for a few moments. It stretched out into an awkward pause. Just as the lad was about to apologize again, he saw Ethenriel brush one of her scars with her thumb. "Hulkynd. That is what I am. It means broken child in the tongue of my people. I was given up at birth and sent away to be raised by an uncle of mine who lived in Valenwood. Then, when I grew older and curious about the world, I left home and became a wandering mercenary. My travels ended up taking me to High Rock."

She looked up at the sky, her eyes glazed as if recalling some distant memory. "Then the Oblivion Crisis happened. At the time, I had been hired by the then-king of House Blackthorn on a contract as a mercenary - under his service, I helped fend off the Daedra and close Oblivion Gates until the Crisis ended."

Her hand drifted to the Blackthorn jupon she wore. "While the ashes were still warm, King Blackthorn asked me to remain in his service and help him rebuild his House. I accepted. Served them ever since. Even participated in the Great War as one of House Blackthorn's knights, fighting against the Thalmor alongside King Ganelon."

"Your life story sounds like a fantastical adventure," Roland murmured, eyes wide with awe. "You must be the envy of every knight from here to Glenumbra!"

Ethenriel shrugged a single shoulder. "Other knights scorn me for being an Altmer, and some accuse me of having Thalmor ties - as if I don't have a powerful enough reason to hate them, myself. House Blackthorn is the only one who seems to think I have worth sometimes."

She clenched her hands into fists with a stony look. "I don't need anybody's adoration. My honor and family is all I need."

Roland nodded. Again, he studied the House Blackthorn jupon she wore over her steel plate. He pointed with his chin at it, asking, "If you're House Blackthorn, then why don't you harbor any dark feelings for House Durand? Why did you help me?"

Another shrug from the elf. "I never cared much for the petty bickering and backstabbing of Breton nobility. But I do care enough to help someone who's being beaten into the mud."

The woman studied him again, keen eyes roaming his features and taking in his muddy, battered self. "I know who you are. You are King Dorian's bastard son, yes? I met your father, the Dragon, during the final assault on the Imperial City. A respectable man."

There was no judgment in her voice, no scorn of any sort. It was strangely comforting. Roland nodded with a somber look. "I am his bastard. I'd thought to win the melee and perhaps earn my father's approval with it. But I suppose it was just a fanciful dream of mine after all."

"You were one of the last two men standing, young knight. Surviving as long as you did was no small feat, and there was no shame in losing to an older, skilled knight such as William."

"I suppose so…"

Ethenriel was silent. She looked back at the crowd of people watching the bards perform their music. None of them cared to pay any mind to the two armored figures sitting at the back. At length, she spoke again. "You and I are alike, young knight. Both of us are outcasts in a way - a hulkynd whom people here distrust for her Altmeri heritage, and a bastard whom people view with the unfortunate stigma of your conception."

He supposed she was right. Both of them were looked upon unfavorably due to their birth. Roland bowed his head, looking down at the tourney sword in his lap. Much like his armor, it was also muddy and wretched-looking after the melee. "How do you deal with it? I'm tired of feeling like I bring shame upon my father just because of my existence."

The Altmer's features were hard and stern. "I learned a long time ago not to heed the voices and opinions of the petty rabble. They do not know me. Their opinions of me do not matter."

Roland frowned. "If only it were so easy. But I'm the king's bastard. The less I am known of and seen, the better. I would not wish to harm my father's reputation."

"I believe your father has already decided his reputation was not as important as your continued wellbeing, if he adopted you into his House." Ethenriel's sharp eyes bored into him with sudden intensity. "Take my advice: Do not listen to those who would bring you down due to your birth. If they choose to disdain you for something beyond your control, then let them. You know your worth. You know what you are. Wear it as your armor, and none shall ever be able to harm you with it."

Nobody had ever spoken to him in such a way before. Roland didn't know how to handle it. Never had he been encouraged to embrace his bastard status. Razig had trained him in the arts of war and Vivian had taught him much about reading and understanding other people. He'd been encouraged to virtue and humility all his life, to make up for his status as bastard-born in the eyes of High Rock's nobility - but when had anybody told him to accept himself for what he was?

Razig returned with food in the form of roasted turkey thighs. He offered one to Roland and grunted, "I think it's time we headed back home. You need to take a bath, young knight."

"I think you're right, Razig." Roland made a face and shook some mud that clung to his hand. Hard to forget the filth that clings to you when it squelches every time you move.

Ethenriel rose from her bench, helm tucked under an arm. "Well, Battlemaster - and you, young knight - it's been a pleasure. I should go make sure my charge hasn't gotten into the gambling circles again. His father would be most displeased. I bid you farewell."

The Altmer offered a short salute. Her gaze lingered on Roland for a moment longer, before turning away. Razig led Roland in the opposite direction. All throughout the ride back to the keep, the Breton remained silent, mulling over the conversation he'd had with Ethenriel. For the first time in his life, he thought that he'd found someone who had even so much as an inkling of what his life experience was like. What a strange thing that he found a kindred spirit in a two hundred year old, scarred, battle-hardened Altmeri knight serving a rival House.

He wondered what his father would think of that.