Winter's hands creep slowly into every surface, making their presence felt in the Palace of the Kings. In a matter of days, they have managed to sweep away most of the comforting warmth of firelight and crackling kindling to spread frosty fingers over everything from tempered glass panes to untempered attitudes.

Ulfric's rumbling voice can be heard despite the shrieking din of the wild gales trying to force their way into the Palace. If he could keep them out with the sound of his voice, he would. However, while that is not within his own capabilities, it is certainly within his wife's. Her Voice is even louder than his own.

"Really Ulfric, it's fine. Let the man do his job." Dahlia places her hands on her hips as her husband looks back at her, his lips pursing into an almost scolded expression.

"But-"

She shakes her head slightly, "But nothing."

Ulfric sighs and reluctantly tears himself away from what is unfolding at the front of the Great Hall. "What is it, my heart?"

Patience might be in constant short supply for him, but if there is anyone who can pull at the last dregs of it and live to tell the tale, it is his wife. They have been doing this same song and dance over the last two weeks as preparations have been hastened for their coronation-which is to take place tomorrow.

Dahlia looks to Ulfric, holding back the words burning at the edges of her tongue and swallowing them before they can set her ablaze. She is not truly cross with him but rather the situation at hand.

In this time, her nerves have been stretched thin, as have Ulfric's. However, she has had to deal with the constant banging, movement, and shattering all with the grace of a pregnant, hormonal Dragonborn. All she wanted was peace and quiet, but that was never an option. "Love, could we..."

A hammer falls to the floor as one of the workers cusses loudly.

She takes a deep breath and continues. "...could be perhaps take a walk?"

Ulfric frowns as he asks, "Where to?"

"Anywhere that is not currently here. For the love of Talos, if I do not get away from..." her arms gesture widely indicating all of the servants moving furniture to and fro; the masons hammering on the last bits of stonework for their thrones; Jorleif's strained voice insisting that the menu is venison, not boar, and-

It is too much for her.

Tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes as they dart around the room, not focusing on anything in particular. Shallow breaths are added in staccato to the symphony of dissonance pressing all around them. When her eyes eventually make their way back to Ulfric, she has to draw on the last of her willpower not to crack entirely.

"Please," she adds, voice small and lost to the bigger waves of sound now drowning her out, but Ulfric can read her lips well enough and see the tell-tale signs of his wife in distress.

He moves forward, taking one of her hands in his own before carefully leading her towards the front doors and out of the Palace. While he would prefer to keep her inside where he is sure she is safe, he can take a quick turn around the courtyard with her. Anything to make her happy and take away the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

As they stroll past his original destination and into the city proper, it is beyond Ulfric's comprehension how Dahlia is able to talk him into it but she does so anyway. How and when has he ever been able to say no to her? It is as if she is the only one able to disarm him, leaving him defenseless against the magic of her spell.

Wild winds whip past both of them with strong currents, but the sky is fair if a bit grey. For now, if the snows hold off, he will continue to allow her to lead him on this little stroll. Her arm in his own is far too warm for him to want to let go of just yet, and she deserves something nice after all that has been happening to her. It is barely enough for him to keep up with himself.

Life has been hitting her from every direction and buffeting her with storm after storm, and she has taken it all with more grace and poise than he could have ever expected from her. As Ulfric looks at her now, Dahlia's head is held high, and there is a smile on her lips despite the state she was in mere moments ago. There is a strength in her which insistently persists, resisting the violence of the harsh realities which try to tear her down. But at what cost?

A stray strand of hair falls into her face, blown there by the cold winter wind. Gently, he pushes it behind her ear; however, it has not escaped his notice that the dark shade of brown she wears has been spotted with more and more grey as of late. Would that he could take the weariness from her bones, the difficulties and the frustrations, and bear them all for her in her stead. The outer vestiges of her youth are fading, wilting like petals in mid-summer, but despite this, her spirit blooms brighter than ever. And it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He will guard it jealously, protecting it in any way he can so that at least she might continue on mostly unchanged. It is far too late for him. But if he can bask her in vibrant warmth-inch a bit closer to the brilliancy of her song-then perhaps he can burn just a little brighter as well. Divines know how, but she has a way about her which makes him feel more alive despite the deadened, grey winters of Windhelm and the bleak melancholy of his past.

Dahlia smiles at him, and noticing that he is looking at her, squeezes his hand. "What?"

The corners of his lips slowly upturn, mimicking her expression. "Nothing."

Ulfric brushes her off and looks away, but she has always been stubborn and never one to let something lie-not when she can coax it out of him. "No, you're clearly thinking about something. You had this look as if you had bitten into a particularly sweet snowberry. Were you thinking about the coronation, High King Ulfric?"

He shakes his head simply. "I was thinking about you."

She does not expect that answer, and for a moment, the only sounds between them are their boots crunching over old snow. She bites her lip, teeth digging into her chapped lips, and then suddenly stops. "I am rather fortunate despite everything that I have been through. I'd like to thank you." Her cheeks color as she looks up at him with wide eyes.

"Whatever for?"

"For indulging me in this walk, for being by my side, for listening to me-just for everything. You've been patient with me in teaching me everything from the inner workings of politics to taxes," she crinkles her nose, "even if I don't care much for accounting nor arithmetic."

"You've come a long way. We both have, and as much as I may have been teaching you, you've also taught me."

"I should hope so even if I do sometimes miss those beginning days of you pining after me and being an insufferable idiot." Dahlia teases good-naturedly. "It was frustratingly adorable."

Ulfric snorts. "And what about you? What was it that you were doing then if I was being, as you say, 'an insufferable idiot.'"

"Admiring the scenery, of course." She flutters her eyelashes at him coquettishly and leans in close. "I had to do something to keep myself entertained." Her eyes flick down his body before finding his face.

Pulled by instinct, Ulfric inches closer to her, a hand wrapping around her waist to bring her nearer to him. "You were more than entertained enough with causing chaos in my Hold."

The corners of her lips pull into a smirk. "Someone had to put you in line. May as well have been me, and now I reap the rewards."

"And what exactly might those be?" His lips linger near hers as they barely brush against them.

"Oh, you know very well what those are." Her words are barely above a whisper. "Feigning innocence does not become you, Ulfric." Dahlia cups his face, rises to her toes, and then presses her lips to his in a sweet yet chaste kiss.

Her husband smiles, the lines of his face lifting into something which much more resembles the easier expressions of his youth. It warms her heart to see the tiredness of his eyes fade and be replaced with the distinct shine of happiness. If only he wore it more often than not, especially as of late.

Dahlia squeezes his hand again and pulls him through the market stalls. They greet shopkeepers, merchants, traders, and patrons. All of them bowing respectfully before raising a hand with a smile. What a difference time has made in the city. While it is always a bit grey, it has felt brighter and perhaps a bit more hopeful in the last few months, and especially on the eve of their coronation. Perhaps that is also her wishful thinking.

Coronation. She is going to be the High Queen of Skyrim. The concept still hasn't fully sunk in for her, and she doesn't think it ever will as long as she lives. What things will change for her now? Will she be able to stay afloat? And also, how will things change once their baby is born. She frowns, not at the idea of their child, who fills her with joy, but rather at the question of how they will be able to care for him or her. Certainly, their respective situations growing up will be quite different from that of which their child will be born into. That added with the fact that she is an only child as is Ulfric...

She shakes her head, chasing away the panic rising in her. There is no use worrying about that right now and upsetting herself again.

Only time will tell, but there is one thing she knows is certain. She will care for their future child with as much love and grace as she has available. And she knows Ulfric will too.

Edges of smooth silk kiss the cool granite floors of the Palace of the Kings, whispering softly as they barely sweep over their surface. Their melody is quiet and calm against the backdrop of the woman maneuvering the fabric.

Dahlia turns, painting another swath across the floors-her dress a brush of the brightest blues across dull grey. She has been pacing all morning in a nervous wavering of fine material and barely-contained panic spinning about the confines of her room.

Glancing over to the empty side of their bedroom, Dahlia sorely wishes that Ulfric had not left her alone. Almost absentmindedly, she passes a hand over her stomach as if that would settle the fluttering therein. At this point she isn't sure if it is her or the baby-or both. It is only them now, and she looks down to the swell of her stomach with a smile before looking up at herself in the mirror again.

Warm light flickers off the stones and shadows wax and wane over the planes of her face as it catches off the paint the handmaidens have strategically placed over her cheekbones and eyelids. While she insisted on something simple, instead she was folded into the image in front of her.

Barely-recognizable even to herself, she stands regally with her eyes haloed by a constellation of glimmering sparkle dusted onto her lids and her lips tinted with the bright red of snowberry juice. How is that her? Who is this person, and what does she want? The questions waver through her mind like the diaphanous threads of a spider's web.

No matter how many times she looks, she will still see the High Queen of Skyrim even if it is her face which looks back at her.

Strength and honor. She will do her best, but will it be enough? Will any of it ever be enough? She is thrown from one role to the next, drifting on the currents of time Akatosh lays out for her: Dahlia, the Dragonborn; the Stormcloak; and now the very soon-to-be High Queen.

Her hands tremble as she touches the silver filigreed claps of the new bear cloak placed around her shoulders.

It's going to have to be. She will do it for Skyrim. She will do it for Ulfric. And most importantly, she will do it for herself.

Dahlia sucks in a deep breath and pulls steel from the depths of her soul, arranging her uncertain features into something stronger-something forged with dragon fire and brimstone, with kindness and compassion. Something worthy of the High Queen of Skyrim.

Finally, she lifts the crown she had been gifted especially for this purpose-for this day and designed exactly for this moment atop her brow. Flawless sapphire and darkened moonstone glint back at her, and she turns once more, this time, striding with determination out of the door and into what inevitably comes next.

When she finally makes it down into the Great Hall, as they both had both imagined, very few people had been able to make their way to the Palace of the Kings; however, some esteemed guests managed to arrive in time for the festivities: Vignar as well as Laila. And both of them are surprised by the presence of the new Jarl of Winterhold, Kai Wet-Pommel. From what Dahlia knows of him, he is a rather serious man with all the humor of the instrument for which he is named, but he was there, and he was convenient. Not many people outside of the College would be willing to take the reins, and it is important to have the remaining support of the Nords who call the half-ruined village a home. Hopefully, in the next couple of months, bridges can be mended between the mages and residents.

It is just one more item on the list of others they will both have to take care of as soon as they are crowned. Slowly, she understands why Ulfric nearly always has a purplish tinge under his eyes and how he spends so much time in his office.

The coronation itself is smaller and more straightforward than Dahlia would have thought-not that she has ever had the opportunity to attend one of these things before. Jora, the priestess of Talos, presides over the affair, starting the ceremony with a blessing from the Nine, followed by a sermon of their teachings.

As she speaks, Dahlia and Ulfric are kneeled before her on the hard stone dais of the Great Hall, heads bowed and hands holding each other's. This is the moment which Ulfric had been dreaming of, and now he can scarcely believe that it is come; he is here, and it is happening. A light squeeze from Dahlia's hand reassures him, anchoring him into the moment and reminding him how it is that this was all possible. While he has his own merits and credits which helped move him forward, if it were not for her, perhaps he'd be six feet under and looking down at her from Sovngarde right now. The idea sends a cold shiver down his spine.

"When Akatosh spun the Wheel of time and created the Dragonborns, he gave us Talos for strength and courage, a God that humans could truly look up to and aspire to become. It is in that tradition that our kings and queens have followed, striving to approximate that same tenacity of fortitude." One of the priestess' hands waves over them, gesturing to them both as she lifts a silver crown with the other. While Dahlia is already wearing hers, Ulfric is to receive his during the ceremony for all to see.

Candlelight reflects off the polished sides of the silver circlet which is notably engraved with dragon's tongue as a symbol of solidarity with his wife and a single polished sapphire at its head to represent his family name.

Carefully, Jora puts it down on the altar placed before her, and continues with her sermon.

"All the Nine have lessons to teach us, and paths for us to follow-from Zenithar and his teachings of hard work and an industrious spirit to Stendarr and his showings of mercy upon us. May they both cover and guide you as they lend you their wisdom to rule our country."

A white cloth is then placed over both of their heads before she utters her next verses. They are the same ones, perhaps with a few modifications, which have been uttered during the coronations of generations of kings and queens over time immemorial. The words settle over them both, vibrating through the chamber as if swept in upon the wind itself.

"Kyne shows us the path of kindness and grants us auspicious winds. It is she who gifted us the space to exist within the Void as she opened her arms and the heavens for us. Her handmaiden, Mara, embodied the same care for us mortals in demonstrating what it means to show devotion to one another. Their qualities of generosity and amenity are standards which we all hold ourselves to-blessings which we all hope to receive." She anoints them with mountain flower oil which flows over their mantle in slow rivers. "May their kindness and love rain down on you."

From there, the words all meld into one, becoming indistinct as they ebb and flow like the tides, pulling at Dahlia's heartstrings until all that is left is feeling. She is floating-not quite here nor there-as her eyes slip closed and her breathing slows to the rhythm of their beat.

Julianos, Diabella, Arkay. Widsom, beauty, balance.

She knows she should be paying attention, but she has all but faded away into the droning buzz of Jora's words. She is everywhere and nowhere all at once as the constellations and celestial bodies, laid out before her in ribbons of time and streams of space, leak past her in echos and whispers of words as ancient as the universe itself.

They tug and pull at the edges of her consciousness, velvety black and bright silver seeping from her fingers-Are those her fingers? They ripple at her as they disperse into prismatic waves before dispersing into the Void.

The whole image then turns with the force of a great Dragon opening its maw and yawning into the cosmos. She catches murmurings of what she perceives is language-if anything in this Void could be called that or even be real at all.

Dovahjud, tum haallei wahl Vus motaad voth fin fus do duni, kiiri.

And suddenly as quickly as the vision started, it all begins to dissolve into nothing with fragments of ash as they flutter around her and the images fade back into reality.

What was this? Why was she here, and was that-

Dragged back into the consciousness of the here and now, her soul lurches into her body, the steadying hand of Ulfric keeping her from falling forward into the priestess's feet. Dahlia blinks as her eyes adjust to the vivid colors of solid, tangible existence to see the sapphire of his eyes looking with concern back at her.

Her eyes sweep the room, it would seem that no one else noticed her out-of-body experience other than him. She shakes off his gaze with a squeeze of his hand and focuses her attention back to Jora. There will be time to talk to him about her cosmic stroll later.

"From the fingers of the Gods to the tops of your heads, we bestow the right of ruling upon your brows with the trust of Divines' behind you." Jora pulls the mantle off their heads and holds Ulfric's grand crown up again before looking down at him solemnly, a question on her lips, "Do you swear to fulfill your duties, following the lessons of the Divines and doing what is best for the people under your charge?"

"I swear." The words fall with conviction off of Ulfric's tongue as they reverberate through the current silence in the chamber.

"Will you govern them with honor, always putting their needs first before your own?"

"It shall be done."

Jora then turns to Dahlia, "will you advise your king to the best of your ability, guiding him with the principles of the Divines and following in them yourself?"

Her voice answers automatically as if of its own accord. She barely even has time to register the words before she speaks them. "I will."

"Do you pledge to rule by his side and more importantly with him as you bring kindness and compassion to all of those whom you will serve?"

"I pledge it with the honor bestowed upon me by the Gods. I will not abandon nor leave him nor our people."

The priestess nods, satisfied with her answer, before lowering the crown onto Ulfric's head and pouring holy oil atop both his and hers to anoint them once more.

"Then, by the Nine, Divines bless and keep you safe through all that is to come. Long may High King Ulfric and High Queen Dahlia Stormcloak rein."

"Long may they rein." A chorus echoes behind them, filling the Great Hall with with the voices of their people.

There is no going back now, for what is done cannot be undone as the burden of responsibility rests soundly upon their shoulders.

Ulfric then turns to his wife, a smile on his face as he gently kisses Dahlia's cheeks and then turns to the audience gathered before them. Despite the fact that the usual noblemen and Jarls from all of Skyrim could not be in attendance, the Great Hall is full.

While it is unconventional, Dahlia convinced him to open the ceremony to all that wished to attend, her argument being that this is how it should be. If they are to rule over the people, it is all of them, not just those with money and lands.

"Citizens of Skyrim, it is our honor to serve you. The mantle of High King and Queen is a great responsibility, and we will carry it with dignity, justice as our sword and compassion as our shield. May the Gods bless us all as a new dawn begins in our great country starting today. The sun shines on our bright future as it unfurls before us. We will persevere, and we will prevail. Trust in Talos, trust in the Divines, and trust in us."

A sea of many eyes suddenly becomes a wave as their audience begins to kneel before them, Jarls, merchants, tradesmen, and common folk alike. How it is that Ulfric has such a command is beyond her understanding. She swallow as she looks at the crown of bowed heads. It feels as if she is discovering she is the Dragonborn all over again. All of them are counting on her and on Ulfric to lead them. While the thought is overwhelming, she turns the strange words whispered to her during Jora's sermon over: Under your hands make Nirn quake with the force of your grace, my child.

Grace. What exactly is it? Why does she require it? And what did that voice mean by telling her this?

She chews the inside of her lip as she and Ulfric make their way through the crowds to the Palace of the Kings. Perhaps she should be focusing on what or rather who was speaking to her. While she could venture a guess, would it be too lofty to think her assumption is right? After all this time, Akatosh speaks to her, and this is what he has to say?

If only the Divines were not so cryptic and spoke in plain language she could understand. It would cause her less headaches, and would make her life infinitely easier to manage.

"Did you take care of everything like I asked, or were you next to useless again?"
The words fall from her lips with a deadened thud, each one of them punctuated by the sour taste of disappointment. She never expected anything from him before, so why should she now?

"Yes, it has been done." Elisindir answers with measured tones. Ever since he can remember, she has always been this way with him and has always treated him like a child. Even now she continues to do so despite the fact that he is currently a good 60 summers in age. But who's counting? Certainly, not her. "The news has had more than enough time to reach even the farthest corners of the old extension of the Empire-or what was formerly known as the Empire anyway, so you should know the answer to that question already."

"Watch your tongue when you're speaking to me, you ungrateful twit. I may have brought you into this world, but I sure as Auri-El can take you out of it." She turns away from him and her long grey and gold robes swish against the floor. It is as if she cannot bare the sight of him even one moment longer. "Did you leave the note? The Nords must continue thinking it was the Dark Brotherhood who orchestrated the assassination. If you didn't-"

"You think I would forget?" Elisindir raises his voice slightly. He knows he is playing with fire, but that is just as well for him. Better to get her riled up and showing some semblance of emotions for once instead of the indifference she normally displays towards him. Anything is better than nothing.

"Insolent little speck of dust!" She whips around to face Elisindir, crossing the distance to him quickly and looking him in the eyes for the first time in what feels like decades. She raises her hand to him, bright sparks of electricity jumping from her fingertips in a dangerous display of violence. "You should be grateful I give you a chance at all what with your...disposition and your lack of skill in anything useful. How you are any blood of mine is beyond my understanding."

It stings, but at least she is closer to him than she has been since he was an elfling. He bows his head like the obedient boy he is, not daring to hold her vengeful stare any longer. It would only anger her more. And here he thought for sure she would be proud of him this time. Apparently he was wrong. "I am sorry."

Her hand drops slowly; however, her gold-tinged eyes narrow on him until they are not much more than slits. "See that you don't disappoint me again." She sniffs. "At least it is done now. With all our attempts thwarted in Windhelm, I had expected something to go awry here. I had thought that Green-Kettle puppet would be more motivated, but it just goes to show that if you want something done, it should be left to a Mer."

"And what are we going to do now?"

"We?" She asks, a bitter laugh clawing its way up her throat dryly. It's a surprise she even remembers how to do so at all. Laughter is not something most high-ranking Thalmor officials indulge in very often if at all. "There is no we here. You go back to your Bard's College and continue doing whatever it is you do there while you wait for orders. I wouldn't expect them for a while." She examines her fingernails, clearly uninterested in him any further now that his job is done, and she has the information she requires.

"Right, right..." Elisindir runs a nervous hand through his silvery hair. "Anything in particular I should look out for?"

"The same as usual, more hints of unrest and discord. Anything we can use for our benefit. The quicker we can dismantle any chances for cohesion and organization between the races, the better." She flicks her hand, dismissing him; however he lingers for a few moments longer-something which does not escape her notice. "Well, why are you just standing here and gawking about for? Get going. I have no use for you here."

If she had stabbed him with a knife instead, it would have hurt less, but then again, what else should he have expected from a mother with a heart like a block of ice. Hoping has never done him any favors, so why does he continue to do so anyway?