In every corner of the room, darkness settles heavily into each crevice and crack of the stone walls-both those that are real and those which are imagined. Ulfric sits forward in an old broken chair, hands on knees and eyes unwavering, as he stares into the blanket of murky, umbral nothingness, unseeing and unchanged in his position. Long ago most of the candles snuffed themselves out, all except for the one he holds in his hand, hot wax dripping down his fingers unnoticed.

Several times over the last two weeks and at all hours of the night, Galmar has reported to Ulfric that his wife has begged-pleaded to come down and see him, yet each time the High King shakes his head somberly. This is no place for his wife, and he knows how she hates it down here. A little bit of darkness never bothered him very much, but she should stay upstairs in the light where she belongs.

What is it that Ambarys his hiding? Because he is certainly hiding something. He can feel it.

Ulfric's lips pull into a gaunt frown as he shifts in his position again, light from the single candle in his hand flickering dully across his pale face. He is certain that he is a sight every time he does venture his way upstairs to his wife. Between his overly long and unkempt beard and his dark circles appearing more like bruises than indications of a lack of sleep, he is certain that if she saw him, she would scold him something fierce and look at him with watery eyes. He sighs deeply, lips pulling even more tightly downwards as his eyes sting.

However, just because she hasn't caught hide nor hair of him doesn't mean that he has not seen her. In the few times he allows himself to come up for air from the Bloodworks, he always visits his wife. Most times it is in the twilight hours of the morning while she is deep in sleep, moonlight steaming from the high windows of their room to illuminate her-alone in their bed. With tired, heavy footsteps, he haphazardly washes his face and then lays down in the bed to steal a few seconds of peace, holding her for a few fragile moments to get a fitful hour or two of sleep and then begin the cycle all over again.

And each morning when Dahlia wakes, she could swear she can smell him on the sheets and feel the phantom weight of his arms around her- but he is never there, and yet he is everywhere to her. She desperately tries to cling to him in each of those moments as she closes her eyes only to see him in front of her. It is the only time he appears to her anymore.

This has been their near-constant struggle over the last few weeks. Visions of each other dancing through their thoughts on ephemeral, gossamer wings which soon come crashing down harshly into harsh reality, daydreams easily broken and crumbling like sandcastles on the shores of the Sea of Ghosts the moment high tide pulls in, phantom sensations of lips on skin and hands exploring as aches swell through them until they crescendo and fall from their peaks-the memory of being together the only thing working them through the frustrations.

An itch begins to fill him from head to toe as Ulfric's legs work of their own accord as if propelled by his own desperation. His mind feels much like a churning pit, swirling with thoughts of what he has sacrificed and what he has lost. Why does he need to lose more? Why must it always be onto him where the weight of responsibility falls as if he carries around a mantle made of hopes and dreams as well as earth and sky?

He steps in the direction of Ambarys' cell, dropping the candle he holds onto the damp stone. It flickers, struggling to keep itself lit for a few more seconds, before plunging him into complete darkness. All which remains of his presence is the dull thud of footsteps and the ragged, tired breaths he pushes forcefully from his lungs. That is, until a sudden click followed by the grating sound of metal against metal fills the space as the door to Ambarys' cage falls open.

He'll get to the bottom of this one way or another. Perhaps that would finally permit him a few quiet hours in the sun-hours that are well-deserved and long-overdue. Where there is darkness, he will find the enlightenment of knowledge and purpose. Or bleed for the chance of it.

Endless heat, sand, and wide expanses of nothingness.

That should be the official catchphrase of Hammerfell, or at least of what Ralof has seen so far of it.

He sighs heavily as he wipes his brow as the sun's rays beat down with force against his reddened skin. Even after storing the heavier layers in his pack and placing a tunic over his head to keep the worst of Magnus' vengeance away, the delicate layers of his pale skin have begun to suffer the consequences of the current terrain. However, despite the infernal oblivionfire surrounding him, what burns him even more than this is Elisindir's escape.

By all the Nine, curse that Elf six ways to Sundas! If it were not so critical for him to complete his current mission, he would have gone running after him as soon as he saw him scurrying off towards the East. Between the frenzied look in his eyes and the empty vial Ralof snatched off his person, he'd bet his last septim that Elisindir was or still is up to something.

Wiping his brow, Ralof turns his gaze towards the slowly rising sun and narrows his eyes as if that would bring Elisindir back or give him some inclination as to what he is up to. It will be over his dead body that he will allow that traitor to go traipsing over Skyrim unchecked. The rotting stink of treachery wafts from the Altmer in waves-an intoxicating bouquet of yellow oleander. While it is an unassuming flower with elegant blooms, the scent pleasant enough to the nose, it is known to be rather deadly. Not to mention it is also the favored bouquet of those native to the Summerset Isles.

Ralof swallows, trying to push down the parched lump in his throat, although, this time it has nothing to do with the Alik'r Desert's heat. Perhaps he will attempt to send a coded letter back home to Windhelm before it is too late.

At any rate, he needs to continue pushing on. Sentinel is still at least a week away by his estimates, and he'll be damned if he dies out here in this sea of sand. He'd never hear the last of it in Sovngarde.

Onward through the sun and heat he'll continue to push his feet until he has secured what the King and Queen have asked of him. Failure is not an option.

"I don't know what do to with him, Lydia." Dahlia sighs as she tries to prop herself up on her and Ulfric's bed.

Her housecarl gives her a wary look as she bites her lip, trying to contain her blunt response-drag him back to bed by force and make him see sense. However, that will do naught all to help Dahlia at the moment. Instead, she picks up one of the danishes on the tray balanced precariously over her friend's lap and stuffs it into her mouth unceremoniously. Perhaps if she has a few seconds to chew and think, she'll be able to come up with something that is at least partially constructive.

"It just doesn't make any sense to me. It's not logical. How can one spend so much time down-" She cuts off her own words to take a deep breath in. Lyssa has told that she needs to remain calm. Or at least as calm as one can when one is a the vessel for a dragon soul while having an endlessly frustrating husband. "I know he thinks that he's trying to protect me or the baby or Skyrim or whatever, but this is not good for him."

Lydia swallow her bite of danish and licks the tips of her fingers before answering. "Sounds familiar."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I am not sure which one of you has a worse hero complex, you or him."

Dahlia sits there for a moment, hands folded over each other and a sour look on her face as she stares at Lydia.

"You can't tell me that isn't true. You know it's true. You did the exact same thing while we were off after Alduin and then you threw yourself into the Civil War. Now you're Queen of an entire country and Divines know what you'll do next."

"I have no plans for anything other than having a baby currently, and I would like to keep it that way. I have had more than enough excitement to last me several lifetimes."

Lydia picks up her danish. "I'm no fool and neither are you, so why would you pretend that either of us are?"

Dahlia's eyes widen and then narrow as her fingers begin to tap against the back of her hand. Slow breaths, in and out.

"I know you do not want to talk about it. No one wants to talk about it or even think about it, especially with," Lydia nods her head down towards Dahlia's stomach, "the baby on the way, but you know as well as I-as well as anyone else in this distracted country that you'll be the first one sent into battle, Gods be damned what you want. Don't stick your head in Elsweyr's sands now. It will be all the worse for you later."

The worst part is that Dahlia does know it-has always known it. She turns her head away from Lydia and away from the sharp truth of her housecarl's words; however, that does not stop the acute stab of pain which seems to radiate out from her chest, a depressing shadow which crushes her paper-thin hopes. They dance briefly in the wind like chimes, propped up on the imaginary strings of illusion and dreams as she tries to hold onto them. But it is the stinging of her eyes and later the tears that fall from her lashes which wash them away completely as if they were never really there. Were they ever there?

She sucks in a breath, filling her lungs completely, and the taste of salt and fire coat her tongue as she lets go. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."

Lydia places a hand on Dahlia's shoulder, pulling her towards herself a bit awkwardly. "I know." The two syllables ring out to fill the room with a grim finality, echoing in-between the High Queen's muffled cries. "The bitter reality of things is harder to swallow than blessed moon sugared ignorance, but I know you will rise to do what you must. You always do. You are stronger than you could ever know-even if half the time I feel like anchoring you to this Palace for your own good."

That, at the very least, earns her a watery chuckle to shake Dahlia from her from her own self-pity. While there is no denying that she deserves a lifetime of peace and quiet after everything she has been through, this particular brand of self-indulgence doesn't suit her, and they both know it.

"Thank you, Lydia." The corners of her lips attempt to lift themselves into a smile. "There has been a lot of change, and there will be even more uncertainty which is to come." Dahlia bites her lip as a hand reaches down to rest on her stomach, "Sometimes the unknown weighs too heavily on me. There is no clear path. Not like when I was seeking out Alduin, and not like when I was fighting in the Civil War. Everything here is nothing but questions where I need to find the answers."

"And you'll find them. If there is anyone I believe in, it's you."

"If only my damned husband would show his face." Dahlia sighs and squeezes one of Lydia's hands.

"I have offered to thrash him for you once, and I will do so again. I'll drag him up by his braids if I have to."

"That won't be necessary, but I appreciate the sentiment. I am sure whatever he is doing locked down in that dungeon of his, he is very occupied."

"The offer still stands whenever you'd like to take it."

Dahlia shakes her head. "No, and it's high time I sent you back home to your wife. I am sure she's worried about where you have gotten to."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. As your High Queen, I demand it." She waves her hand in a shooing motion. "Off with you. You've spent entirely too much time with me, and if you don't leave soon, who knows? Maybe my hero complex will rub off on you."

"I wouldn't want that. There is more than enough of that here. Any more under this roof, and it would be insufferable." Lydia stands, collecting both her bag on the floor and her sword which she leaned against the base of the bed. "I'll come back and visit you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Only if you want."

"It's literally in my job description. Isn't that what you pay me for? You may as well take advantage of my hospitality." Her housecarl shoulders her bag and throws her a smirk.

"Get out of here before I throw something at you."

"Such violence from her Highness. What would the commoners think?"

"You will be thinking nothing at all if you do not go home to your wife."

Lydia puts up her hands in a sign of a truce as she unsuccessfully tries to hold in her amusement."I missed this."

"So did I. Perhaps when I am out of this bed, we might go on an adventure and stir up some trouble just like old times?"

"I'd like that very much." Lydia smiles a bit sadly as she turns from her pregnant friend to make her way towards the door. While most times she might have all the bluntness with words like the broad side of a battleaxe, she does not have the heart to tell her friend that the likelihood of this is next to none. There are some fantasies which are harmless, and Dahlia should be allowed at least some of them when life has taken so many from her.

For the rest of the evening, Dahlia is left to her own devices and entertainment. She opens three different books, not able to concentrate on any of them as eyes continuously drift to the door looking, hoping, and wishing desperately for the handle to turn or to hear the tell-tale echo of boots on stone floors. Nothing. Only the crackling of firewood in her hearth accompanying the silence. Sighing, she looks down at her stomach, the small bump there her constant companion.

"Someday I will meet you, and you will be so loved and so spoiled." She speaks to her unborn child quietly, running her hands gently over her stomach. "And while your father is Aedra knows where-" She sighs, the sound fragile and sharp like glass. It catches in her throat as she pushes the words past her lips painfully, "-know that he loves you too."

No answer. No reply. Nothing.

As the silent night stretches on, the candles on her bedside table burn lower and lower, and her eyelids follow suit. Try as she might to stay up and to wait to see when-or even if-Ulfric will come back to her, this is one battle she cannot win. Eventually, they fall closed as she is pulled into slumber, head still propped up on her pillows so that if she should awaken, her line of sight is unobstructed to the door.

Seconds, minutes, hours tick by, and the moons rise higher and higher in the sky, yet no light streams through the windows. Thick cloud cover obscures the celestial bodies where even the faintest strands of silver are swallowed whole, turning the night into a dull, dark shade of deep blue.

Shrouded in shadow, the city of Windhelm sleeps-all except for one man whose heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs of the Palace of the Kings. One foot after another, the High King drags his feet towards the topmost floor to where his wife sleeps. Normally, he would be more careful about how much noise he is making; however, he is much too tired and too numb to care. All around him a blanket of nothingness smothers him, following him around like the great bear cloak covering his shoulders. The weight of it is familiar and his own constant companion. He knows the darkness, and it knows him-perhaps better than anyone else.

Ulfric pushes open the door carefully, the candle he carried with him from the Bloodworks throwing off only the faintest of light into the bedroom. Everything is the same, yet everything has changed. The small table for two is untouched as if waiting for him, bookshelves still line the walls-a few volumes missing and thrown carelessly onto the floor near the foot of the bed, and the coals of the hearth now slowly are dying, casting off only the faintest bit of warmth to fight off the chill. Perhaps it best he stoke the fire before catching a few moments of rest.

And, finally, there she is. Dahlia sleeps seemingly peacefully, head in her hands as if she had fallen asleep waiting for him. Again. Ulfric sighs as his tired eyes look her over as if on reflex, and by now, it probably is. Dark hair pools on her pillows, spilling over onto his side as if seeking him out-even if he is not there. His heart pangs painfully at the sight, and as his eyes look down, finding her stomach, his flips. She has been getting so big lately, and he has missed it. He shuts his eyes against the sting he feels there, shutting it out and showing it down. There is no time for such feeling at the moment. Not when there is so much at stake, so much he needs to resolve.

His feet carry him to the back of the room, and as he squats down to throw a few logs into the fire, sparks of ash spit back at him as if opposed to his request for more warmth, more light. Frowning, he grabs the iron poker from the floor swiftly and jabs at the logs, more and more sparks flying and burning his hands and face until, as if against their will, they alight.

At least that is done now.

He brushes off a few stray smudges from his arms and stands, back creaking in protest, as he makes his way to the wash basin.

"Ulfric..." A quiet and sleep-laden voice calls out to him, and he freezes.

He hears the voice again, and he turns to see Dahlia, eyes halfway open as she shifts on the bed, sheets pooling down her body and revealing her nightclothes.

"Go back to sleep, my heart." His voice is little more than a gruff whisper as if an echo of himself. It almost makes her doubt that she can see or hear him at all.

"Ulfric, is that you? Please..." She speaks again, the tone wavering somewhere between the uncertainty of doubt and a plea to beckon him to come closer-one which he cannot ignore.

Ulfric sighs. He had hoped to avoid her for as long as possible, but it would seem that tonight of all nights, his luck has run out. She should not see him like this. Despite every nerve in his body telling him that this is a bad idea and that he should turn back to what he was doing, he cannot. Not when she sounds like a dream and not when she looks like his every fantasy. He is truly a weak man. Instead of following his instincts, he walks forward until he can sit on the bed and look his wife in the eyes for the first time in weeks. "Hello, Dahlia."

For a few moments, neither of them moves as all they can do is stare at the other even if in the dimness of the room, they can only make out the barest of features. It is more than what either of them has had in what feels like years-and each one of them is greedy to drink in the other, the tension swelling until it hits critical mass and gravity brings them inevitably together, lips crashing into each other with force.

Tongues touch, and Ulfric's fingers pull her closer, leaving faint traces of ash across her pale skin as he attempts to bring her closer to him. And she allows it, leans into it. She has been starved for touch, for him, for anything that she can get. Her fingers wander up his sides and to his chest and then continue on their path to the sides of his face as she hold him desperately to her, afraid that he will disappear and slip through her grasp at any moment. Slowly, heat builds up in both of them, sloppy, desperate kisses only fueling them more as Ulfric takes one of her legs, throwing it over his hips, and then pulls her closer to him until her heat is pressed up against him.

Dahlia gasps, dizzy from his kisses and touch, yet she has not had enough of him, can never have enough of him. "Ulfric, I've missed you."

He threads his fingers through her hair, feeling the strands slip like silk through his fingers as he pulls her lips back to his. "I'm right here. I always have been, and I always will be."

However, before they meet again, Dahlia suddenly stops, her stomach dropping out from under her. "Wh-what happened to you?" She pulls back as her fingers touch his face searchingly with alarm.

"I don't know what you mean, my heart, nothing has happened to me. I'm fine." Ulfric tries to sooth his wife's worries, but her hands push against him as a small healing light surges from her finger tips.

"Your face, it-there is-" She cannot finish her thought as panic surges through her, hands pulling at his clothing and yanking at the threads of his shirt desperately as her heart pounds painfully in her ears. "-blood." The word is quiet as it finally falls from her lips. "Tell me where you're hurt."

Wild eyes look into his own, uncertain, frightened, and entirely uncharacteristic of his wife. She blinks once, however, and the look is gone. Instead of waiting for a response, she grabs at fistfuls of his shirt again and this time she forces the cloth up and over to expose his bare chest, hands moving every surface in her reach and leaving nothing untouched.

"Dahlia, please calm down." He gently takes her hands from him and kisses her fingertips. "I am fine. I promise."

"But-"

He closes his eyes, expression deeply conflicted as he shakes his head. He did not want to tell her this. This is what he was afraid of. "It is not my blood, my heart."

Abruptly, her hands drop to her side as she looks at him with wide eyes. "What do you mean?"

Ulfric's eyes have always been an enigma to her. Sometimes the deep blue depths are as closed off to her and impossible to read as it is to part the seas themselves; however, at others, like now, they toss with violent emotion, clearly showing what he feels, and right now it is the deepest regret as his eyes silently plead with her to let it go.

"Ulfric, what did you do?"

"Only that which was necessary to keep you safe-to keep our child safe. The armor in the Gnisis-"

Slowly, Dahlia begins to pull away from him, brows knitting together as she puts the pieces together. "...you didn't. Please tell me that you did not-whose blood is on your hands and face, Ulfric?" Her face visibly pales even in the near darkness of the room as she whispers, "What did you do to Ambarys?"

One of his bloodied hands reaches out to her, and she recoils slightly, the corners of Ulfric's lips falling, hurt by her she of all people would turn him away, stings more than anything he could have imagined, even if he did see it coming. He had known very well that this would happen, and she would not accept it. His wife is still soft in many ways, and while she may understand self-sacrifice, she does not understand the need to preserve that which one holds dear through means necessary. It's her own brand of naïvety. He does not fault her for it, but it is something which he must make her understand. It is not that he wanted to do it, but rather he had to.

"You do not understand, Dahlia. I had no other choice! You have no idea what he has told me. The ends justify the means and-"

"-will start a riot in the Snow Quarter when we have only just begun to hold the Dunmer's trust! And what of the Argonians? They will see that no one is safe nor sacred! How could you do this?"

"Easily."

Despite the tensions rising in the air, Ulfric's voice is calm and unwavering as he speaks his answer. One of the things which she has always admired about him is the strength of his convictions, even if at times she wants to shake him for them. He is as unchangeable as the seas' tides and unswerving in his path. It gives her pause-makes her want to listen.

"I will not put my country, my wife, nor my unborn child before the life of one man, and if that makes me evil, so be it. I'll wear the title as proudly as I wear the crown." His voice takes a sharp edge, yet he reaches forward to lay a gentle hand on hers. "While you may not like my methods or means, they are effective, and this is my job-our job-as the High King and Queen. We must protect our people, and the Thalmor are afoot. What do you think they will do to everyone should they be successful in their endeavors? I'll tell you it is much worse than what Ambarys has suffered. And if you have forgotten, I will remind you. I know it first hand."

Imploring watery eyes seek out her own, hopeful and desperate for her to understand. He cannot take a second rejection from her. His heart would not be able to bear it.

"I-" Her voice cracks, and her face crumbles, arranging itself into a confused amalgamation of sadness and hurt; however, he she does not pull her hand away from him this time.

"I'm not-" he pauses, squeezing her hand tightly, and tries again, "I did not consult you because I did not want this burden to fall upon you and that is why I have taken it on myself. I know you do not approve, but please, I need you to understand." He looks away from her guiltily down to his feet. "It's why I have made myself so scarce as of late."

Silence rolls thorough the room like a thick fog, blanketing the room in stillness. Both of them look at each other, neither of them daring to move.

"And that is exactly why you should have consulted me, Ulfric. This is-it's not a valid path for you to follow. You can't go back there, and I know you're better than this. This is exactly why the people were so hesitant to trust you-"

"And do you trust me?" His response takes her aback in how easily it rolls off his tongue and how desperate it sounds coming from his lips.

Conflict passes through her, tugging her in two directions at once, and she cannot help but feel like she needs to choose her words very carefully. "It is not a matter of if I trust you or not, Ulfric, it is a matter of what is right or wrong."

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling frustratedly at the strands. Her stubborn sense of morality and unbending code of ethics will be his undoing. If he is going to get her to see things his way, he'll need to appeal to them. "Then tell me this, how would you feel if I had done nothing, and as a consequence many people will die."

"I would have found another way."

"With such short notice?"

"No one has died yet Ulfric, this is-"

He cuts her off abruptly. "There was a Thalmor agent in our city, Dahlia, doing who knows what!"

Her mouth falls open as her eyes widen.

"I was not merely speaking in hypotheticals when I brought them up earlier. It was one of their agents who threatened Ambarys, and he was the one who planted the armor in the Gnisis. It would not surprise me if this is exactly what his goal was: to plant seeds of doubt in the city and tear what unity we are building favor of dissent. It's a classic tactic of divide and conquer."

Her husband's relations leave Dahlia's head spinning. It would seem that Lydia was right all along, and the consequences of their actions are closer than she would have thought-or at least wanted to admit. "What will be do, Ulfric? Is he still here? What if they come-"

"I would not let them lay a hand on you nor our child." He looks at her, his face softening as he rests a hand on her stomach. "You don't need to worry about that. I'll be posting more guards outside of our room. You'll not be left alone."

"I've never felt more alone than ever since I have been with child." Perhaps it is not fair of her to bring this up especially now when she knows he's so tired, but it is something which has been eating at her for a while.

"I am sorry if I have been a bad husband as of late, but I am not sorry for what I have had to do. You know that I have been busy, and these past few weeks were not planned." Despite her trying to guilt him, he knows that it must have been difficult for her. He cannot imagine how he would have felt if he were in her shoes.

"It is a rather unfortunate situation for both of us." Dahlia frowns.

"It is, but I will not give up on you." He takes one of his hands and places it on the side of her face. "Please know that every moment spent away from you is one that I use to think of you."

A warm bubbling sensation percolates in her chest at his admission. "That's rather romantic for a big Nordic bear to say."

"Perhaps it is that you have made me soft, but either way, it is true." He leans forward to kiss her, lips gentle as they part to hold hers before quickly pulling away. "You'd keep me awake all night if you could, but for now, we should sleep."

"Yes, you really should. I had half a mind to come and drag you to bed these past two weeks, and if it wasn't for Galmar, I would have."

Ulfric chuckles sleepily as he walks back to the washbasin to clean his face and hands. "I take it you're rather cross with him then."

"In a way yes."

"Glad I'm not on your bad side." He passes a bar of soap over his face and hands before rinsing and drying himself. "I hear mother bears are fierce."

It is her turn to laugh this time. "You've heard right, and they're very protective of what's theirs, so you had best hurry up and get to bed, or you'll give me something else to be cross about."

"So, you are angry with me."

"Of course, I am, but just because this is true that doesn't mean I'm going to pick a fight with you now. Come to bed and hold me, and perhaps I'll contemplate forgiving you."

"Only contemplate?"

"Don't push your luck."