CHAPTER FOUR

~A CLOSED LINE IS NOT OPEN~

This isn't real. The thought gripped Solen's disbelieving mind like a mantra, but no matter how often it repeated itself, it didn't change the reality that lay in front of him; Balgruuf in pale, still repose on a plinth in the Hall of the Dead.

He looked tired in the crypt candlelight, as if he were merely sleeping, whiter than snow and stiller than a sea becalmed. He lay dressed in his ceremonial finery, two hands wrapped around a knotwork blade upon his chest, but his crown of office absent. His forehead seemed empty without it. Andurs, the priest of Arkay who tended the city's Hall of the Dead, had done his best to restore the Jarl's body to the state it'd been in life, but the wounds to Balgruuf's throat were impossible to completely conceal. Solen's attention drifted from the Nord's closed eyes to the terrible tears beneath the jaw, the puncture marks embedded in the side of his neck.

This isn't real.

Rayya's hand settled on his shoulder, rousing Solen gently from his reverie. Abruptly his throat tightened. Words were suddenly the most difficult they'd been since Kodlak's death.

"This shouldn't have happened."

"No one could've expected it," Rayya said quietly. She'd never known the Jarl personally – she'd served the court of Siddgeir in Falkreath – but she'd attended the Whiterun court in Solen's company enough times to recognize Balgruuf as a man of esteem. "No one could've known."

"He was guarded day and night. His court was loyal to him, he... he was the one who gave me the opportunity." Solen gripped the edge of the plinth. "Welcomed me to his city, treated me on my deeds, not my skin. He made me his Thane. Listened when I spoke. Risked everything to help me. I wouldn't have become the man I am today if not for the chances he gave me."

"And Sovngarde will welcome him for it."

"He was a good man. And I wasn't here when..."

"Solen."

Solen heaved a trembling breath. "I should've been here."

"It might be you lying here instead if you had been," Rayya said. "Then where would we be?" She rested her head against the tawny fur mantle that covered his shoulders. "He ruled well, with wisdom and care for his people. He did more than most Jarls. His spirit ascends with honour."

This is real. The numbing disbelief was suddenly replaced with anger. "He should've died fighting. Not like this. Like a wolf at a deer."

Rayya heard the change. "Solen –"

Solen pulled away and stormed from the crypt. "Rally the Companions," he growled. "I want them waiting when I'm done."

"Done with what?"

"Answers."

Bang! The doors to Dragonsreach boomed on their hinges. Solen all but ran up the steps and into the great firelit hall of the palace. "How did this happen?!" he bellowed at the court of Whiterun.

They were all assembled around the empty throne. Farengar, the court wizard; Hrongar, Balgruuf's brother; Proventus Avenicci, the steward; Quentin Cipius, Imperial Legate of Whiterun's Legion division; Commander Caius, captain of the Whiterun Guard; Irileth, Balgruuf's Housecarl. They all looked shocked as he approached. They'd never seen him lose his temper like this before.

"Harbinger," Hrongar greeted cautiously. "If we had better news to bear."

"How?!" Solen thundered. "How was Balgruuf killed by a vampire?!"

"We didn't welcome it with open arms," said Irileth acidly, then glared at Proventus. "Oh. Wait. We did."

"You were fooled just the same as the rest of us, elf," Proventus snapped. "As I recall, it was you who should have been protecting him!"

Irileth leapt to her feet, stung beyond fury. She had a volcanic temper, even among Dark Elves, and she near cut her scabbard in two as she pulled her sword free. Half a sword – it was snapped at the middle into a jagged tear. "Say that again, steward, I dare you!"

"Irileth!" Hrongar warned. "Stay your blade. This isn't helping."

Irileth angrily sheathed her broken weapon and sank back down on the dais steps below the throne. She looked more lost than Solen had ever seen her.

"He came as an advisor toward the end of winter," Quentin Cipius explained to Solen, "just after you and Rayya left Whiterun. He seemed harmless enough. A Nord, he was, well-spoken and courteous. He earned all our trust. Had some sensible things to say about financial matters and trade between the Holds."

Solen scuffed the ground with his boot. He glared at Farengar. "All your magic and you couldn't tell?"

"My field of study is Dragons, Dragonborn," said Farengar peevishly. "Orthjolf did not resonate with any particularly noticeable magical field, and he told us he only had a small arsenal of magic."

"Clearly that wasn't so, since he charmed half the Guard to get to Balgruuf's bedroom," said Caius coldly. "Then scattered the rest of the Guard like leaves in a gale when he made his escape. The boys who fought him all say the same thing: impossibly fast, unbelievably strong. He snapped Irileth's sword like a toothpick."

Solen shook his head. The new mantra circled his thoughts repeatedly. How. How? "His eyes," he muttered. "He was a vampire – did no one look at his eyes?"

"I never liked them," Proventus piped up, as if determined to have a point in his favour. "Always a bad hunger to them."

"He kept them hidden – wore a hood," Hrongar said. "Talos, half of us were wearing hats ourselves. The Palace gets draughty during winter. And Farengar squirrels away under a hood all the time – we never questioned it."

"It's the uniform of a mage," Farengar muttered to himself.

"But I'm sure if you had been here, Dragonborn, you'd have put us all to shame," said Quentin Cipius coolly. "We all know your experience with such monstrosities. The Ballad of the Bat and Dragon is sung from Solitude to Falkreath."

The Ballad of the Great Big Farce, more like, Solen thought. Ataf, the bard who'd written the ballad, had done a splendid job embellishing the liberation of Morthal from the preying coven of a master vampire. However, said master vampire, Movarth, had been less Shouted apart by a noble Dragonborn and more ripped limb from limb by a werewolf.

"But I wasn't here," said Solen bluntly, and sank down into the nearest seat. "None of you knew what to expect, and now our Jarl is dead." Anger was gone, and grief raced to fill the void inside. "What happens to the city now?" he asked, much more quietly.

"Well," said Hrongar, resting a hand on the throne, "we decided I should be the one to take up the Jarldom."

That made sense, from a logical perspective; Jarldoms were passed down family lines, and Balgruuf's oldest was still several winters shy of his age of inheritance. But somehow Solen couldn't see Hrongar, who wore his scaled armour like comfort clothes and was as boisterous and quick-tempered as warriors came, sitting a throne and governing a city in a Jarl's finery. But Hrongar had clearly changed from his brother's death. Maybe something had cooled his spirit and awoken to the call of duty.

Congratulations seemed called for, but Solen thought it'd just come across as callous, so he just managed a stiff nod and an unflattering, "All right."

"I also want this court to stay just like my brother had it." Hrongar spared Proventus a narrow look. "Even the ones I never liked. But Balgruuf seemed fond of having a voice of opposition in his court, and I'll respect that... for as long as I can stand it. That includes you as well, Solen. I want you to stay as our city's Thane, if you desire."

"I do."

Hrongar looked relieved. "All right. Good. Irileth, you served Balgruuf and Whiterun faithfully for many years. As Jarl, I ask if you will serve as –"

"No."

Irileth's answer was just as immediate as Solen's. Her scorching red eyes swept from the floor to Hrongar's face in one swift movement.

"I will not," she continued. "The Housecarl has one duty and one duty alone; to protect the one to whom we gave our oath of honour. I failed in that. I failed to foresee the danger, and I failed my lord. Now one duty remains to me, and that is to avenge him."

"Irileth," said Caius, dismayed. "Vengeance will not bring Jarl Balgruuf back. Honour his memory by protecting his people."

"That I can't do, Caius. Not while his killer walks free." Irileth stood in one lithe movement. "On my oath as his Housecarl and as a daughter of Morrowind, Balgruuf will be avenged."

Solen's uncle, Torendil, a worldly and well-travelled mer, had once said that of all the races, he'd found the Dark Elves the most dangerous, demented and determined when matters of vengeance arose. They were a strange people, a race of survivors. They worshipped the Daedra as their god-ancestors and had once called the largest active volcano in Tamriel their home. The Dunmer knew what it was to lose, and their history was full of loss – their homeland, their political games, their Living Gods, their Chimer identity in the aftermath of their transformation into the dark-skinned, red-eyed 'cursed-elves'. But because of this, they'd become a people who knew how to make others lose, who could endure on nothing more than pure spite. All that and more was reminded within Solen that day, and unspoken he and his fellow witnesses of Irileth's oath knew there would be no dissuading her from it.

Hrongar sighed deeply in defeat. "Then go with our blessings, Irileth. May the Nine guard you."

"Irileth," said Solen, as she turned to leave. "Wait until after the funeral, at least."

Irileth considered this, then nodded. "All right."

"The funeral," Proventus repeated. "There hasn't been a Jarl's funeral since High King Torygg." Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was politely neglected, as his body had been unceremoniously burnt and his tarred head was presently admiring the view from the walls of the Imperial City.

"He should be entombed in the Hall of the Dead, as was his wish," said Hrongar, then sucked his teeth. "But Shor's bones... he was killed by a vampire. Perhaps it'd be safer to burn him."

"Burn him!" exclaimed Proventus. "To burn a Jarl of Skyrim – the very idea!"

"The Priest of Arkay did the rites," said Caius. "There's no chance of him turning, or being raised, gods forbid."

"He should burn," said Solen, turning every head his way. "Balgruuf always had great admiration for the Companions. Let us – let me – honour him one more time by commending him to the Skyforge. His spirit will temper the metal of all the great warriors to come."

This was considered. "I thought that was an honour reserved only for Companions, Harbinger," said Hrongar.

"Normally it is," Solen admitted, "but Balgruuf was a good man and a good Jarl. I don't think the Circle would oppose a bend in tradition."

Hrongar smiled. "Then I can think of no finer way to lay my brother to rest."

It took place at dusk the following night. It was a clear night for it – Solen had made sure of that – with a sky cast in blue and purple, and the twin moons showing slivers of their red and silver faces over the mountains. Whiterun's people gathered in the city's Wind District to pay their final respects, leaving the roadway clear between the Hall of the Dead and the steps to Jorrvaskr.

From the Skyforge, which overlooked the Companions mead hall, Solen watched the procession approach. The body of Balgruuf the Greater was solemnly borne on a pall draped in the golden braided designs of Whiterun, preceded by Andurs and followed by his family; Hrongar, then Balgruuf's adolescent children Frothar and Dagny. The third, Nelkir, was absent; he'd run away two years ago and none had ever found him. Knowing his connection to Mephala and the dark streak that had no business being in any child, Solen doubted anyone ever would. Irileth walked a pace behind, silent and grim, then the Whiterun court, the elders of Whiterun's clans, and then a stream of mourners. As they passed beneath the Gildergreen sapling, which was blossoming fast into a fine young tree, the wind shook the boughs, showering them all with the fresh blossoms of spring. Solen hoped it was a good sign from the goddess said to speak through its branches.

Solen stepped back to his own place by the sculpted forge as the procession climbed the mead hall steps. The forge looked different tidied up and swept. Its embers were cooled to a soft pink glow, flickering but not ablaze, and the structure was ringed with candles and shrouds. The Companions had given Balgruuf the honour of anointing the stone hearthwalls with their scarlet heraldry as well as Whiterun's. The Companions themselves were arrayed one and all on the wide stone platform, torch-bearing and solemn-faced, armour and weapons scrubbed spotlessly clean. The Circle at the front – Aela, Vilkas, and Njada Stonearm, with the Companions' honorary members beside them, Eorlund Gray-Mane the smith, and Rayya. Behind them stood the seniors, with years of Companionship to their name; Athis, Ria, Torngeir Ironhand, and Ghelb, their first Orc. Then the juniors, those in their first or second years, or yet to have their Trials; a scattering of familiar faces, war veterans not quite ready to put down their blades, and brand new hopefuls hungry to carve a name for themselves into Skyrim's legacy.

For some of them, this would be their first Skyforge funeral. But it was an important experience for them to share. Death was the end everyone faced, and warriors sooner than most. For Solen, it only reminded him of his own mortality, which descended on him heavy as the ceremonial cloak on his back. As an elf, he would stay young and virile for a very, very long time. There was every possibility he would live to see whole generations of Companions cycle through the timeless hall. As their Harbinger, he'd commend every single one to the Skyforge until his own time came. He'd say the words, light the pyre. Every single one...

Solen pulled himself back. Now was no time to drift. The body of his Jarl was borne up the stairs and to the forge, and gently set upon the pyre. The great stone hawk whose wings formed the Skyforge peak loomed over Balgruuf, as if preparing to take him in its talons and bear him aloft to Sovngarde. Then the procession stepped back to take their places on the platform. The Jarl's court. The Arkay priest. The Kynareth priestess, Danica Pure-Spring. She caught Solen's eye, raised a blossom flower from the Gildergreen, and gave him a smile. A good omen after all.

This wasn't a Companion's funeral, so there were some others who spoke first. Hrongar, a final word of departure, a pledge to care for the city his brother had loved so well. Andurs, a prayer to the Nine (an almost deliberate choice, Balgruuf had hated the Thalmor just like the rest of them) and a blessing to keep the Jarl's spirit safe in Shor's shadow and Arkay's divinity. Commander Caius, a short commendation of how proud he'd been to serve Balgruuf as his captain of the Guard, a vow that Whiterun would not be cowed from the cowardly attack. Legate Quentin Cipius, commending Balgruuf's valour in leading his city through such times of untold strife with a steady, wise, compassionate hand – he who was unafraid to take up arms and armour and fight alongside his people. Many a murmur and a nodded head at that, and Solen felt an unexpected rush of gratitude to the Legate. He'd been anticipating another Imperial speech about loyalty to Emperor and Empire. This felt better, like the Legate had actually known the Jarl after all.

Solen's turn, now. He took up his torch and stepped before the gathering. More eyes than he was used to, more ears as well. This was not Torvar's sendoff, or Farkas's, a private affair of Companions. All of Whiterun was in attendance, amassed in the Plains district to mourn together. The ceremony at the Skyforge echoed unchallenged through the silent city.

Five years ago he'd stood mute at Kodlak's funeral, unknowing of the words. Now he was all too familiar of them. Thankfully the rites were a warrior's rites; short, simple, strong. "Before the ancient flame..."

"We grieve," came the collective answer.

"At this loss..."

"We weep."

"For the fallen..."

"We shout."

Solen's jaw tightened. Shout we will. "And for ourselves..."

"We take our leave."

Solen turned to the firepit. It was never easy to look upon the face of loss, and the last time was always the hardest. His next words were whispered for Balgruuf alone. "May Tu'whacca's lantern guard your path to Sovngarde, my friend. May we meet again, there or beyond the Far Shores." Then he set the torch to the pyre and the coals. The flames rose at once, engulfing the pyre and the Jarl stretched in final repose upon it. They blazed a beacon in the young night.

"His spirit is departed," said Solen, stepping back. Already the grief was easing; for friends and foe, death was a part of life, and life moved on. Solen recalled the glories of Sovngarde and took reassurance in that there was indeed a place awaiting the valiant warrior spirit; that Balgruuf would be there, beyond all return and harm forever.

They stood and watched the pyre burn to ashes awhile, then one by one the mourners took their leave to grieve their last wherever they wished. For Solen, it was down to Jorrvaskr's undercroft, heavy with quiet and calm. In the Harbinger's quarters – it'd taken him a while to stop calling it Kodlak's room – he cast off the ceremonial Companion cloak, unslung Eldródr from his back, and heaved himself into his seat to think. Rayya found him shortly after.

"Here." She set a plate of dinner on the table beside him. Solen nodded a silent thanks. The bread was crusty and warm, the cheese fresh and soft. Of all the foods and feasts he'd tasted, this was still his favourite thing to eat, and he set himself to it with a will.

Rayya sat down in the seat across from him. She was as familiar with this place as he was. They usually spent as many nights here as in their cottage Breezehome in the Plains District below. "You spoke well," she said. "You did well."

Solen nodded. "The least I could do." He offered a bit of bread and cheese. Rayya took it.

"This changes everything, doesn't it?" she asked him, quietly.

Solen listened carefully for anger, or annoyance, anything. There was none. Just like when they'd talked about the Civil War two years before, when they made the choice together. Or rather, he'd confirmed what his heart had already decided.

A soft rap at the door turned their heads. "Come in," Rayya said.

Aela, Vilkas, Njada. The Circle gathered with their Harbinger in the room of counsel, just like old times, but there was little cheer or reminiscing. Solen had already recounted to them what had happened below the Throat of the World earlier that morning. They'd had time enough to make their own conclusions.

"You're leaving again, aren't you?" Aela asked.

Solen nodded. "There's no question of staying."

"You're not still going west, are you?" Vilkas asked. "After this?"

Solen glanced at Rayya, then back to his old rival. "No. Course not."

"You're going to throw yourself in with those vampire hunters, then," said Njada, leaning against the wall. "You really think that will change things, do you?"

"That's the intention," said Solen, with a tired shrug. "A war that lasted four years I put down in one. If I'm quick, maybe this... vampire menace will be over with before it turns into the same."

"If we're quick," Rayya amended in her Solen-you-are-not-running-off-to-do-this-alone voice.

Solen smiled in sheepish agreement. "If we're quick, aye."

"Well," Njada grunted, "you two are that if nothing else."

"You ought to stay here first awhile," Vilkas reasoned. "Give Whiterun some stability. Jarl Hrongar's not a man of the people. You are. They could do with a little leadership."

"I'm not a leader." Solen pointed at his face. "Companions don't do the formal leadership thing. Besides, wrong breed for it, remember? I'm an advisor and someone who gets a job done, at best."

"Stay and advise, then. Solen, we've got half a dozen hopeful faces sticking their heads in the door every month. We can't beat all of them up ourselves, it'll get boring."

"I don't stay. I don't sit out of fights, I get out there and I end them." Solen fiddled with a crusty flake on his bread. "That's what you'd expect of a Dragonborn, wouldn't you? Sworn to keep evil forever at bay? Literally in the job description. Tell me what's more evil than a coven of vampires overreaching their bounds? And don't say Thalmor," he added, as the three of them immediately opened their mouths. "They go without saying. But these vampires are attacking and killing, everywhere, every night, all over Skyrim, right now. They won't stop. We lost our Jarl. I almost lost Rayya. Hammerfell can wait... this can't."

"Such is the way of it, isn't it?" Aela remarked, folding herself down cross-legged on the embroidered rug. "The gods either love you or hate you, Solen, but they seem determined to keep you right where you are."

"Don't they just." Rayya irritably cut herself another wedge of cheese.

"Back to regency for the rest of us, then?" frowned Vilkas. "Keep Jorrvaskr afloat and the new arms sharp while you gallivant about the province again hunting all the monsters?"

"Thanks for offering, Vilkas." Solen clapped his arm. "Knew I could count on you."

Vilkas pulled a face, as their friendship demanded, but Solen knew he didn't mind the appointment. He still hadn't completely gotten over his brother's death, and wrangling a score of new bloods and whelps kept him busy.

"Aela, I need you to keep your ears open," Solen continued. "I want you to attend the Whiterun court in my place and investigate any reports or leads on vampire activity, especially in the cities. Make sure they get a warning passed to all the Jarls to close their courts to new advisors. I don't care who they claim to be or who sent them. Say the Harbinger warns that Balgruuf's fate could be theirs. Skyrim's not fat or lazy enough to endure another political storm – which, given the nature of Balgruuf's murder, might be what this coven is trying to achieve, for reasons yet unknown."

Aela nodded. "It'll be done, Harbinger."

"Njada, double the training, for whelps and shield-siblings all. And under no circumstance send anyone out on contract alone."

"What d'you think I've been doing, goldenrod?" Njada snorted and folded her wiry arms. "Sending a Companion out alone, Shor have mercy... I'll make sure even the whelps can break your fancy Dragonborn ankles by the time I'm done with 'em."

Solen nodded proudly to them, his mentors, his shield-siblings, his friends. "See? The Companions are in good hands. I don't know why you need me."

"You know? He's got a good point," Njada remarked. "He's an awful leader."

"Not a bad advisor, though," Vilkas supposed.

"And me?" How long Irileth had been waiting in the doorway to the Harbinger's council chamber, arms folded, eyes fierce, was anyone's guess, but clearly "long enough" was going to be the best answer.

"You tell us, Irileth," said Rayya evenly. "What will you be doing?"

Irileth stepped light-footed into the room. Her badge of office was gone. She wore dusty brown travelling leathers and a plain grey cloak devoid of any sigil of allegiance, fresh war-paint marked into her skin. "Leaving Whiterun, with you. You're heading south to this Dayspring Canyon, aren't you? To join with this Dawnguard?"

"We're heading south, to the Canyon," Solen agreed carefully.

"Good." Irileth gripped the hilt of her broken sword. "When are we leaving?"

Solen had initially planned two days, get some leather lining in his armour replaced, check in with Eorlund, sneak in a quick plains-hunt, freshen up his sword-arm a bit in the Companions ring – but something in Irileth's eyes warned him that to answer anything less than "Tomorrow at dawn" would have had some extreme and immediate consequences.

Irileth nodded and spun on heel. "See you at the stables." She stalked out of the Jorrvaskr undercroft without another word.

"There's nothing in this world I fear," said Vilkas wryly, "but Shor knows that Dark Elf, out for revenge, she's one to beware."

"A damned shame, more like," Aela huffed. "With that mettle, she'd have made a fine Companion."

"Housecarls don't have such freedom," said Rayya. "Ours aren't oaths of glory. To fail to protect the one to whom your very honour is bound... I can't even imagine what she's going through. It's something I don't ever intend to experience." Her hand settled in Solen's, and he squeezed it tight.

"Considering you're sworn to the tallest, loudest man in Skyrim, I don't see that happening," Njada snorted. "No vampire's going to even reach his neck before he pops their eardrums like ripe snowberries."

"Please, Njada," Solen grimaced, as Rayya laughed.