Dragon from Ash

by Mortigaunt

"I may be Dunmer, but I am the Dragonborn, and I will defend your people whether they like it or not." Expands on Skyrim. Features fleshed out characters, content from earlier games and apocrypha, alternate choices and consequences for actions. WARNING: Contains mature content, including sexual themes, violence, and in-depth examinations of lore.

17. Chapter 17 - A Night to Remember

Chapter 17 – A Night to Remember

I think perhaps there is no tale in Skyrim as tragic as that of our fair jarl, the lady Elisif.

From an early age, Elisif was meant for a life of nobility and prestige, as befit her lineage. Her parents saw to it that no expense was spared, no tutoring overlooked, to ensure that their daughter was raised to be the epitome of the Nord noblewoman. And, in time, she caught the eye of Prince Torygg, and they were wed in a ceremony befitting the future High King of Skyrim. For a time, it seemed as though their future would be everything the young couple had dreamed of.

Sadly, the treachery of Ulfric Stormcloak cut short the couple's wedded bliss, and young Elisif was left a bereaved widow. In an instant, her king and her one true love was taken from her, leaving the young queen with nothing but a war and the deep sorrow of loneliness. Without even the comfort of an heir in her dark time, she bravely shouldered the burden of rulership, letting General Tullius act as her decisive and loyal proxy in bringing the foul Stormcloaks to justice.

Young, alone and yet so brave, our good Lady Elisif prevails, all the while hoping that the sweet peace of her youth may once more be returned to her. In these dark days, we should look to the example of our magnificent queen, and stand tall against adversity!

Jordis had herself a good chuckle as she read the pamphlet that had been shoved under the door of Proudspire Manor while she was away. Either the servants had been shirking their duties, or they'd left it there for her to find, knowing she'd get a laugh out of it. She was a generous woman, so she'd assume it was the second one. Besides, her parents might not use this manor often these days, but when they did they expected it spotless. No, this seemed like somebody had known just how to tickle her. She made a note to find out who it was and do something nice for them.

Poorly written, incorrect facts, and I have to wonder if the author had a hand down his breeches while he was penning it! She didn't like making light of Elisif's situation and she would never show her friend this filth, but it was interesting—and a just a tiny bit funny—to see what the common people were saying. At least the writer is on her side.

She'd read Imperial propaganda before, and this didn't read like that. For one thing, Imperials are subtler. No, this was likely some homegrown patriot who'd watch the jarl from afar and concocted his own little narrative as to what she must be experiencing. I don't see why he needed to share his fantasies with others, but to each his own, I suppose.

One of the servants came in with a dress for the banquet at the Blue Palace tonight, but she waved him away. After the events in Wolfskull Cave, she wanted to be known as a warrior. She'd wear armor, or nothing.

That thought gave her a moment's pause, but she quickly decided that wearing nothing, while no doubt fun, might cause a bit too much trouble for Elisif. So, armor it is. She couldn't show up in heavy plate, of course, but the Proudspire Clan had given Skyrim many warrior women throughout the eras. One closet or another had to have something fit for a feast!

She finally settled on an ornamental set of gilded chain owned by some ancestor or another. It looked at once presentable and warlike, and she found herself smiling uncontrollably upon seeing it.

As she tried it on, with servants hemming and hawing about her, she found herself wondering if the Dragonborn would make an appearance.

I don't think he has anything to wear…

---

There were five districts in Solitude, the boatman had said, and Velandryn had now seen all of them. The Shores had been teeming chaos, the Climb was a dimly-remembered haze of Jordis' bad jokes and his own tired and aching legs, the Markets were clamor and color and commerce, and the Castle had been the smell of fire and iron and the clang of hammers on anvils. The Blue, in contrast to all of these, seemed like something out of the heartland of Cyrodiil.

Broad streets were lined with colorful rows of flowers and palatial manors, while Imperial soldiers roamed here and there on patrol. At first, Velandryn had tried to avoid their gaze, but it quickly became apparent that they were more interested in enjoying their patrol than actually keeping an eye out for anything. That, or they simply aren't looking for the Dragonborn. In the end, he could stand the sting to his pride and concede that maybe not everyone in Skyrim was obsessed with him.

He had found Proudspire Manor without too much trouble, but decided against getting Jordis' help for this. While he had no doubt that she would be overjoyed to help him sneak into the Blue Palace, she'd also probably try and drag him to the banquet, and he'd decided that he wasn't going to risk attending that.

The way he saw it, every moment he remained in Solitude was a chance for something unpleasant to happen to him. The Empire, the Stormcloaks, even the Thalmor probably had an interest in the Dragonborn, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with any of them. This Jarl Elisif who Jordis was so fond of might decide that the Dragonborn was better off in her dungeons, or some Nord lunatic might simply decide that an elf had no business being alive in this city. No, he would sneak into the Blue Palace, deal with this hipbone business—the idea of not following through on this particular request never seemed to stay in his mind for more than a fleeting instant—and get out of town as quickly as possible.

Somehow, he knew it wouldn't be quite so easy as all of that, but he saw no reason to complicate things by planning to go to this absurd party. It was still the middle of the day, after all, and all he needed to do was get in and drop off this bizarre artifact. Maybe ask a few questions, but that's it.

So, he found himself eyeing the front of the Blue Palace, looking for a way in that wouldn't require him stating his name and business. The main entrance, at least, did not seem to offer any help. The guards were politely speaking with each person who came to the doors, and even if they weren't wearing Imperial colors, he would rather not deal with them right now.

Something occurred to him then, a thought he only had because he'd been thinking about Lydia earlier. At Great Fane, Acolytes were strictly controlled with regards to when they were and were not permitted to leave the Temple grounds. In practice, of course, that simply meant that there was a thriving black market for the nondescript brown robes of the Attendants. The Ordinators were dedicated and well-trained, but not even they knew every one of the servants, and nobody looked too closely at the disgruntled underling who was hauling a basket full of laundry downstairs.

And there we go. The side entrance to the Blue Palace was significantly less ornate than the front, but it also only had one guard, and this one didn't look as though he was cut from the same cloth as, say, Lydia. He was shamelessly flirting with some women who seemed more than happy to distract him, and could barely spare a moment for the servants and workmen entering the palace.

Workmen? Velandryn studied the plain-clothed humans entering and exiting through the small gate. They were loaded down with crates of some sort, and he wondered if this was for the banquet tonight, or if it was simply the supplies needed to keep the Blue Palace running. Either way, it's a way in. It might not work against an observant guard, but it was his best bet.

He ambled down the street, hat pulled low to shield as much of his skin from prying eyes as possible, following one of the servants to a cart piled with crates. It was the work of a moment to grab one for himself, and as he followed the other back to the palace, he consciously tried to adopt the disinterested and leisurely shuffle that seemed to typify the workman who knew full well that finishing a job early wasn't worth the extra effort.

As the guard came into view, Velandryn suddenly realized how horrifically wrong this could go. If Ulfric Stormcloak killed the king in this very palace, then shouldn't they be on their guard? Surely the Solitude Guard would be watching any and all entrances like hawks, which was to say nothing of the Legion.

If they were, however, they hid it well. The guard laughed at something one of the women had said, and Velandryn dropped his head as he passed. And, just like that, he was in.

Well, I hope nobody's trying to assassinate the jarl, because that was a pathetic attempt at security. Once past the door, he placed the crates with several others, and ducked into a hallway. He wasn't entirely certain where the Pelagius Wing was, but he figured somebody around here had to know. I wonder if they'd believe me if I told them the truth of why I want to find it?

He was clearly in some sort of servants' area, judging by the hustle and bustle around him. Men and women—for he had yet to see a single mer within the Blue Palace—were hurrying about and quite ignoring him. He wondered idly if it was because they were actually too busy, or if he was simply an obvious outsider that nobody wanted to have to confront. Either way, I can use this.

He spied a young woman—he was getting less terrible at figuring out their ages—sitting in a corner and eating some sort of pastry. He sat himself across from her, and waited for her to swallow.

He had intended to open with a pleasantry, but she beat him to it. "Are you my gallant hero, come to whisk me away to a life of adventure and romance?" She smiled at him and batted her eyes.

What? "Ah, no, no, I'm afraid I'm not." He was too startled by her bizarre opening to think of anything cleverer.

She didn't seem terribly disappointed by that, and merely shrugged. "Ah, well, someday, then. You have the look of the road about you, so what brings you down here?"

He tried out a smile. "I was looking for the Pelagius, Wing, actually—"

She laughed. "Well, you're on the wrong side of the palace, not that it'd do you any good! It's all locked up, you know. What'd you even want there anyways?"

He blinked, breaking down her torrent of words. "I needed…no, first, you said it's locked?" that didn't sound good. In fact, it sounds like trouble.

The maid was nodding. "Yeah, and Falk's the only one who says you can go in. We have to clean in there once a year, and," she shuddered, "it's creepy."

Velandryn frankly couldn't care less about how clean it was in there. He had a name, and that meant he had a bluff. "Well, do you have a key? Falk said it was important."

She hopped to her feet. "This is for the steward? Oh, I'm so sorry! Come on, I'll show you where we keep the keys!" Despite the fact that his story would crumble like dust in rain at the slightest inquiry, she didn't seem to care. Either she had the skepticism trained out of her, or she never had it to begin with.

The maid brought him to a broad board studded with nails, each with keys hanging from it. Magnificent security, truly. A few minutes and a few lies later, Velandryn was walking away with a key to the Pelagius Wing and directions to its location. He might actually return the key when all of this was over; the maid had been a great help, and he felt just the tiniest twinge of guilt at the amount of trouble she was liable to get in. Well, we'll see.

From behind, the maid shouted after him, "Be careful, and come right back!" Unlikely, but you never know.

The door to the Pelagius wing was exactly where he'd been told, though it was somewhat less grand than the vision he'd imagined. Hearing the maid talk about it, he'd been hoping for a creaking portal into ancient mysteries rather than the simple double doors that faced him. Still, the key fit, and as soon as he checked to make sure the hallway was clear, he slipped inside.

The maids might clean in here from time to time, but Velandryn saw little evidence of that. Everything was dark and dusty, and something that might have been a rat scuttled away as he summoned a light to hover over his head. Delightful. There was absolutely no sign of anybody waiting for him.

Pulling the hipbone from his pouch –and this was necessary for what reason exactly?—he walked through the rooms, looking for some indication of whoever he was seeking. All he found was more cobwebs, and suddenly he wondered if it had been a bad idea to trust a mad beggar who'd given him a hipbone and scampered away. If he'd broken into the Blue Palace for no reason at all, then this entire day had been a monumental waste of time.

He amended that thought as he climbed a stairway, testing each step to make sure the wood beneath his feet was solid. If nothing else, this had been informative. As he crested the stairs and started down a hallway into which sunlight was streaming through a series of tall windows, he wondered about the rest of the palace. This wing had been grand once, and he wouldn't mind seeing what the rest of it looked like. The architectural style was more Imperial than he'd seen anywhere else in Skyrim, and—

The ground squished beneath his feet, and Velandryn suddenly realized that he was standing on a patch of misty ground. He spun, but there was only more fog and damp earth behind. Impossible! There had been no magicka, no detectable energy expended. He must still be in the Blue Palace, then, despite the evidence around him. He took a step forward, testing the ground and air. They certainly felt real. If this was an illusion, it was a damned good one.

The mist rolled back suddenly, and Velandryn found himself facing nearly the last thing he could have expected. What in Oblivion?

It was a table laden with food of all types, and with two men sitting across from one another, seemingly oblivious to both their visitor and the oddness of their situation. Neither seemed to have noticed him, though the conversation they were having seemed just the tiniest bit…off.

"More tea, Pelly my dear?" The first speaker was a human with white hair and a pointed little beard, dressed in a garish coat that was purple on one side and orange on the other. He had an accent Velandryn couldn't place, but something about this one's manner of speaking put him on edge.

"Oh, I couldn't. It goes right through me. Besides, I have so much to do!" Velandryn tuned out the nonsense coming from the second speaker and focused on the man himself. He was a dark-skinned Imperial, with light hair and an oddly stilted way of speaking. There was something about him that seemed almost familiar to Velandryn, but once again, it was more feeling than certainty.

The first man responded, laughing, but Velandryn wasn't listening to the words anymore. Something about these two was wrong. That one or both of them was an immensely powerful mage was possible, he supposed, but those well-versed in the arcane arts often had a sense about them, a subtle aura derived from the enchantments and spells usually in effect around any master mage. Neither of these two, however, felt anything like that. The Imperial felt more or less mundane, but the other…

The other was the source of the wrongness, Velandryn was sure of it. He had been in the presence of a Dremora only a few times, but the pressure was similar. A Daedra? Is that possible?

The strange not-human finished whatever he was saying and snapped his fingers, whereupon the Imperial vanished. He then turned, and gave Velandryn a huge smile. "How rude! Couldn't even be bothered to host an old friend for a decade or two!"

Velandryn did not take his eyes off of the strange man. There was something about the clothes that seemed impossibly familiar. Have I heard of them of them before? For the life of him, though, he couldn't place it.

He stood there, somewhat awkwardly, and bowed slightly. "I believe I have been sent to retrieve you, my lord." Certainly this was the most…unique …individual he had encountered in some time. 'My lord' was an acceptably universal term of respect, and, frankly, he had absolutely no idea what was going on here.

The other guffawed. "Have ya?" He swung an arm to indicate the empty chair across from him. "Why don't you have yourself a seat, then?"

Velandryn sat, every inch of his body tingling with warning. "Where are we, exactly?"

The other laughed, and took a bite of cheese. "Why, we're in the mind of Pelagius Septim!" he waved a hand at the spread before them. "Eat!"

Velandryn carefully took an unfamiliar fruit from a plate before him, and dug a nail into the rind. He peeled it back, and removed a single section of the bright orange meat beneath. This was so far beyond anything he'd encountered that he was beginning to lose all sense of perspective. He recited a mantra to clear his head, and focused on the other. His clothing was so familiar…

He swallowed the sweet orange fruit and looked across at the man, who was watching him in return. Velandryn was getting better at recognizing human expressions, but he didn't have a clue as to what this man was thinking.

They watched each other for another long moment, and then the strange man smiled and picked up a piece of cheese, waving it as he spoke. "So what brings you to my little corner of it all? And at this time of year, no less!"

"I'm looking for somebody. I have a message for him." He let his gaze linger on the man's finery. "A lord. I was given a hipbone and sent to the Pelagius Wing.

The bearded man smiled. "Really? A message? What kind of message? A song? A summons?" His eyes lit up in a way no human could manage. "Wait, I know! A death threat written on the back of an Argonian concubine! Those are my favorite!" Without even pausing for breath, his entire demeanor changed, and his next words were an angry bark, spoken with a subtly different accent. "Well? Spit it out, mortal! I don't have all day!" Then, just as fast, he was chuckling again, speaking as though they were the oldest of friends. "Actually, I do! Little joke, you know."

What is he? Velandryn was missing something important, but he couldn't quite figure out what. As he thought, though, he figured it was best to answer this lunatic's question. That this was the individual he had been sent to find was no longer in question. "I was sent to tell you that you need to go home. A mad…"

It was the shirt. Although his aspect in Morrowind had never worn it, Velandryn had read old accounts of outlanders coming into contact with him, and those who could still form coherent sentences after their encounter often mentioned his penchant for duality. Madness, after all, was a beast of two kinds. But we aren't in Morrowind, are we? In Skyrim, there was no Covenant and no Triune House, and the Daedra were free to do as they pleased.

Finally, far too late, Velandryn truly understood. He was in the mind of Pelagius Septim, the Mad Emperor, who had been dead for a thousand years. This wasn't a mage, or any other form of mortal. The reason he felt so unnerved was doubtless the same feeling a scrib got when it looked up at Great Fane. How do you comprehend something so much more than you could ever be? He looked across the table at Sheogorath Madgod, and knew what it was to be nothing.

Fortunately, Velandryn was no outlander. "I greet you with threefold courtesies, Lord of the Never-There, and say I am Velandryn Savani of the Temple and the Covenant. At the altar of Padhome, in the House three-sided and four-cornered, I bid you walk past me, and I shall walk past you." His Daedric was rusty, but he spoke slowly and deliberately, ensuring that he pronounced every syllable of the ancient greeting. The House of Troubles had a role to play in the fate of the Dunmer, but only a fool let down his guard in the presence of one had harmed so many of his kin.

Sheogorath laughed. "Oh, we got a live one here! Don't get too many of you lot since that business with the moon, you know." He chuckled and took a huge bite of cheese, as if he hadn't just casually referenced an event wherein he had slaughtered tens of thousands of Velandryn's people. "Your Daedric is terrible, by the way. Sounds like a drunk Ogrim who spent too much time in The Pits." He waved a hand. "So, let's make a deal!"

Velandryn tensed. Making a deal with Sheogorath was a fool's game. The Prince of Madness was notorious for his unreliability, after all. However, this wasn't some cult trying to take advantage of a storm to pull his notice. Velandryn had been transported to the mind of a madman, and now faced the Mad Lord in a form of immense power. What happens if I say no?

So, with every fiber of his faith crying out in protest, he placed his hands on the table. "What exactly did you have in mind?" There were rules, after all, and for all of his capriciousness, Sheogorath had never violated the terms of the Covenant. The Madgod insisted only on honesty and courtesy, and promised both of those and protection besides in return. Protection as defined by the patron saint of lunatics, but protection nonetheless. It might be his only chance out of here. And all I need to do is outwit one of the craftiest beings in the Aurbis.

Sheogorath grinned. "So formal! We aren't in Morrowind, you know. I was invited here, and you forced your way in using some good old necromancy. Which bone was it, by the way?"

"The pelvis." He reached for it, and only then noticed that his clothes had changed completely. He patted himself down frantically, but all of his possessions were gone. Instead, he was wearing some gaudy collection of padded wools and silks that looked like—well, like a madman dressed me for a party.

"Were you looking for this?" Sheogorath was holding the hipbone, spinning it merrily on a finger. "I had a little peek through your things when you popped in. Everything else is all tucked in back at your room, but I figured I should hold onto this for safe-keeping. You wouldn't believe the kind of mischief somebody can get up to with bits of dead people." He shuddered theatrically. "No art at all, you mortals. You can't just wave a hand and make the dead walk; you've got to take the time and build yourself a proper monstrosity! Have you ever seen my Gatekeeper?"

Velandryn ignored the nonsense and forged ahead. "You mentioned a deal. I've delivered my message, and so my business here is done."

"No, you delivered half of a message, and then you started spouting Dunmer garbage! I was hoping for a fun one, but instead I got you!" Sheogorath laughed. "So, who was it? A Molag? Little Tim, the toymaker's son? The ghost of good King Lysander? Or was it…yes! Stanley, that talking grapefruit from Passwall!"

Velandryn sighed, and then froze in shock and horror. Of all the emotions he'd imagined when coming face-to-face with a Daedric prince, exasperation had never been one of them. And he had me sighing and my mind wandering within five minutes of our meeting. He focused on Sheogorath. The Madgod was an enemy to the Dunmer, and to him. "None of them. Your servant, out in Solitude, asks you to come home."

"See, was that so hard?" He thought for a moment. "Still, my answer is no! No! I like being on vacation, and I'm a little curious to see what happens when—" He cut himself off and smiled. "No need to go spoiling it for you, hmm?"

Velandryn's mind spun. Something is coming. Whatever Sheogorath was anticipating, it likely wasn't good for him. "What's going to happen?"

The Daedra's eyes widened. "You mean…you don't know? You came into the mind of Pelagius Septim and had a snack with Uncle Sheo, and you don't even know?" He gave that laugh again. "That's just too good! Oh my, you are in for some fun. Almost makes me wish I was back there, wearing a mortals' skin again."

Velandryn ignored that, though the Madgod wearing a mortal's skin—probably like a cape—seemed in keeping with the stories. "Why are you here, Sheogorath? Isn't there something else you should be doing?"

"Well la-di-dah! Don't tell me how to do my job mortal, or I'll turn you into a crumpet! Or maybe a strumpet. Much more fun, strumpets!" Sheogorath giggled to himself. "Anywhoo, I'm right where I want to be. Are you not?"

Velandryn considered that for a moment. Sheogorath could turn even the slightest doubt into terrifying uncertainty in the mind of his victim, but Velandryn couldn't afford to lie. Never lie to a Prince of Oblivion. That rule was just common sense, for the most part, but went double when honesty was the only thing keeping the being opposite you from using your entrails as an after-dinner snack. Especially when you're alone in their realm. The thought of being here without the Covenant defending him was more unpleasant than he cared to consider. So, he shrugged. "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, you'd best make up your mind, or somebody else'll do it for ya!" Sheogorath snorted. "That's the problem with you Dunmer. You let somebody else do all your thinking! You need to learn to think for yourself, Vel my boy!"

Velandryn froze. Was it coincidence that Sheogorath and Jordis had used the nickname so close together, or did the Madgod have some secret way of knowing things he shouldn't? Foolish question, that. Even if Sheogorath didn't have eyes and ears in the Mundus, Velandryn should assume that his every thought and secret was bare before a Daedric Prince. So, he carefully nodded. "Many thanks for the advice."

"Don't mention it, lad! Uncle Sheo's always happy to lend a hand to young folk in need!" He leaned over the table. "Now, let's get cracking! I'm enjoying my vacation here, and you won't leave until I do! How about we make a deal, and then we can both be happy?"

Velandryn had been afraid of that. "Before I agree to anything, what's the catch?" No deal with the Madgod was ever straightforward, after all.

Sheogorath howled with laughter. "I love it when the mortals know they're being tricked!" He began assembling a tower of cheese and crackers that soon stood as high as his head. "All you need to do…is help my friend Pelagius…sort out his thoughts, so to speak." His brows came together and the Madgod assumed an air of great worry. "He's ever so troubled, you know."

I'd wager his having been dead for a few hundred years and Sheogorath squatting in his mind can't have helped! "And how would I go about doing this, provided I agree?"

"Oh, just straighten up in here, set a few things in order. You can do that, can't you?"

Velandryn's studies had come back the moment he realized who it was he faced, and now he rifled through them, seeking anything that could help. The Four Corners of the House of Troubles were not of a single kind, the Temple taught, and each had their own brand of misfortune to bring down on the faithful.

Mehrunes Dagon was as much a force of nature as a being of desire. His calamities surrounded the Dunmer at all times, but they could be overcome with effort. The Lord of Change was dangerous, but negotiations with his minions and servants were typically straightforward in their adversarial nature. Dagon isn't on our side, ever. He could be pointed at other foes, but should never be taken as ally.

Molag Bal was the darkest of the four, a twisted reflection of the grace of the Three filtered through the cruel lens of Coldharbour. He demanded unconditional subjugation, and sought dominion without love. His machinations struck at the soul of the Dunmer, and of the four, it was he who was most violently opposed by the faithful of the Temple. Velandryn was beyond grateful it was not the King of Rape he had stumbled upon today.

Malacath was simple enough, in his way. He was weak and twisted, and sought vengeance on the Chimer for perceived wrongs. His oaths were strong, and his followers loyal, and he had his own dark brand of honor, though Velandryn would never admit that to an outlander.

And, finally, there was Sheogorath. Dangerous, mercurial, utterly without mercy, but not evil. In fact, there were those who suggested that the Madgod could be reasoned with in good faith, and that negotiations with his representatives would arrive at a place of mutual benefit. Those opinions were generally considered dangerous at best, and despite the fact that Sheogorath would often aid supplicants without condition or betrayal, it was considered the height of foolishness to trust in his goodwill.

Velandryn, however, was between a rock and a hard place. Sheogorath was beyond dangerous, but according to the terms of the Covenant, he could not inflict violence upon Velandryn without provocation. Of course, it's easy to provoke a madman…

Velandryn realized he'd been silent for too long when Sheogorath clapped and shouted, "Bored now!"

With a snap, a Dremora appeared in the clearing, staggering forward and looking confused. Sheogorath pointed at Velandryn, and shouted something in some dialect of Daedric. He understood the words "kill" and "mortal." Well, damn.

Roaring, the Daedra—am I being a pedantic f'ghan by saying Daedroth, even in my own mind?— drew a pair of axes and charged. Velandryn raised a hand and focused his magicka, only to find that no power flowed forth. Impossible!

Sheogorath laughed, and the Dremora froze in place, eyes bulging as it strained against whatever invisible bonds held it. "Oh! Forgot to mention! Magic is cheating!"

Velandryn studied the Prince of Madness and his frozen foe. Well-named, this one. "So, you unfreeze him and I die, is that it? Surely there are easier ways to kill me?"

"So rude! Do you want a weapon or not?"

I…what?" Velandryn suddenly felt beyond foolish, having neglected a basic tenet of dealing with the Corners. Each had their quirks, and those defined them. The Madgod, for instance, did not take without giving. Lose magic, get a weapon. It was a twisted logic, but it fit with the lunatic deity before him. I need to pull myself together.

"Do. You. Want. A. Weapon?" Sheogorath wrote out the words in burning letters with his finger as he spoke. "I swear, you mortals are so slow it's embarrassing. Do try to keep up, hmm? Either you accept my gracious gift, or Malthanar here disembowels you and I get a new elf-skin rug!"

"Well, in that case I suppose I will take the weapon."

"Good choice!" Suddenly, there was a staff in Velandryn's hands. "Now, fight!"

The Daedra was charging again, eyes fixed on his own, and Velandryn acted without thinking. He raised the staff as quickly as he could and sent his magicka through the core, triggering the effect contained within.

He'd expected fire, or ice, or lightning. Elemental staves were somewhat common, and could well be called "weapons." He had not expected a burst of crimson light and a puff of smoke that put him oddly in mind of…butterflies, a sound not unlike the beating of far-off wings, and the immediate transformation of the Dremora called Malthanar into a…

"Sweetroll! Mine!" Sheogorath darted forward and snatched the pastry off of the ground. "My favorite! Well done!" He took a bite and chewed with visible pleasure, and Velandryn was left hoping dearly that the staff had merely switched locations rather than…well, he would hope that Sheogorath wasn't actually eating one of his own underlings. Not least because that doesn't bode well for me.

As the shock of what he saw receded enough for thought to return, he glanced down at the staff in his hands. Alteration powerful enough to transform a Dremora into a sweetroll is the provenance of…his eyes took in the intricate carvings under his hands, and the faces that made up the crown. He didn't even have to look to know that they would be similar but not identical. One would be frozen in a maniacal laughing song, one in a horrified scream, and the last in a furious spasm of rage. The Faces of Madness was a powerful motif of Sheogorath, after all, and his greatest tool was crowned with his sign. "Is this…"

"The Wabbajack!" Sheogorath sounded delighted, and not at all as though he'd just given Velandryn one of the most powerful tools of chaos ever created. "Hold onto it for now! Much better than boring swords and magic, don't you think?"

A part of Velandryn was tempted to throw it down and reject this insanity, but he knew better. The House of Troubles was not evil, but he wasn't foolish enough to think The Corners were anything but foes. If his hand left the Wabbajack, he would have acted discourteously by refusing an offered gift, and neither would be bound by the ancient rules of the Covenant. And then I'm dead faster than I can blink.

Instead, he simply held the staff in both hands, making sure to not even hint at rejecting it. "You mentioned a task for me? Something about Pelagius?"

"Right you are! Just poke around his mind here and see what you find. If you feel like afflicting him with a bout of temporary sanity, well, it might encourage me to leave. No fun hanging around in a place with nothing to do, you know! Keep the Wabbajack with you, though; it might come in handy! Ta-ta!" Waving, Sheogorath pointed, and a section of mist pulled back to reveal a path. Grimacing, Velandryn gripped the Wabbajack tightly and walked forward into the mind of a madman.

---

Legate Rikke found the general where she'd known she would, locked away in his office poring over a stack of reports. She would have been informed if anything important had come in, meaning that he was simply trying to glean some new hint of information from old news. A fool's game, that. Of course, he knew that better than her.

The one person in Skyrim who outranked her glanced up when he heard the door open, and his features settled into the scowl he wore more and more often of late. "Legate. Time for this ridiculous party, I assume?" General Saul Tullius knew full well the importance of diplomacy and could bring it to bear when needed, but in private he didn't bother hiding his opinions. As his most trusted advisor and, she suspected, the closest thing he had to a friend in this province, Rikke was permitted long periods of exposure to his true feelings. And the fact that I haven't run off to join the Stormcloaks should put me in line for a damned medal! Immediately, she regretted that thought. The general might be too brash on occasion—or slightly more often than that—but she would never betray the Empire or the general.

Not a hint of her thoughts reached her face. Diplomacy was a game that two could play. "Yes sir. You don't need to arrive early, but you should be seen to arrive before sundown. Any later, and there will be whispers that the Empire's support of Jarl Elisif is flagging."

"And we can't have that." Despite his sour words, though, General Tullius rose and headed for the door. "Gods forbid somebody in Solitude not take her seriously."

Rikke sighed internally. She didn't think Jarl Elisif was terribly effective either, but it wasn't good for General Tullius to be so dismissive. His disdain for the Imperial-allied jarls was already an open secret, and the last thing the Empire needed was some new snippet fanning the flames. At least he only talks this way to me. Well, most of the time.

Rikke was a Whiterun woman born and raised, though, so there was no personal ire behind the thought. Tullius might not like Jarl Balgruuf, but at least he respects him. She personally wanted nothing more than to see her hold brought back to the fold, but for now, the neutral jarl wasn't her concern.

The general's office was next to his rooms, so he needed to waste no time going from sleep or what passed for relaxation to work. And if that doesn't sum up the man, what does?

Any modesty between them was completely pointless, due to Rikke's Nord disregard for nudity and the fact that Tullius had never seen a woman he liked more than the Legion. So, she studied some reports she'd commissioned from Solitude while he washed himself, and helped him into the gilded armor that he'd be wearing tonight. As a legate, she had a much less ornate getup, and privately sympathized with his dislike of the absurd costume. Imperial dignity is one thing, but armor that offers no protection is pointless!

Tullis glanced over her shoulder, and snorted when he saw what she was reading. "So, found your precious Dragonborn yet?"

Legate Rikke had failed to convince General Tullius that the Dragonborn was an important asset for the Empire to acquire, but at least he hadn't stopped her from conducting her own investigation. Unfortunately, the trail had gone quite cold. "No sir. We show him arriving at the Solitude Docks from Morthal three weeks ago, but past that we only have rumors. We think he left the city in a small fishing boat the following day, but we can't find the ship or its captain to question."

"So, you've narrowed down his location to places that connect to Solitude by sea." He pulled on his jerkin and gave her a severe look. "If you end this investigation by telling me he's joined the damned Stormcloaks, I'm not going to be amused!"

She consulted her notes, more to avoid making a face at his comment than to read what she already knew was written there. "Unlikely, sir. He's a Morrowind Dunmer, we think, and Dark Elves don't much care for Ulfric or his rebellion."

"Don't much care for the Empire either, do they?" Still, Tullius was engaging the issue, which she appreciated. He might not understand the import of a Dragonborn— some Colovians and Heartland Imperials seemed to consider it vaguely unpatriotic to give the Dragonborn any sort of importance, given that the current Emperor wasn't of the Dragon Blood—but he at least trusted her enough to give her pet projects credence.

"One more thing, sir. Ambassador Elenwen has sent a note indicating that she will be attending Jarl Elisif's banquet tonight. She hopes that the evening finds you well, and extends an invitation to speak with her should you encounter each other during the festivities."

The general glared at her. "Legate, if you make sure I don't encounter the Ambassador, I'll give you any resources you need for your Dragonborn hunt." Since the debacle at Helgen, he'd managed to evade every single one of Elenwen's communications, but their excuses were running out. She understood her superior's position, but it did put her in an uncomfortable position.

Good thing I hate that Thalmor witch as much as he does. "I'll do my best, sir."

He muttered to himself as she helped him affix his breastplate, "Thinks she can order me around, does she? Her own damned Justicars not stirring up enough trouble, so she wants the Empire bowing and scraping too?"

She held her tongue, since he neither wanted nor cared about her agreement. Sometime Tullius needed to complain, and that was all there was to it. He was considered a guarded and impassive commander by the Legion at large, and he tried consciously to cultivate that exact impression. Therefore, the number of people at whom he could complain was limited to one. Still, it was nice to be reminded that the general wasn't secretly an elf-lover.

The final touch to his formal regalia was the red cape, sewn of red velvet and fasted at the shoulders. It was an absurd touch that ensured the already ornamental armor was without any threat of practicality, but it did make Tullius stand out in a crowd.

The general sighed. "Ready, Rikke?"

"It's a party, sir. Maybe try to have fun?"

He looked at her as if she'd started speaking Daedric. "Are you planning on it?"

"No sir, but I figured maybe one of us should."

Her general chuckled. "Come on. Let's go show our support. Poor girl needs it."

Nodding her assent, Rikke opened the door and followed the general out of the room. She hadn't joined the Legion to dine with jarls and she knew for a fact that Tullius would rather be facing Stormcloaks than dealing with diplomacy, but life was funny like that. Get good enough at being a soldier, and they moved you as far from the battlefield as they could. I guess I should be happy I'm not stuck in an office in Cyrodiil.

The castle was bustling with quiet efficiency as they descended. The sight of the Imperial Legion performing the thousand tiny tasks that ensured it could run smoothly always pleased her. We will prevail. After all, wasn't the Empire the greatest force for peace in the history of Tamriel? No matter what Ulfric might think, they would win this war because they had to.

And if that means going to a fancy dinner party, then so be it. She'd do her job, like always. That's what it meant, being in the Legion.

"Over the hills and into the fire,
'Gainst man or mer or Daedra's ire,
Hear the horns and we'll obey,
Over the hills and far away!"

The old troopers' song rose unbidden in her head, and she smiled to herself at the memories it brought back. She wouldn't trade this life for anything. Even the parties.

Besides, there was a chance they'd serve the blackened crab legs with wasabi. She adored crab legs with wasabi.

"Legate?"

"Sir?"

"You're humming."

"So I am, sir." She continued, enjoying the tune.

He snorted, and she laughed. They walked down the hall together, and every single soldier snapped to attention and saluted as they passed.

They'd earned that much, at least.

---

Velandryn ducked under a bolt of lightning, and thrust the Wabbajack into the Storm Atronach's face. With a pop, the Daedric creation turned upside down, and collapsed into a heap of buzzing stones. Velandryn sprinted down the path before it could right itself, Sheogorath's laughter ringing in his ears.

He'd lost track of time, but the list of things that needed to be done to set Pelagius' mind to order seemed endless. He'd defeated monsters that represented childhood fears, hunted some sort of ever-changing beast through a frigid fog that the Madgod was insistent represented a lost love, and now was on his way to what Sheogorath had described as a "fun little look at his family situation." Velandryn didn't like the sound of that. Putting aside the arena, the business with campfire was more than a little unnerving, and I'd wager he's saving the nastiest of these for last. Whether this next one was the last he didn't know, but he could hope.

The atronachs kept coming, and his blasts from the Wabbajack seemed to do little more than delay them. For each that vanished in a puff of incandescent butterflies or turned into a chicken and flew away screaming filthy words, another would grow in size or split apart into a swarm of smaller copies of the original, and none at all were transformed into sweetrolls. Which seems more than a little unfair.

He took a moment to realize what thought he'd just had. Are these the Madgod's claws in my mind?

A rumble was all the warning that he had before he felt something pushing upward under his feet. He threw himself to one side, landing hard on hand as knees, as a pair of creatures with impossibly long and spindle-like limbs pushed out from below. They turned their open mouths this way and that, long tongues tasting the air and slipping between sharp and protruding teeth.

Hungers! Most of their kind served Boethiah, but Sheogorath had long been infamous for poaching servants from other Princes. They were exceedingly rare in Morrowind, since to the best of Velandryn's knowledge none had crossed over from Oblivion since Dagon's incursion. However, Anointed were required to know the servant races of the Triune and Corners, and Velandryn had been nothing if not assiduous in his studies. So, he knew that they were lethal within the span of their arms, but lacked the ability to cast spells or use any weapon beyond its own body. So long as he kept well away from their mouths and claws, he should be fine. Velandryn pointed the Wabbajack dead center on the nearer, and let fly.

The Hunger shrieked as lightning coursed over its body, but staggered onward regardless. Velandryn fired again, and this time the Hunger twitched once before turning into a chicken. Well, alright then.

Now Velandryn just had to deal with the second Hunger, and that one was lurching closer in an ungainly but shockingly fast run. By the time he'd brought the Wabbajack up, it was upon him, and he barely managed to jab the end of the staff at the creature, keeping it at bay.

The Hunger reached out one long arm, and Velandryn drove the Wabbajack down onto the elbow. The Hunger hissed and jerked its arm back, but Velandryn had spun the staff and gripped it solidly with both hands. He swung it like a battle-axe, and the three faces of Madness slammed into the side of the Daedra's head. It recoiled for an instant before lashing back with arms and tongue, but Velandryn had thrown himself to the ground, and the attacks passed overhead.

The Hunger longs for the taste of mortals. Four thousand years of dealing with Daedra had given the Dunmer maxims and snippets of wisdom beyond measure, and now Velandryn sought to recall all that pertained to these creatures. More so that other Daedra, they seemed to be driven by a need to grasp and consume their foes. So it keeps coming. I can use that.

As the Daedra's arms passed overhead, Velandryn raised the Wabbajack and fired a magical bolt right into the creature's chest. It hissed at him, but none of the staff's chaotic effects seemed to come into play. Damn!

Before he could fire again, the Hunger's long fingers were coiled around the Wabbajack, and Velandryn found himself wrestling with the Daedra for control of the artifact. I thought they only wanted to consume mortals! But he supposed that even a Hunger could covet the Wabbajack.

Well, he can't have it! With a growl, Valendryn kneed the Hunger square in the gut—is it still called a gut if it's thinner than the rest of him?—and used the moment of space to pull the staff mostly free. He snapped two of the creature's fingers by wrenching the Wabbajack in a circle, and leveled the head squarely at its ugly face.

"Taste madness, wretch."

Scholars had long been unable to arrive at a consensus as to whether or not Daedra understood pain in the same way that mortals did. For mortals, the sensation heralded danger and the possibility of death. For Daedra, however, the worst they ever had to fear was banishment back to Oblivion. So, the theory ran, while they clearly experienced something unpleasant while wounded, it likely lacked the horrific intensity of pain as mortals understood it. Actually asking a Daedra about this seemed to reinforce the theory, as Dremora especially were scornful of any who would alter a course of action based on a desire to avoid discomfort or pain.

Whether or not Hungers experienced pain as Velandryn did, this one was hissing and screaming enough to put even the loudest Nord to shame. He couldn't tell what the Wabbajack had done, but it didn't appear pleasant.

Finally, the body vanished in a puff of red smoke, and Velandryn relaxed. Two good ones in a row. That's lucky.

He'd spoken too soon. From the smoke emerged a familiar figure holding a pair of axes. When it saw Velandryn, its eyes narrowed.

Oh, fetch it all. He bowed. "Malthanar. Well met." Courtesy was valued by the Dremora, although the fact that Velandryn had turned this particular Daedra into a sweetroll a little while ago probably meant there wasn't going to be much goodwill no matter how polite he was.

And indeed, the Daedra was already fuming. "You will end your brief existence with agony unimaginable, mortal." He was pacing back and forth, gesticulating grandly with his axes. "I will slice your flesh apart and carve the thousand words of my eternal name upon your bones while you still live! I will bind your soul to a gem woven from your own blood, and deny you the release of your single and pitiful death. You will mewl for your—"

Velandryn sighed. This isn't something I can talk myself out of. He glanced down at the Wabbajack, and had a moment of clarity as he understood how neatly Sheogorath had maneuvered him into a position where he had no choice but to use this poisoned gift.

The blast took Malthanar full in the chest, but nothing else happened. The Daedra looked down at the smoking remnant of the blast, then back up to glare at Velandryn. Slowly, his lips curled into a cruel smile, and he began laughing with lunatic abandon as he stepped forward. "I'm going to enjoy this."

What game are you playing, Madgod? Velandryn fired off another blast, but again there was no sign of damage. Malthanar had slowed however, and his laughter faded. "I will tear you apart! I will bathe in your entrails, and violate the holes I make in your flesh!" His face was scrunched up with rage unlike anything Valendryn had ever seen, and suddenly he understood. Mirth, Rage, and Fear. So went the ancient hymn, and so proceeded the faces carved into the Wabbajack.

There's only one Face of Madness left. Velandryn aimed the Wabbajack at the Dremora, now shifting forward and clearly intending to charge, and let fly the red light once more.

Malthanar froze. His eyes widened. "No! No!" He swung an axe in Velandryn's direction. "Stay back! El'umbraz fadaxkyn! Gyvhn! Gyvhn!"

This had to be the Face of Terror, and Velandryn felt a moment of pity. This Daedra was Sheogorath's plaything every bit as much as Velandryn, after all. However, recalling the comments the Dremora had made even before being afflicted with rage, Velandryn decided he didn't feel too bad about Malthanar being terrified.

He was now huddled on the ground, trembling and murmuring softly to himself. Velandryn had never heard of one of this arrogant and eternal race being so reduced, and a part of him felt a perverse joy at being witness to such a thing. Another bit of him, however, was a tiny bit sad at seeing him brought so low. Daedra, after all, were the superior ancestors—spiritually if not always through lines of strict descent—of the Dunmer people. They shouldn't act like this.

Velandryn turned away, not wishing to see any more of this spectacle. He left Malthanar there, and pushed on. What was it Sheogorath said? Something about family?

Velandryn didn't remember too much about Pelagius other than the bits that had made it into jokes and a few smug essays on why the mad Emperor was proof that absolute dynastic authority was a critically flawed system, but he was fairly certain that what lay before him was not an accurate representation of the man's family life. A herd of children and animals ran this way and that, consumed with a dozen pointless tasks. Over them all stood a woman, twenty feet tall at least. From time to time she would reach down and pick up a child or animal, tear them open and scatter their innards on the ground, then toss the pieces left down where the destroyed creature would reassemble itself and continue its meaningless activity.

And they say the Dunmer are strange. He readied the Wabbajack; this damnable staff had to be the key here, after all. He'd noticed the pattern to everything he'd had to face, and finally understood the maxim that Sheogorath adored rules, but hated letting anyone else know what they were. He gave me the Wabbajack, so he expects me to use it.

His first attempt was a direct attack against the enormous woman, but it failed to do anything at all. The light simply glanced off of her, and she stooped to wrap thick fingers around the neck of a screaming girl with long red hair.

He hadn't had high expectations, but his failure still annoyed him, and the child's screams of agony were strangely upsetting as he considered other options. I suppose some things are too deeply rooted to ignore, after all. This might be the illusion of a mad mind and the children were obviously only facsimiles, but even the idea of harming children made his stomach roil.

The Dunmer were not a populous race, and in the aftermath of the Red Year every child was recognized as the vanguard of the future. All violence against a child was recognized as abhorrent, and anyone who sanctioned any sort of assassination or torture that would harm a young Dunmer would soon find themselves undergoing agony beyond imagining.

Velandryn could tell himself this and recognize that it was an ingrained cultural response all that he wanted, but he still felt the urge to vomit as the woman swung the little girl's spine—and the bits of her that remained attached—this way and that.

Barely thinking, he pointed the Wabbajack again, and let fly. This time, however, his target was not the woman.

The remains of the child began to smoke, and twisted upon themselves as if caught in an invisible flame. The familiar red smoke began billowing out, and the woman finally paused her carnage to stare at the thing in her hand. I wonder what'll be there once the smoke clears? The only thing he knew for certain was that it wouldn't be boring.

And, indeed, a familiar roar of anger brought Velandryn almost to laughter. You poor bastard. He wasn't sure if the thought was directed at the giant woman, or the Dremora she held.

She screamed and opened her hand, but Malthanar had already managed to bury both axes in her chest, and he climbed the enormous woman with astonishing dexterity. When he reached her shoulders he used one axe to hack into her neck with furious purpose, and in seconds she was reeling this way and that, black blood gushing from the wound while her head flopped about on the bits of muscle and bone that still held.

Curiously, Velandryn found that this grisly spectacle didn't bother him in the slightest. It is either an illusion or an aberrant creation of Sheogorath.

Finally, the woman toppled and fell, and Malthanar jumped free. The Daedra landed heavily while still holding both of his axes, and grinned wickedly at Velandryn. "You again."

"You seem more composed than the last time we met." Velandryn knew it wasn't the wisest thing to say, but he wasn't at his best right now. "Keep your distance if you want to stay that way." That had been calculated, and he waited for Malthanar's response

Dremora regarded communication as necessitating answer, and to ignore an insult was to make it as though it had not happened. Of course, the essay he'd read on the subject had studied a clan that followed Mehrunes Dagon; he had no way of knowing if Malthanar held to the same tenets.

However, the Dremora's response—turning away and vanishing into the mist—seemed to reinforce his belief. Never thought I'd be intimidating a Dremora! Of course, it had mostly been the staff, but still, it was a nice feeling.

The field was now bare as the bodies and children had evaporated into nothingness, with the gloomy sky overhead and mist all around. Velandryn raised his voice. "What next, Sheogorath? What else in here needs curing?" That last word he'd chosen on the spur of the moment. Again, not my wisest decision.

The Madgod's voice came from every direction. "Fear! You need to get rid of it!" The mist drew in close around him. "Have fun!"

Velandryn spun, pointing the Wabbajack into the mist. What did Pelagius fear? That was a dumb question. The mad Emperor had feared just about everything—

Sheogorath's voice broke in "He feared pumpernickel! And once he tried to have a rainbow executed!"

And now the Madgod is reading my mind.

Once more the voice came from nowhere and everywhere, mocking in its cheer. "I'm not reading your mind! Your thoughts are just obvious!" He laughed for far too long. "Or maybe I am, because you've goooooone maaaaad!" Those last two words were in a voice that was bizarre even by the Prince's standards, and after another bout of laughter, Sheogorath fell silent.

Velandryn sighed, and scanned the fog as he waited for something to happen. What is pumpernickel, anyway?

Sheogorath's voice sounded again, as serious as it had yet been. "Oh, and one more thing." The fog swirled, and overhead, the sky took on a tone of red. Velandryn glanced up, and saw something up there. A star? It was a tiny patch of darkness against the crimson sky. "This isn't Pelagius' fear." Sheogorath's voice was full of joy, and the speck was getting larger, moving with impossible speed. "It's yours!"

Velandryn's body froze, and he stared upward in dawning horror. The dark thing was rushing closer, and as he stared transfixed at its approaching form, he understood. Baar Dau.

Why Sheogorath had ripped Lie Rock from the Void and hurled it at Morrowind, none now living knew. However, Vivec had frozen it with a wave of his hand and given the Dunmer his greatest ultimatum. Worship Me, and this stone shall hang above My city for all time, a testament of My Love. For thousands of years it had remained over Vivec City, and the Ordinators had carved their Ministry of Truth into its very stone.

Forget Me, or turn away, and it shall fall as though I had never intervened. And so it had. When Vivec and his power had vanished, so too had the impossible magic that held a rogue moon in place. Baar Dau had fallen despite the best efforts of Dunmer wizards, and the resulting impact had completely annihilated the city of Vivec and triggered the chain of events that had led to the Red Year.

It was a psychic scar on every Dunmer who held fast to the culture of their homeland, and it was bearing down on him at this very moment. He could no more move out of the way than he could have…

Could have…

Thought was failing him. His feet were rooted, eyes wide as he watched his doom bear down upon him.

How many died?

They'd never been able to come up with a final number for the dead, but it numbered somewhere between one hundred-fifty and two hundred thousand souls, most of them innocent Dunmer. Vivec had been utterly annihilated, Balmora had been ravaged by earthquakes that eventually buried most of the city, Ald'ruhn had vanished under a river of lava ten miles wide that had overwhelmed the foyadas as it made its way from Red Mountain to the sea. The Mage-Lords of the Telvanni had mostly saved themselves, but left the vast majority of their people to live or die at the mercy of Vvardenfell and the nightmare that consumed it. How many villages, how many Ashland clans, wiped from existence with no hint left behind?

Lives, history, culture, all snuffed out. Many had perished in the blink of an eye. The lucky ones. Others had died slowly, unable even to scream, choking on ash too thick even for the lungs of a Dunmer and cut off from any help by a land that had changed around them. Some had been cut down by their fellow mer, desperate survivors turning on each other in an attempt to scrounge enough food or clean water to make it through one more scorching night or sunless day.

They'd cleaned those parts up for the histories. There were acts of heroism aplenty during the Red Year, no need to remind us how many starved to death while digging frantically through the ash for the bodies of their loved ones. But the records remained, hidden behind doors of ebony and bone deep in Great Fane. The Ordinators-Repentant—the first of their order, for they had sworn new oaths upon seeing the horror that their blind obedience had unleashed—combed through the ashes to recover the remains of the dead and inter some part of them in keeping with the faith. Even today, each Ordinator and Anointed spent a year of their training on Vvardenfell, working to restore the land or raise new structures. It was the penance of each and every Dunmer who claimed to know the will of the Triune.

Through adversity we are strengthened. The Red Year was a piece of history, to be studied and understood. It had shaped the Dunmer, but even those who lived through it spoke of it with a detachment that made clear the impossible pain it had caused them.

And now it's here. Baar Dau had caused it all, caused it all by falling, just like now.

Velandryn realized he had fallen to his knees, eyes closed as tears trickled down his cheeks. The air was fire around him, the ground beneath him rocking as through it were water. Overhead, the rock too was wreathed in flame as it ignited the air with the force of its passing. Blessed Triune, save me!

Save me…

His head bowed, even as he made the prayer that he knew was in vain. The Triune would not save him, this was the realm of the Madgod, and any who came here were at the mercy of Sheogorath.

No!

The voice had been too long quiet, and its return came with a stab of pain through his temples. Not at his mercy! Velandryn screamed, but the cacophony of Baar Dau's fall drowned out any noise he could make.

Long days on the march had brought Dov and Joor to a kind of peace, where his determination came from within, and its source mattered little. Whether it was a dragon's fury at the temerity of some degenerate clan of filthy Daedric spawn trying to kill him, or a Dunmer's stubborn determination not to give a bunch of vampire bastards the satisfaction of causing his death, his goal had been the same.

Not anymore.

Now, everything that was Dunmer in him was shutting down. Had he been prepared, he could have steeled his mind against this event, but the rules here had caught him off-guard. So I have to rise to the challenge.

Dov had no patience for ancestral trauma. Enemies were enemies, and whether they were natural disasters or Daedric vengeance, it made no difference to Dov. Shutting down was admitting defeat, and the Dragonborn did not admit defeat!

He raised his eyes, staring holes into the rock. It was huge now, taking up most of the sky. He glared at it, hating it for what it would do. Kill so many.

But through death came rebirth. The survivors found purpose. For the first time since the First Era, the children of Veloth were following his teachings as a single nation. Great Fane rang with prayer and spellcraft, and Necrom with the songs of the dead. Nobles schemed, children fought, fools fell in love too quickly and old mer laughed at terrible jokes told by drunken Acolytes.

We don't end here.

Dov roared approval as he stood, and he knew that his voice would echo with the power he still barely understood.

"FUS!"

It erupted from his throat, once more pushing the very air—no, the Creatia, he could see the strands of almost-magicka as they hummed in the Thu'um's wake—aside as it roared upward.

It won't be enough. Baar Dau was still falling, and that was only a small push. His Thu'um was unformed, and—

Instantly, without any sound or flash, Baar Dau was gone and Velandryn was standing in a familiar clearing. Sheogorath beamed at him from his chair at the laden table. "Good show! Better than making my toes fight each other to see who gets to itch my leg!"

He nearly collapsed but managed to keep his feet, trembling all over. "That was…"

"Oh, just a little party trick! Good for clearing the room when you want to signal that it's time to leave." He looked over his shoulder and raised his voice. "You hear that, Maxus? Get out of my damned Isles before I tell your boss what you really get up to with the Mazken! HEY! I'M TALKING TO YOU!" There was no response, and Sheogorath turned back and shrugged. "Oh well, doesn't always work. You're still here, after all."

Velandryn head was still spinning, but he managed to pull his way into a chair. "Why did you do it?"

"Oh, I thought you deserved a change of pace after spending so long working with Pelagius!" He grinned. "Only problem is, you aren't mad just yet, so I had to go with an old standby. My big smashing rock always gets the Dunmer! Smashing!" He giggled insanely and leaned in. "You did better than most, if you must know. Less screaming and not nearly as much dying! Must be the Dragon bits. Dragons don't take any shit from rocks, you know. Famous for it, actually."

Velandryn shook his head. The Madgod's words were water on stones; they washed over him without sinking in. "Why send it in the first place? Why torment us with Baar Dau? You're Madness, so there's no reason—"

"I'm Madness, like you said! I don't need a reason!" Sheogorath snapped his fingers, then grew serious again. "But, I did have one. I was answering a request, if you must know."

"Whose?"

"Vivec's." The single word, spoken with none of Sheogorath's' usual teasing joy or playful anger, dropped ice into Velandryn's stomach. Oh, gods.

"He called it. He brought down…" Velandryn couldn't finish the sentence. The False Tribunal had been thieves and murderers, to be sure, but only ever for power. What they had done was foul murder, but even foul murder was almost understandable when one stood to gain immortality and divine power. They had fallen from grace, but this was an entirely new level of atrocity. If Vivec summoned Baar Dau to hold over our heads…

"Well, not in so many words, but that's his own fault!" Sheogorath spread his hands. "Comes to me asking for help making sure his people love him. What am I supposed to do?"

"Not send a giant rock to destroy us!"

"Destroy you? I held up my end of the deal." Sheogorath grinned. "You want to blame someone, how about that two-faced god of yours. He could have turned it into butterflies or pudding or simply banished the damn thing, but he let it hang up there until he had to pop out, and then it fell! That's not my fault!"

Impossible. If Vivec had truly summoned Baar Dau, then… "Why should I believe you? You're one of the…" He realized what he was about to say as Sheogorath laughed.

"That's right! I'm the big scary Daedra that goes quack in the night, but I have to play by the rules! The Covenant binds us both, Dragonborn! I can't lie to you, or it gets," he shuddered, "political. The last thing I want is another spat with Boethiah. No sense of humor, that one, and it ends with mountains of corpses on the rug! Takes decades to get the smell out."

He was right. So long as the he held to the terms of the Covenant—and Velandryn had by some miracle, even in his outburst, refrained from violating any of the tenets—Sheogorath would never lie to a faithful of the Temple of the Triune Faith. And if he's telling the truth…

"The Corners, some of the dissident texts say it was the Tribunal you opposed, not the Dunmer." He looked the Madgod square in the eyes. "Is that true?"

Sheogorath shrugged. "You lot are too serious by half, so it's fun to open up your minds a bit" He grinned. "Sometimes with a thought, sometimes with an axe."

"Before, before the Tribunal, in the days of the Chimer, what were you?" The scholar in Velandryn couldn't let this chance go, even as the priest was terrified of what he might learn. "Were there more Daedra who worked with the Velothi?" Just how much of our own history did the Tribunal steal away?

But Sheogorath was laughing, and shaking his head. "No, not even a little bit! Malacath's hated you lot since he lost his old name, and Dagon and the Lord High Rapemaster have their own histories with you, the kind that go a lot deeper than who shat out who." He stuck a quill pen into a piece of fruit, which began wailing in what sounded horribly like pain. With each bite he took, the sound grew quieter, until the fruit was gone and the glade was silent. "You must try the screamfruit! Nothing brings out tartness like a bit of existential horror!"

Velandryn didn't want to think about insane fruit right now, and demurred with a wave of his hand. "And you?"

"I play my games, find my favorite mortals, and do a bit of helping every now and then. Not a bad way to spend eternity, you know."

Velandryn knew of Sheogorath's 'help.' He'd seen the ruins it left behind. "And the Dunmer? The Tribunal?"

"If you want to make me an enemy, fine! I can play along. Plus, somebody who hates me is so much more fun that somebody who doesn't care!"

All of this raised as many questions as it answered. "And now? The Tribunal is gone."

"Are they? All of them, you say?" Sheogorath peered at him, voice losing all of its humor. "If you're going to be playing games with us, there's a lot you need to learn. And gone is such a…mortal word.." He shrugged. "Besides, I've my own house to put in order. I had a terrible houseguest a while back. Left crystals everywhere! I've no time to go dealing with mortal problems! Try some cheese, it's the good stuff!"

Time enough to loiter around waiting for me, though. With a sigh, Velandryn picked up a piece of cheese, and tried a corner. Not bad. "So, that's it, then? Just minding your own business, are you? No more moons sent to kill us, just your usual brand of chaos?"

Sheogorath bowed theatrically. "I've been hard at work on some farmers in Gna Fell! They'll be dancing like crabs in a fortnight!"

Velandryn almost wanted to chuckle at that, but he swallowed that impulse. Let the Madgod play his games. The Dunmer will prevail. Then, he thought back over all that had happened. "You wanted me here. You know too much about me for it to be coincidence. But why?"

"Not too many Dragonborn around these days. I watched the last one go up in a puff of Akatosh, thought I'd see what you're made of." He grinned. "Maybe even blow your mortal mind with some hard truths about things." His face become tremendously sad. "I was hoping for more tears, or gnashing of teeth."

Velandryn shrugged. "I was born after the Tribunal fell from grace. My gods are the Triune, not the Three Thieves." In truth, he was still shaken, but he hadn't lied. Then something occurred to him. "You mentioned the last Dragonborn before me. Who was it?" A puff of Akatosh? "Martin Septim?"

"Got it in one! Good lad, exceptionally bright, wonderful taste in draperies. Shame he had to go." The Madgod jabbed a finger in Velandryn's direction. "Life lesson for you: kill your enemies the first time, so they can't summon Mehrunes Dagon. It all goes downhill from there."

"I'll keep that in mind." He knew something of Dagon's Incursion in Cyrodiil, and had to wonder. "I never heard of the Madgod's involvement in the Crisis."

"Well, I wasn't me yet, silly! I mean, I was, but also not." Sheogorath tapped his chest. "Family tradition, you know. Pass the title down from me to myself every so often!"

Something he'd said earlier came back now. "You were mortal?"

"I was, and am, Sheogorath the Inconfoundable! Or was it Unconfoundable? Either way, I'm me! Whatever else I was. Or wasn't. You know how it goes."

I'm starting to doubt that very much. The strangeness of this all was still held slightly at bay, but Velandryn wasn't sure how much longer he wanted to linger here. Bound by the Covenant they both might be, but dealing with Sheogorath was perhaps the single quickest way to lose your mind. Grunting slightly as bruised limbs protested, Velandryn rose. "I have done as you wanted, and now I ask of you, will you return to your servant?"

"Oh, all right." The Prince of Madness stood, and stretched his arms above his head. For a moment, he was frozen like in that position, and then something shifted. His arms were in front of him and behind him at once, and Velandryn had the unnerving experience of seeing Sheogorath from angels he hadn't even known existed. Dov stirred within him, and Velandryn had a surge of satisfaction that some lie was being undone.

Then, instantly, the moment was gone. Sheogorath again looked like nothing more than a white-bearded old man with a cane.

Velandryn realized he had pushed back from the table and raised his hands defensively. The Madgod grinned at him. "Saw that, did you? A bit of power in you after all."

"Was that—"

"You're the one who restored Pelagius' sanity, mortal. Don't blame me if things start to get a bit…unstable in here. Well, for a bit at least. He never manages these things for long! So don't worry, he'll be back to declaring war on the snowfall in no time!"

"So, you're leaving."

"Impatient impatient impatient! Let me just make sure I have everything." He began patting himself down. "Pockets, check! Beard, check! Luggage?" He looked around. "Now where did I leave my luggage?"

With the now-familiar blur that portended a Daedric portal in this place, the mad beggar from before appeared. He fell to his knees and began crawling towards the Daedric Prince who was now dancing around, loudly counting his thoughts to make sure they were all there.

The beggar reached Sheogorath's feet, and began weeping. "My Lord! You've come back to me! I knew you would, even—"

"Bored now!" Sheogorath clapped his hands, and the beggar disappeared. "All right, only one last thing." He pointed at Velandryn. "I'll be having what's mine, now! You're not nearly fun enough to walk off with my Wabbajack!"

Velandryn tensed, and reached for his magic before he remembered he didn't have it here. The emptiness inside him was a mocking song, one that he hated with every fiber of his being. He'd managed to suppress the feeling by focusing on the madness around him, but now he was brought face to face with it.

Without magic, what am I? Velandryn Savani had been studying the arcane for his entire life, and right now, not a drop of that could help him. Dov stirred then, and Velandryn twitched as something woke inside. I'm the Dragonborn.

Sheogorath grinned at him toothily. "Well, hand over the Wabbajack, mortal! Playtime's over, and I don't have all day!" He winked. "Actually, I do. Little joke."

Velandryn didn't budge. "A gift freely given, in accordance with the Covenant. You cannot demand it back, Sheogorath."

The smile had shrunk a bit, but Sheogorath was still grinning at him. "You wouldn't tell a Khajiit how to lick its own ballsack, and you'd best not think you can try and teach me how to screw someone out of a deal, laddo. That weapon's part of the game, and now that game's done. The staff's mine."

Velandryn shook his head. I know this one. "The task is done, but the game isn't, is it? You set me a trial and I accomplished it, by your own admission." The Corners might be adversarial, but they still tested the Dunmer. There were rules, after all, and one of the most ancient was that any challenge—be it physical, mental, spiritual or philosophical— personally overseen by any Prince who had acceded to the Covenant of Veloth must be rewarded. I don't much want the Wabbajack, but Sheogorath has to have something worthwhile tucked away in that ugly suit of his! Some small voice was screaming at him that trying to outwit the Madgod was folly, but he didn't care. I let the staff go for nothing, the Covenant of Veloth is broken. Plus, he wanted a real reward. Maybe a lot of gold.

Fortunately, the Madgod seemed amused rather than enraged by Velandryn's defiance. "You know what happens if you try and use my friend Wabba without my permission? You think it's chance that chooses what happens when you point that staff?"

Velandryn gave him his most practiced smile. "I don't want the Wabbajack, Madgod, but I won't give it away for nothing."

"Haha! That's the spirit, you scamp!" He snapped his fingers. "Here's my deal! Three gifts, one for each face of your precious Triune. A secret, a weapon, and an open door. Each of Daedric potency, but double-edged and razor-sharp!"

Velandryn studied the white-haired Prince. Don't think I'll get a better deal than this. He nodded. "What are you offering?"

"Breaks from reality, mostly, but I have a special on limitless dread for a limited time." Sheogorath licked his lips. "Or did you mean the gifts?" A small chuckle. "Well, you are mortal, so I'd best hurry up before you die or something." He held out a hand. "First, the staff." When Velandryn still hesitated, the Madgod laughed loudly. "Have no fear, I'm not going to cross your Triune. Don't want spiders in my basement again!" He sobered. "Ihez vaato nubal, I swear it."

That oath was older even than Saint Veloth the Prophet; carved upon the first faces of the Walking Wheels, or so it was said. Even Sheogorath wouldn't dare risk the ire of the Three so openly. Velandryn opened his hand, and the Wabbajack evaporated from sight.

The Madgod vanished, and appeared only inches in front of him. "Nicely done, little mortal! Now, for your reward…"

Velandryn reached down, reveling in his magicka once more. Dov roared approval, and flames sprang into being around his hands and wreathed his clothing in a burning embrace. That's better. "What is your offer, Madgod?"

"Madsong, Madgod, Lord of the Dancing Way!" Sheogorath sang loudly and off-key, and every glass on the table hummed in harmony. "I offer a weapon you dare not wield, a secret you cannot understand, and a key to a door you don't know is closed!"

Vleandryn considered for all of half a heartbeat. Anything to be out of here with all of my parts and mind intact. Besides, these gifts sounded interesting."Deal."

"Alrighty then! Catch!" Sheogorath threw something at Velandryn's head, and the Dragonborn's hand snapped up to catch it.

A ring? It was a simple band of some silvery metal that deformed slightly when pressed, though it returned to its original shape the moment the pressure was released. Velandryn had never seen its like.

"Put that on when you're in a pinch! It'll be hilarious!" The words were hardly reassuring, but Velandryn would have been a fool to expect a gift that wasn't in some way a threat to the user.

Velandryn carefully tucked the ring away, making sure he knew exactly which pocket held the item. I'm not about to use a gift from Sheogorath until I can test it out.

The Madgod smiled at him again. "Now, for that secret. You ready?"

No. "Yes."

"You suuuure you're ready? It's a doozy!"

Velandryn sighed. "If I say no, do I get the staff back?"

"Nope, I'll just tell you how many butterflies I can fit into the Chamber of Zero instead! It'll haunt your dreams, I promise!"

Velandryn didn't know if it was actually possible to get anything into a room that didn't exist outside of metaphysical speculation, but he had the feeling that the answer wouldn't do his sanity any favors. "What's the secret?"

"We're watching you."

"What?"

"It's mostly political, but the fact that there's a Dragonborn running around can't be ignored." There was no hint of madness in Sheogorath's' voice, though he still sounded intolerably amused. "Princes are taking notice, you know. Thought they'd seen the last of you lot when Dagon did his business, but here you are! And with dragons too! That's the scary part!"

"Why? Why would dragons scare the Princes?" Velandryn needed to ask the right questions, but couldn't afford to get too deep into the implications of what the Madgod was saying. Not yet, at least. He needed a clear head here.

Sheogorath wagged a finger. "That'd be telling, you know. A whole different secret, that one! But, you'd best keep on your toes. Things are going all different this time around, and nobody's sure why." Sheogorath leaned in so close that Velandryn could feel his breath. "The Dragon is spinning, and that's never happened before." He grasped Velandryn by the shoulders. "You think the Thalmor are coincidence? Aka's broken something fierce, and nobody can put it back together! You break the dragon, it breaks both ways!" A finger jabbed into his chest. "You got some of it in you. One and one isn't two, it's one! Add another and another and another, it's always one! That's why they're afraid!" Each word now was accompanied by flecks of spittle. "Every game, the pieces go back in the box! Different places next time, but there aren't new pieces. Except not this time! Anu and Padhome, they're not the sides anymore, but you're stuck right in the middle. Time isn't linear, but it marches on! Who knows when everything goes back in? You get me?"

Velandryn's head was spinning. "Not in the slightest. What does it mean, my being Dragonborn?"

"Not you! You don't matter!" Sheogorath sounded as though Velandryn was personally insulting him with his lack of understanding. "There needed to be a Dragonborn, but nobody cares if it's you."

"So, what? I was convenient?"

"Or inconvenient! I don't know why it does what it does."

"It?" It sounded as though Sheogorath knew something more about what had made him Dragonborn.

"Aka! The big guy! The one that's so completely mad that it's trying to save the world and end it at the same time!" Sheogorath let out a huge breath and chuckled. "I've done that one before, you know. Fun, but tiring." A shrug. "Easier when you're in pieces though."

Aka. Velandryn knew the word. A governing principle said to overlay the various cultural incarnations of the Time Imperials had Akatosh and the Altmer had old Auri-El—plus the Khajiit and Nords had other versions of it too, if he remembered correctly—but they were simply culture gods who'd tapped into a primal force, not unlike the Dark Brotherhood and their degenerate reverence of Sithis-as-Void. "So…you're saying I was chosen as Dragonborn by…Aka?" As well say I was chosen by dead Lorkhan! Gods on that level sere not conscious as mortals understood it. Or, are they?

Sheogorath shook his head. "Not that simple! You can't understand yet! Wait! Just remember that there's a bigger game going on! A dragon's no more a big lizard than I'm an old man, you get me?"

Shockingly, Velandryn did, and that worried him. "Why tell me this though? What's the point of it? Why is there a Dragonborn at all?"

"Because there needs to be one! You're them, but opposed. A counterbalance, for the other side."

"Sides? What sides? You keep saying that word, but who are you talking about?" Aka didn't have the consciousness to pick a side…did he? Only the Daedra…

Sheogorath's eyes opened wide. "No time, no time! That's all you get, so sorry so sad! Take the door on your right, and you can't go wrong! Well, you can, but you won't. Probably. Ta-ta!"

With a blur, Velandryn found himself back in a dark room, head spinning. What in Oblivion? He raised a hand and let lights float around the chamber, confirming that he was indeed back in the Pelagius Wing.

Is this another trick? Sheogorath had sent him off so quickly, and there'd been a strange feeling in the air at the end there…

No matter. Accepted doctrine was reflection and meditation after an encounter with any Daedra, and that went double for one of the Corners. And the Madgod, well, I'd be better off sequestering myself for a week until I'm sure he didn't plant his hooks in my mind! That entire conversation had been a whirlwind, and Velandryn was still trying to figure out what exactly Sheogorath had been saying. Are the dragons related to Aka somehow? Akatosh and Auri-El manifested as dragons, to be sure, but neither of them was flying around Skyrim right now. Are they?

He felt like he was missing something, as though there were an obvious piece of the puzzle that he lacked. Something that he could find or remember that would make all Sheogorath's ramblings fall into place.

A noise from the other side of the wall drew his attention, and the thoughts fled. Maybe not just this instant, though. He was still in the Blue Palace, after all, and he hadn't exactly been invited, Jordis notwithstanding. He'd do well to get out of here before anyone realized that they had the Dragonborn not only in Solitude, but in the residence of the jarl herself. Whether Jarl's guards or Imperial troops, I don't need them hunting me down.

He'd locked the door to the Pelagius Wing behind himself, but fortunately, a key could work from either side. He reached to his belt…which was when he realized that he was still wearing the clothes the Madgod had given him.

No! He patted himself down, panic rising in his throat, but there was no key to be found. Desperately he scanned the room, but could spy nothing that looked to hold to the key. No no no!

He could blast through the door or try to unlock it with magic, of course, but somehow he figured that wouldn't do him any favors with his goal of not fleeing from here with half the Legion on his heels. Besides the fact that he was a little more rattled than was ideal for spellcasting, he could feel the presence of old spells in the wood that would resist any magic he might send against it. Any door so enchanted generally had nasty surprises waiting for anybody foolish enough to try and force their way through. Fitting, considering Pelagius' paranoia. So, that left him with the option of looking for another way out, unless he wanted to obliterate the door and take his chances with the guard. Not likely.

A quick glance out the window confirmed that the portion of the Pelagius Wing in which he was currently stuck was several stories off of the ground, and none of the windows opened. Most of the windows looked out over gardens now bathed in the last rays of the dying sun—how long was I in that place?—but a few simply overlooked a several-hundred-foot drop to the waves below. Best leave that as a last resort. He could shatter the windows and use Slowfall to deposit him on the ground below, but he wasn't foolish enough to believe that nobody would see an elf jump three stories down out of the Blue Palace. And then I end up with that whole running out of the city half a step in front of the guard scenario again.

Fortunately, the next room he entered had another door, and this one, puzzlingly, stood slightly ajar. Velandryn studied it, wondering why the Pelagius Wing wouldn't be sealed off. Then, in one ear, he heard a familiar chuckle.

"I told you there was an open door, lad." Sheogorath's voice was a friendly whisper. "Have fun!"

As Velandryn approached, he heard the sound of music and conversation on the other side, and cursed silently. The banquet! With this, his odds of sneaking out undetected had gone down precipitously.

Then, he glanced down. He didn't know much about high fashion, but his clothes looked presentable enough, if somewhat unconventional. He supposed it was the price one paid for being dressed by the Madgod. Might be I can avoid notice long enough to escape the Palace. It wasn't as though he had many other choices. So, sighing quietly to himself, he pushed open the door and slipped through, hoping against hope that whatever he faced wouldn't be his end.

Quite the gift, Madgod.

---

Sheogorath sat in his chair, watching the Dragonborn walk through the door. "How rude! Couldn't even be bothered to thank me for opening it!"

His other uninvited guest smiled, inasmuch as something with a mouth like that could smile. "Does the Madgod now covet gratitude?" It was a question, though the tone barely conveyed it as such. Most beings would have been unable to discern speech at all.

Sheogorath huffed. "If you're going to be nice to mortals, they'd best kriffing appreciate it!"

The other tilted the thing that might be called a head. "I do not know this word."

"I made it up! Shouldn't you lot be able to figure that out?"

"A meaningless profanity. That you conjured it from nothing is typical for one such as you." Another of those smiles. Any mortal that saw it would probably lose their lunch and a few nights' sleep. "Why did you help him?"

"Had to. He passed my little game, don't you know." Sheogorath grinned and shrugged. "Terms of the Covenant and all that."

"Do not seek to dissemble. Had you wished it, his mind would be in splinters and his power broken. Yet he walks from here free of harm."

"I liked the cut of his jib, you know. A rare thing, having a jib like that! Thought the poor lad could use a break."

"You sent him from this place when you became aware of my presence. You gave him pieces, but failed to mention Alduin World-Eater; the path is broken and dark and you have given him half a candle." The other one leaned in, until they were face-to-face. "If you covet a mad mortal, find one of lesser consequence. The Dragonborn is not yours to do with as you please, Madgod."

Sheogorath's expression hardened. "Run back to your master and tell him he can come here himself if he wants to try and order me around." He smiled again, sudden and swift as sunlight through clouds. "I'll have a nice big pot of soup waiting for him!" Just like that, the smile was gone. "Bigger fish than Hermaeus Mora are swimming around Skyrim these days."

"All covet power. To have and to hold are not the same. Much that is, will not be." The Seeker did not turn, did not shift, and did not move. It was there one instant, and gone the next.

Sheogorath stood there for a moment longer, humming softly, before frowning. "Bloody Mora!" Then, he sat down in his chair before vanishing as well.

The table remained, alone, on a misty field. The fog rolled in, and all was lost from view.

---

Velandryn's resolve not to get caught up in the flow of the banquet lasted all of twenty-five seconds. When a server offered a silver tray with some sort of pastries arranged in a decorative pattern, he had politely refused. He had avoided the jovial Redguard with the enormous gut who had tried to rope him in to a discussion about trade—do they take me for a merchant then?—and ducked away from the elderly Nord woman who had proclaimed him 'a scrumptious little morsel.' However, when he saw a statue of a dragon made entirely out of ice, he had no other choice but to pause and admire the craftsmanship. The unknown sculptor had clearly never seen one of the beasts, but it was a valiant effort.

With that little pause, Velandryn was forced to acknowledge the festivities around him, and admit that they looked more than a little fun. Imperials and Bretons in intricately tailored suits and gowns spoke and laughed with Nords in costumes ranging from Imperial finery to what must have been traditional war-garb. One bearded fellow wore the pelt of a bear, his head emerging from between its jaws. A striking look, as though he's being eaten. He wondered if that was what the human had been going for.

Every room he passed was filled with people enjoying themselves mightily, but he couldn't fall prey to that. I'm looking around, but there's too much at stake to get lost in here. Still, it did look inviting, and the enormous variety of odd foods was tempting…

A few minutes later, chewing thoughtfully on a shrimp coated in a sort of crispy batter, he wandered the halls, content to observe the festivities. He wondered how long it would take somebody to figure out that he wasn't supposed to be here. I open my mouth and I bet I can do it in five seconds or less.

Fortunately, being in the Palace seemed to carry with it an assumption that you were allowed in the Palace. And somehow they failed to protect their High King. Shocking! He just hoped that they were doing a better job keeping watch over Jarl Elisif, or they'd need to go scrounging for another one before too much longer.

Chuckling, Velandryn headed down a hallway at random, hoping to see something interesting. Instead, he spotted a familiar flash of crimson, and ducked around a corner. Legionary! After a moment, he forced himself to walk nonchalantly past the man, who was flirting with a Nord woman at least half a foot taller than himself. Shouldn't be surprised to see the Legion here, hiding just makes me look suspicious. After all, this was an Imperial city, so naturally some of their officers would be at the party.

The next room was also full of people, as was the one after that. No matter where he went, he was surrounded, and soon he found the indirect pressure of so many unfamiliar presences intolerable. He had grown up with crowds, but those were Dunmer, and he could understand where each of them fell in the intricate web that made up life in Morrowind. Each of these was an unknown, and while he would have relished the chance to unravel the connections and plots at play among these groups under different circumstances, right now he just wanted to get out.

A gust of wind brushed his face, and he turned to see from where it had come. Right now, an open window or a balcony sounded wonderful. A trickle of magicka let him follow its path, and soon he was pushing through a crowd milling about a massive hall, weaving around people where he could and moving them out of his way with gentle—and sometimes not-so-gentle—taps and nudges.

By the time he reached the glass windows that stretched from ceiling to floor, he was more than ready to be done with crowds for the evening. His head still pounded faintly, and a part of him was worried that some of the chattering voices he heard sounded an awful lot like Sheogorath. So, when he saw the doors –ever so slightly ajar—leading outside, he pushed through them and stepped out onto the balcony without conscious thought.

It was as though he stood at the edge of the world. Before him, the arch of Solitude fell away into nothingness, where inky water was broken only by the lights of the docks hundreds of feet below. Beyond that, the marshes of the Hjaal stretched eastward into apparent infinity. Masser and Secunda were both far from full, and neither offered enough light to do more than give hints of shape to the lands below. Here and there were pinpricks of light and color amongst the marshes, but they were tiny things, and those few signs of civilization only served to make the blackness the more ominous. If I'd been able to see the path from Castle Volkihar this clearly, I might have given up in despair.

The view to the south, however, was more comforting. These Nords might not be masters of architecture— Whiterun, Morthal, and even cosmopolitan Solitude had showed him little in the way of truly inspired design—but the lights of the Solitude docks and the fires that marked the vast Imperial camp on the gently sloping hills below the city served as a reminder that not everything in Skyrim was wilderness. Though I can't help but be jealous of Lydia! His housecarl, at least, was in a place with some real civilization, and he envied her that.

North showed him naught but sea and a few mountains of floating ice, but Velandryn didn't mind that. This view had become something of a mediation during his weeks in the Haafingar wilds, and seeing it again gave him a feeling not unlike pleasure. At that thought, he shook his head. His time alone must have done more damage that he thought. Doubt I can blame that one on Sheogorath!

Pushing thoughts of the Madgod from his mind, he looked out over Skyrim, trying neither to let his mind wander too fully nor delve too deeply. He needed the calm, the contemplative moment that let him pause and breathe for a moment. Closing his eyes, he inhaled, and the scent of smoke that marked any Nord city mingled with the cool salt breeze off the sea. There was something else there, too, a sharp scent that he couldn't exactly place, except that it felt oddly familiar…

His eyes snapped open, and he peered eastward as though his eyes could pierce the blackness. The scent wasn't a smell, it seemed, but something deeper. And he knew what was causing it…

Almost without thinking, he pulled on night-eye and enhanced his vision, though the minor spell had absolutely no effect at these massive ranges. Even magic has its limits. And yet, he continued to channel it, as though he could will his power to expand, and show him the dragon whose presence had come to him on the nighttime wind.

Soon, however, he was forced to admit that the hint of draconic power he had felt was too remote to come again, and he might as well just enjoy the view. And so he did, letting his night-eye fall away and simply basking in the cold air. He closed his eyes—it wasn't as though they were doing him too much good here anyway—and focused on the tangible experience of the Skyrim night.

For a moment, the chill threatened to overwhelm him, but now he found himself almost welcoming that razor-edged feeling in his extremities. He inhaled and pulled his magicka out to circulate through his blood, bringing with it the warmth of a fondly-remembered room in the libraries of Great Fane.

It was, technically speaking, dangerous to use magicka to warm your body directly, but Velandryn had been doing it for— how long, two weeks?—out in the wilds, and by now it was second nature. Without having to worry about the cold, he found this vista magnificent, and was able to enjoy it in comfort. When you remove the Nords and the cold, Skyrim is lovely! He chuckled.

From behind, there came the click of the doors opening, and he tensed instinctively. I'm not doing anything wrong, just standing here. A footfall, and he could feel the presence of somebody behind him. He just stood there. Let them come to me.

Whoever it was didn't move, but he could feel them. It wasn't their magicka, exactly, but somehow their breath gave them away. That's new. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and he wondered if it was his newfound control of his magic or something to do with being Dragonborn that gave him this gift. Either way, it's damn useful. He continued looking out into the blackness. Project confidence.

Whoever it was that stood behind him, they seemed to have the same idea. Instead of speaking, they just stood there, and soon Velandryn was itching to turn around. Unfortunately, he'd left it too long, and to turn now would be seen as bizarre. Wouldn't it?

Frozen, he simply stood there, hoping against hope that the other person would do something to give him an out. What in Oblivion was I thinking? He'd been trying for some sort of power play, but this other person was not only unknown to him, but didn't even know that he was the Dragonborn. And so I stand here like an imbecile.

Someone leaned on the railing to his left, and he had to resist the urge to crane his neck to see who it was. From the corner of his eye he could make out flashes of green and white, but little more. Why am I even doing this? He'd come too far now to give up on this moronic charade, however, and so he only shifted his shoulders to open his chest and let himself breathe deeply.

Still the presence to his side said nothing. He thought that whoever it was had red hair, and he shifted his head ever so slightly to confirm. Lighter than his, and hiding the face of his uninvited guest. Damn it all. He could see that whoever this was wore some sort of fancy dress; most likely they were actually supposed to be at this party. He had an odd wish for Jordis to come busting in and disrupt everything, but sadly this little stand-off remained undisturbed.

He couldn't have said how long they stood like that, but it felt like hours. Finally, just as he was about to give it up and turn his head, the other spoke.

"I was wondering what had you so entranced." It was a melodious voice, a hint of a Skyrim accent not marring its beauty in the slightest. Educated, a bit amused, female, and clearly belonging to someone of noble birth. I just can't seem to stay away from them, can I?

He almost gasped with relief at having her be the one to make the first move. Happily, he turned—

And froze, reply catching—along with his breath— in his throat. He'd expected another Nord noble, perhaps in the vein of Jordis or one of the women of Clan Battle-Born or Grey-Mane that he'd met while in Whiterun. He'd expected a handsome strength, and prepared himself for either scorn or naïve curiosity in dull human eyes. He hadn't been ready for her.

He'd been correct about the color of her hair, though he'd underestimated its volume. Waves of the stuff fell past her shoulders, a cascade of red that put him in mind of the dawn. It complemented her eyes—the long-suffering poet in him wondered if that shade was blue or green or something else entirely—which were watching him with something undefinable in those depths. The rest of her face was pleasant enough—he'd never learned the purpose of those freckles certain humans developed, but this woman had a dusting of them atop her cheeks—and her gown was an interesting blend of Imperial and Nord sensibilities—he was no connoisseur of fashion, but he doubted that Cyrodiil embraced wolf-pelts about the shoulders any more than Skyrim did flowing skirts—but nothing could rival those eyes.

It was the eyes that held him, with the look in them he couldn't identify. It wasn't rare for him to be unable to read a human's eyes, but that was because they were so often muddled and dull. Hard to pull diamonds from the mud. Now, though, he had the feeling that he simply couldn't understand what it was she felt. She's lived. She was young, he thought, but far from innocent. No innocent had eyes like that.

He realized he was staring, and blinked. Casting his mind back, he seized on her words. "Skyrim is out there, and that's quite enough to hold me." He spoke honestly, though he couldn't for the life of him have said why. "Just now, though it was your eyes."

---

Elisif sighed as the words washed over her. Nothing original in all the world, is there?

The Breton, Erelus—Count Erelus of Gelnumbra, as he was fond of reminding anybody who would listen—was mangling Frond the Bard's Ode to the Lady Jonilla in a vain effort to impress her; the poor man could boast a most impressive pedigree but not, apparently, any bardic talent. The fact that 'Jonilla' and 'Elisif' both had three syllables seemed to have inspired him to try and insert her name in place of the Second Era warrior jarl, despite the differing emphasis on their names completely destroying the meter of the poem. Still, she stood there with what she hoped was a pleasant expression, listening to him butcher a piece that she had once thought was quite lovely.

Idly, she wondered if he'd known she was fond of the poem, and if so, how he'd found out. Of course, it was also possible that the would-be Consort of Solitude had simply gotten his hands on a copy of Love Amongst the Snows and chosen this piece from the first chapter. Most foreigners got about that far before deciding they understood how best to woo a Nord. If I have to hear The Flower Blooming in Spring one more time, I'm going to ban that damn book from Solitude!

"If my lady is displeased with this simpering fool's attempts at romance, might I have a word?" Jako Seen, Redguard and one-time pirate captain, had managed to sidle his way into her personal space without her noticing, and she had to resist the urge to flinch away. "My lord and master, the most noble Prince Gerion, would never dream of offering you such a…flaccid expression of affection. Were you to grace his court with your beauteous presence, he would show you the wonders of Hammerfell such that you would wish never to leave!"

At least this time he didn't mention how adept the Prince is at 'swordplay.' She might simply be a barbaric Nord, but she was of the opinion that if someone was going to try and seduce her, they should probably make the trip themselves rather than send a flunky. Of course, that might interfere with his other dalliances. She knew for a fact that he was in Wayrest trying to ensnare one of the Ladies Cumberland, and she had no desire to be his back-up plan.

"I thank you for your valiant attempt at poetry, Count Erelus, but I must take my leave." Ignoring the Redguard for a moment, she cut the Breton off mid-word, and turned to Jako Seen. "Your lord and master, as ever, has my thanks for his most gracious offer. Now, however, I must attend to my other guests." She turned and strode off with Bolgeir Bearclaw as her ever-present shadow, hoping to get away before either of the two could formulate a response.

These two were obnoxious, to be sure, but foreign suitors were far from the worst she had to deal with. A war, the blasted Concordat, and now dragons! Maybe Torygg's better off in Sovengarde; he always did hate the hard part of ruling! Thoughts of her husband were less painful now; she had been quite fond of him, but they hadn't known each other long enough to truly fall in love, and maybe that was for the best.

At least some of her suitors had skipped the banquet; if she'd had to deal with every one of the hopeful nobles who'd come crawling out of the woodwork—how many Redguard princes can there be?—she would have had time to do little else.

As she maneuvered through the crowd, a familiar face swam into view, and Elisif braced herself for the inevitable confrontation. Thane Erikur wasn't enough of a fool to make a scene, but the guard had just seized a crew trying to remove crates from the East Empire Company, and she didn't doubt for a minute that the unscrupulous thane was behind the attempt. Whether he would be foolish enough to directly mention it remained to be seen, but surely he'd find some way to make her life difficult as retaliation.

"Elly!" The shout came from the side, and Elisif grunted as she was hugged—hard —by somebody familiar.

Smiling, she turned to see Jordis standing there in something that looked like—is that an armored dress?—grinning broadly. She'd rather deal with her friend than Erikur any day, so she nodded at Bolgeir, who moved between her and the thane, and led Jordis to the side of the room. "You're back! Did the Young Wolves save Skyrim from the evil of Wolfskull Cave?"

Uncharacteristically, Jordis looked around to make sure they were somewhat alone before launching into whatever story she was about to recount. "You won't believe what we found, Elly! Necromancers! Swear by Shor, a whole clan of them, trying to summon Potema! The Wolves and I—and Vel, oh, you have to meet him, he'd better be here! We took them down, the whole coven!" Her friend was flushed with excitement—or perhaps with wine—and her words were bubbling over each other in an attempt to escape.

Elisif chuckled appreciatively. "Not bad, Jordis." Her friend had once convinced her that there was a ghost living in the attic of Proudspire Manor, and for two weeks a young Elisif had refused tobe alone in her friend's house. Now, however, she knew to take Jordis' gift for spinning tales as the blessing it was. "I'll hear the rest of it later, but for now I do have to greet a few more people." No doubt it would be more entertaining than whatever had actually happened down in that cave; Jordis knew how to spin a tale.

She separated herself from her protesting friend, and dove back into the crowd, bowing and smiling and greasing the wheels of diplomacy that ensured she remained pleasantly benign. I don't have the luxury of making enemies.

Elisif knew that most of the city—and probably the rest of Skyrim—considered her little more than a figurehead, but she took her duties seriously. She ruled and served the people of Haafingar, and needed to be able to advocate on their behalf to Imperial, noble, and foreigner alike. And that meant not offending anybody, and smiling at every suitor.

Speaking of that particular plague…she spotted Lord Perrik and Lady Imre of Bruma making their way in her direction. Both sought her hand, and while neither was repulsive, she felt nothing for either one. Is it too much to ask to not have to worry about marriage on top of everything else? Not for the first time she wished that the rest of the Empire could adopt Skyrim's understanding that she didn't need a spouse right now.

Sighing, she looked around for someone or something to give her an out, when she saw something odd. A figure in outrageous finery cutting through the crowd, a lanky figure with unmistakable skin…

A Dunmer? The ill-fated Dark Elves were rare in Solitude, and almost all of those within the city wore an Imperial uniform. She'd greeted the Legion contingent earlier this evening, and none of them had been this man. Even if there had been one of sufficient stature in the city, she didn't dare offend the Thalmor by inviting the elves they hated above all others. So, this one was here…why exactly?

Elisif had always been fascinated by the Dunmer, though she'd never admit that to anyone. The long history between their two peoples meant that stories of the savage grey-skinned demons from the east were the fare of many a song or epic poem, and Elisif had grown up listening to the students and masters of the Bard's College. Like many of her friends, she'd thumbed through cheaply-printed romances, and many of those prominently featured Dunmer. Whether it be the tortured and brooding mercenary who found love in the arms of a noble Nord maiden or the cruel necromancer who captured a farmgirl only to fall for her innocent kindness, Elisif had read every sort.

Now, she knew those stories for the drivel that they were, but even when she'd studied history and philosophy, something about their story stuck with her. Isolationist and fiercely proud, they had occupied a place in her heart, and a part of her had always found their plight, well, moving. That they were wicked was beyond doubt—worship of Daedra was wrong, after all—but surely they did not all need to suffer?

Unfortunately, the elf was gone before she could do any more than wonder at his presence, and now the amorous—or just ambitious?—Imperials were upon her. It took her a good five minutes to extricate herself from them, and then she saw First Emissary Elenwen bearing down on her, and braced for the worst.

Fortunately, the Thalmor wanted only to congratulate Elisif on the banquet, though she managed to make every compliment so condescending that a straight insult might have been kinder. Finally, after one more cutting remark—"I've never been so glad to be proven wrong! I thought Nords were incapable of properly utilizing interior space!"—the High Elf ambassador floated away, and Elisif was free again.

After that, she saw several more people she needed to acknowledge, which she did with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Vittoria Vici might not be the kindest person she'd ever met and she knew the other woman considered her hopelessly naïve, but the East Empire Company brought in more wealth than any other three trading interests combined, and so they embraced and made small talk over glasses of a potent Gold Coast vintage.

Once she had met everyone in view who required her attention, she started heading for the eastern gallery, where she would have to do it all over again. I remember when these parties were a chance to have some fun. Now, though, they meant work. But if that was what it meant to be the jarl, then that was what she would do. I won't let you down, Torygg.

As she passed one of the balconies overlooking the eastern drop-off, she noticed that someone was standing out there, and she paused. Why would anyone…

The only reason people came to these events was to see and be seen; going out alone completely defeated the purpose. What's he up to? Just then, however, she was jovially accosted by old Thane Hennir, who insisted on telling her about the new book his chef had purchased, and how she simply had to try the Gourmet's new recipes.

Though the thane tended to prattle on, she couldn't get annoyed at him. He'd been a fine friend of her parents, Arkay bless their souls, and had never once tried to tell how she should be running Solitude. True friends were rare these days, and Hennir, for all that the only weapon he'd held in years was a dagger for slicing his meat, was a good and loyal man. Even if he needs to watch his waistline. Telling him that would only wound his pride, though, so she simply smiled and laughed where appropriate, until he patted her arm and told her to go have fun.

If only. She watched him go, and then scanned the room to see whom she should engage next. However, her eyes drifted back to the eastern windows, where that lone figure still stood. What in Oblivion is he doing?

Before she knew it, she realized she was standing before the door to the balcony, just watching. It was the Dark Elf from before, she realized, though his earlier unease had apparently passed. Where before he had been moving with something that almost resembled furtiveness, now he stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, looking out to the east. What does he see?

She glanced over at Bolgeir, who looked as impassive as ever. "I'm going to go out there, Bolgeir. Stay here."

The big man was unimpressed. "Elves are not to be trusted, my jarl." Bolgeir was a capable bodyguard, but very much a Nord.

"It wasn't an elf who killed my husband." At that, her housecarl simply bowed his head, and she opened the door. She'd come to the decision not too long ago that she wouldn't let anyone else tell her how to live her life, and that included her housecarl. She'd take advice, but at the end of the day she would make up her own mind. And so I have.

It was chilly, even for her, out on the balcony. Skyrim's nights were nothing to be scorned, and she wondered for an instant how the elf mush feel. If he was cold, though, he gave no sign.

She stood there for a moment, wondering what to say. Why are you out here? No. Are you enjoying the party? She was the jarl of Solitude, not Jordis trawling for a bed-partner! She felt a momentary rush of shame for the thought, but then decided that her friend would find it hilarious.

She realized then that the elf still hadn't moved. Is he all right? She didn't think you could cast a spell without speaking words or moving your hands, but she was no expert. Maybe he froze solid. He was breathing, at least; the little puffs of white about his nose were proof enough of that.

She studied him, not bothering to hide her scrutiny. Not like he has eyes on the back of his head.

Her initial certainty that he wasn't just another guest was carried through by the strangeness of his clothing. He was wearing some sort of finery at least, though it looked as though it had fallen in from some mad noble's wardrobe. There were Nord-style quilted wool sleeves on a garish silk doublet, and the pants seemed an amalgam of about three different Imperial and Breton tailoring styles. And the hat…she thought it must be from the Somerset Isles, but surely nobody had worn it with feathers since the Second Era? And yet, though she couldn't say how, it all worked. Change one little thing and it would be a disaster, but as it stood he almost looked…dashing.

She stepped forward and leaned on the railing, but the elf did nothing. She glanced over, but he was staring intently out onto the darkness. Curious, she peered out as well, but couldn't see anything but the darkness. The view of the docks to the south, but nothing to warrant such intense scrutiny where he was looking. Especially when someone else is standing right here!

Finally, she could take it no longer. "I was wondering what had you so entranced." She tried her hardest to make sure she didn't sound annoyed, but the elf gave a tiny jerk as she spoke, suggesting that he had been focusing deeply on something.

He turned to look at her, and she was pinned by his gaze. Those eyes! Red and angry, to be sure, but deep. This wasn't some guard or adventurer who'd snuck his way in, unless she missed her guess. In fact, he had a bearing that almost seemed noble. His face was perfectly still, and she recalled the stories that Dunmer from Morrowind did not use facial expressions as did the other races, instead letting their eyes convey what they felt.

If this one was displaying some expression with his red eyes, it was lost on her. She found herself just looking deeper, admiring the depth of the color and the subtle shifts within. For the first time in—weeks, months?—she wasn't worried about politics or anything of great import from a new acquaintance. I like those eyes.

"Skyrim is out there, and that's quite enough to hold me." It took her a moment to realize that he'd spoken, and another to hear beyond his voice and process what he was saying. Each word was delivered with precision, in tones that seemed to resonate in her bones. It reminded her of something, but she couldn't place it. His red eyes were brighter now, and his gaze never left her face. "Just now, though, it was your eyes."

Elisif felt the blood rush to her face. She'd been wined and dined by a wide assortment of hopeful fools, and over the course of the last year she had heard more tired lines about her beauty than any woman should have to bear, but somehow this was different. Perhaps it was his voice, which lacked any hint of jest or mockery, or maybe it was the steady gaze of his eyes, but she believed him. Impossibly, she had the feeling that he'd just told her the truth.

She didn't smile. Faced with his grave face, she didn't feel it was proper. I am going to have some fun, though. "Oh? I do hope you found your way out."

He didn't smile either. Of course. To her shock, however, he gave a larger than normal puff of air from his nose in what have been some sort of laugh. "I'm all tangled up, I fear." He arched an eyebrow. "Not very kind, though, saying nothing's out there. This is your land, after all."

She chuckled. "I said I was wondering what had you so entranced. Perhaps I simply thought that Skyrim's charms would be lost on an elf."

The Dunmer did not smile, but something changed in his eyes. "A month ago I would have agreed with you. Now? Now, I am unsure." One hand came out from behind his back, and he ran fingers through that dark hair. The color of wine. Or blood. "And you? What brings such eminence out to my lonely vigil?"

"Curiosity." She smiled at him. "I hope the party didn't bore you so much you fled out here."

"Not in the slightest." He seemed to finally relax, leaning against one wall and closing his eyes. "Sometimes, though, some quiet is nice. Even if it does come with the cold." He held out a hand, and something seemed to flow along it, before it burst into flames.

Elisif stumbled back, and he laughed. "I will never not find that amusing."

She glared at him, though her heart wasn't in it. "Using magic to scare people?"

"Nords." He was still chuckling. "You act like I'm raising the dead every time I so much as warm myself." A flick of his wrist, and the fire was gone.

She tried to get a better look at the hand without being too obvious. "So what brings an elf with such a…unique…sense of humor to the Hearthfire Celebration?"

"Would you believe that I was invited?"

She wished she could read his face; this could easily be a joke. "Not by the jarl, I don't think." Clearly, he had no idea who she was.

He shrugged. "I wouldn't want to go dropping names, or someone might get in trouble." Was that a glimmer of laughter in his eyes?

She had to laugh, at least. "Well, you don't seem to be causing too much of a ruckus, and I suppose there's enough food for one more." A part of her cautioned that she should be wary of this strange Dunmer, but she was actually having fun, and she had missed that. "It can be our little secret."

He smiled at that, and she wanted to believe it was real. "You know what they say about secrets." He leaned forward, and she did the same. "Three can keep one, if two are dead." That last was said in an ominous whisper, and she jerked back, alarmed.

Then, she saw the light in his eyes. "I do hope you're having your fun."

He spread his arms. "Whatever are you talking about? Now I have to throw myself from this castle, to keep the secret." He looked over the railing. "Not that I relish the fall."

She snorted. "I think you've misunderstood the spirit of that saying."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Truly?"

After that, the talk lapsed to things of little consequence. He'd spent time in Cyrodiil, and happily answered her questions about the province. "I never got far enough south to see the city, though I wish I had."

She gave him a disbelieving look. "You're traveling through the Imperial Province, and don't bother to go to the greatest city in the world?"

His dry chuckle was like the earth shifting beneath her feet. "I regret it still, but I didn't…" he trailed off, then cocked his head before continuing. "I came to Skyrim somewhat against my will. Had I known I'd be dragged into the province fully, I'd have made sure to see the city well beforehand." Another smile. "Someday I'll go back, see if it lives up to the stories." He fell silent then, and looked out over the sea.

Elisif studied him again, wondering what he was thinking. It was beyond nice simply to talk with someone who wasn't a friend from before. Jordis, Falk, Sybille, and all the rest meant well, but they knew her history and walked on eggshells around her. None of them, for instance, would have made that joke about leaping from the ledge given her history. And true, it had stung a bit, thinking of death, but she was glad he'd done it. I can't pretend it didn't happen.

Something she'd been meaning to ask came to mind then. "So, what's your name?"

He turned, eyes still bright. "Isn't it considered courteous to offer your own name before asking for another's?"

She smiled sweetly. "In Solitude, a lady never offers her name first." That was an utter lie, but she didn't want to reveal that she was the jarl just yet.

Something in his eyes made her think he was on to her. "Well, then, as we are in Solitude…" He paused, though whether for effect or some other reason she could not say. "My name is Velandryn Savani."

Instantly, she understood everything. She might not be General Tullius, but Legate Rikke had sent her copies of the reports she'd compiled. Nords understood the importance of the Dragonborn, after all. And here he stands.

She thought hard about what her next words would be. "So…"

"You can just say it, you know." He knows. As time went on, his name would be as good as his title; he had to recognize that he couldn't be anonymous for much longer.

"You're the Dragonborn?"

She'd expected either protestation or preening, but instead he seemed amused. "That depends. Is it treason to lie to a jarl?"

Oh. She wondered when he'd figured it out. Still, she forced a smile. "Only a very little bit."

"Then I am only a very little bit not the Dragonborn." He smiled back, though she was sure that it was as fake as hers. "Truthfully, I was enjoying being just another Dunmer. Of late, it's a rare luxury."

She understood that, better than he might know. "Well, then, would you like to enjoy this moment, just the two of us, no Dragonborn or jarl needed?"

"You, know, I very much think I would." He thrust his hands into pockets in his cape, and looked out over the ledge. "Tell me, is it always this blasted cold?"

"We're at a gathering meant to celebrate the end of the warm season. It only gets worse from here."

He huffed, breath misting in the air. "Salat venkh. So it goes."

She knew a little Aldmeris, but didn't recognize that. "Was that Dunmeris?"

"Daedric. No better language for cursing."

"Oh." She shouldn't have been surprised, she guessed. "What do your gods say, about you being Dragonborn?"

"I thought we agreed not to talk about that." Still, he seemed amused and willing to answer. "There's no sacrilege, if that's what you're asking. The Triune aren't in the habit of policing in our actions; they show us the way and it's up to us to walk it." A shrug. "I hold to the Virtues, keep vigil at dawn when I can, and so far no Dremora have shown up to kill me." He paused. "Well, only one, and that was mostly unrelated."

"Mostly?" She wanted to hear that story, but he didn't take the bait.

"My turn." His humor faded. "What do your Divines say about my being Dragonborn?"

"It's not the gods you need to worry about. Plenty of Nords are beyond unhappy that a Dark Elf is Dragonborn."

He snorted. "Let them. I had no choice in the matter, why should they?"

It had almost sounded as if… "Do you wish you weren't? Dragonborn, I mean?"

"Does it matter?" Velandryn sounded almost angry. "I am, and that is the truth. No regret or desire will make it anything other than so."

Elisif almost apologized, but thought better of it. She recognized that anger. It wasn't directed at her, not really. It was the same she felt when people congratulated her on doing such a good job ruling Solitude. It might be kindly meant, but she'd never asked for the honor. "It's a heavy burden."

He understood, she saw. "And yet it's ours. If not us, then someone else, after all."

Well, that nonsense killed the moment. "Was that supposed to be reassuring?"

He looked vaguely uncomfortable; she'd known a few Dunmer before, and once you got used to the eyes they weren't that difficult to figure out. "Perhaps it's different for you, but knowing that it's me who has the burden is comforting. Solitude needs a jarl, as I believe a Dragonborn is necessary at this moment. I would rather shoulder that responsibility myself then trust it to be faithfully executed by another."

He wasn't wrong, she admitted. It had been terrible, what had happened, but the people of Solitude needed her. "Better us than some other fool?"

He nodded, stone-faced. "No better fools than we, cor da ke?"

She had to chuckle at that. "Still, though, it's a great honor, being Dragonborn. Do you feel any of that, or just the burden?" For her part, the honor and the duty were one and the same.

No response for a moment, then a long sigh. "It's there, but buried." His voice was low, contemplative and slow. "It's not me they're honoring, after all. There had to be a Dragonborn, you know."

That was the second time he'd said that. "What do you mean, had to? We were fortunate enough to have you in Whiterun—"

He was already shaking his head. "I've been…told…that there needed to be a Dragonborn, and I'm inclined to believe it. I was…convenient, nothing more. A piece in a larger game." He was looking away again, eyes cast down and out into the blackness.

Is he moping? "You don't get it, do you?" He turned his head, eyes narrowed. "It didn't happen by accident! Kyne chose you to be Dragonborn!"

"Kyne? The Wind Goddess?" He spoke as though he were reciting something off of a page.

"She taught Nords to use the Thu'um, back during the Dragon Wars! She gave us the weapons to defeat the dragons the first time, of course she'd do it now!" Did he really not know this? "Haven't they told you anything about our history?"

"They went light on the religion. Probably worried I'd take offense." Velandryn smiled. "Truthfully, I think everyone wanted to make the Greybeards deal with educating the heathen mer." His face returned to stern rest. "You think that I was chosen? I would like to believe that's true."

"It surely is. Kyne wouldn't let just anyone take up this role!" Politics of race and culture aside, the Dragonborn was meant to defeat the dragons, as the ancient stories told. Whoever held that duty had to be worthy. Anything less was unthinkable.

Velandryn sighed again. "I hope you're right." Blinking, he seemed to come to a decision. "We've done a miserable job of not being Dragonborn and jarl, hmm?"

Elisif found herself laughing. "It's hard to stop, isn't it?"

He gave her another of those piercing looks. "It's been, what, a year, since you took the throne? How long until you feel like a mer—like a human again, instead of the warm body that's been perched up there?"

"I'll let you know once I do." It was almost shocking to talk with somebody who understood her position. He would, wouldn't he? He had to feel much the same.

"We have to make it ours." He spoke softly, eyes dark, staring out into the dark once more. "Either we are used by our positions, or we choose to control them."

She moved to stand beside him again, gazing out as well. The moons were little more than slivers, but their reflections on the water still held the same beauty as ever. "It's not that easy." She spoke softly, full of memory. "Maybe you can take control, but—"

At that moment, with a distant crackle, the skies above them opened up, and an aurora burst into being, ribbons of light snapping back and forth. The breath fled her lungs as she gaped upwards, marveling at its suddenness. It was far from rare to see them in Solitude, but usually they were a little more…gradual.

Glancing over, she saw Velandryn gazing upwards as well, eyes glowing from what almost looked like the reflection of the lights above. "We don't see them in Morrowind. Not often, at least. It's a shame." He fell silent then, and they watched the lights dance.

She'd seen the aurora more times than she could possibly hope to count, but it was still marvelous. This time, though, she was as focused on the elf beside her as the lights above. Dragonborn. It sounded like something out of a ballad, but he stood before her, every inch the real thing. He's afraid. It was obvious, and why wouldn't he be? He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he knew it.

And yet, he was here. Why she couldn't say, but she refused to believe that chance alone had brought him here. Was this your doing, Kyne Warrior-Wife? Did you send him to guide my way? She couldn't even remember the last time she'd felt like this, and she didn't want it to end.

In what seemed only a few minutes the lights began to fade, and she heard Velandryn take a deep breath from beside her. "It's a strange place, Skyrim, but it has its moments."

She turned to make a joke, but stopped when she saw his face. He was still looking upward, eyes alight with the last remnant of the aurora, mouth open ever so slightly. The play of light from the windows and the sky cast him in odd shadows, and she had no trouble believing him Dragonborn. Her jests died on her lips, and she just nodded mutely, knowing that he wouldn't see.

A moment later, something else occurred to her. "When did you figure out who I was?"

He held up a single finger. "You have a housecarl waiting indoors, speak with obvious education and wit, and are dressed to make an impression. Clearly, you are noble, and of a kind that requires protection. From what I've seen, relatively few of you have housecarls, so you're someone who matters." A second finger. "You spoke with the authority of a host, meaning that you likely had a hand in the organization of this event. ' Not by the jarl', you said, when I mentioned I may have been invited. Nothing definite, but when added to," he held up a third finger "eyes that speak of an experience I cannot comprehend, I had a fairly good guess as to who you were." He gave a tiny shrug. "The way I asked the question, it left me room for error. I would say I suspected—strongly—that you were Jarl Elisif, but I wasn't certain." He smiled. "Chance is not without a sense of humor, however, and so here we are."

She thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Nicely done. But, my eyes? I know you Dunmer put a lot of power in eyes, but that's what gave me away?"

He looked at her for another long moment, and then nodded. "Yes. We don't…read eyes, exactly, but it's where our emotion sits. Ever since…well, since we became Dunmer, our eyes came alive, and everything we needed to see was in them. Humans are harder, but I've spent enough time among you to know the big ones. Anger, joy, sadness. It's like glimpsing a gem in murky water, but it can be done." He bowed his head, as if in thought. "You…there's more in there than I can tackle. I've met a few Nord nobles, and they don't seem the type to stymie me. You're different." He held out a hand in a vague sort of wave. "I took a guess, and here we are."

And you did it in the heartbeat between my asking if you were Dragonborn and your response. "A good guess, it seems."

He made no response at that, save for a hint of something in his eyes. I must learn to understand those eyes.

---

Velandryn hadn't felt like this in…well, perhaps forever.

Before becoming Dragonborn, it had been easy to connect with others. Dunmer made sense, and he had friends aplenty back in Morrowind. Even after leaving, he'd been able to find points of commonality with the outlanders; for a day or the span of a journey, there was enough in common to let him—and them—mostly understand where the other stood.

Since Mirmulnir, however, it had been different. Not because of the knowledge Dov provided, but simply the fact that it existed at all. He was, so far as he was aware, unique among living mortals, and that wasn't an easy thing. He felt unprepared and thrust into a world beyond his abilities, so it was wonderful to speak with Elisif and see that she too was doing her best to conquer her new circumstances.

She was mocking the suitors who were in the city for the sole purpose of marrying her, and the increasingly desperate tactics they were willing to try. "And then Lord Immersol and Count Feryad ran into each other on the balcony! The Palace Guard had to drag them off of each other before they could be kicked out of the city."

Velandryn chuckled; although he'd never met either man, certain things transcended cultures, and the idiocy of courtship was one such. "Forgive me asking, but why is it so many from so far away pursue you? You are beautiful, charming, and clearly of keen wit to be sure, but you also hold a somewhat precarious position. Would not anyone who married you be dragged into this rebellion?"

Red had risen in her cheeks, though what purpose it served Velandryn could not say. "These are mostly second children or terribly minor lords. They'd be thanes at best in Skyrim, and Solitude is the richest city in the province. Even if they have to deal with a war, the prize is worth it."

He noticed she hadn't mentioned herself there. "Is that how you feel? That you are a prize to be won?"

One of her fur-covered shoulders rose in a tiny shrug, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Hard not to, isn't it? Or are people lining up to speak with Velandryn Savani, rather than the Dragonborn."

"I see your point." He leaned against the rail again, thinking. "How then do we keep ourselves from falling into the…scale of our titles?"

When he looked over at her, she was staring into his eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Finally, she broke the silence. "What, was that all you were going to say? Don't you have an answer?"

He was startled into laughter. "I'm a priest, not a litigator! I'm allowed to ask questions to which I don't know the answer!"

That got a puzzled look from her. "You're a priest? Of…Daedra?"

He let that question sit for a moment while he thought. "Do you want to discuss the intricacies of the Triune Temple, or shall we sit here and mope about how important we are?"

Elisif's laughter was a sound Velandryn had decided he quite liked. "Well, when you put it that way, we sound a little ungrateful, don't we?"

He shrugged. "Gratitude means wanting it in the first place. We're making do, and I'd say we're not doing too poor a job of it."

Elisif, however, didn't look entirely mollified. "Maybe you aren't, but it can be hard to make any progress here. General Tullius on one side, the nobles on the other, and that damn Ulfric Stormcloak lurking in the east. They all think I'm either an obstacle or a useless child, and I'm sick of it!" She fell silent, clearly thinking over what she'd just said. "I mean, I know I'm young, but—"

Velandryn cut her off without thinking, but he couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Of course you are; you're human! If you want power, you have to take it!" he couldn't have said if that was Dov talking or the Dunmer. Maybe a bit of both.

She blinked at him. "Take it? Just like that? Look, you might be a hero out of legend, but I'm just the widow of a weak High King." She paused to swallow, her expression inscrutable. "Let's not pretend I actually hold much in the way of real power. I do what I can for my people, but the Empire's in charge here and everyone knows it." She gave him a look that he figured was probably some sort of annoyance. "How would I go about taking power, hmm?"

He wondered if the question was supposed to be rhetorical. "Start by eliminating a low-level nuisance. One of the nobles you mentioned. Is there someone who is unpopular both among the Nord nobility and the Empire?"

"Wait, are you…serious?" He could make out disgust on Elisif's face, but he almost thought she looked interested as well. "Didn't you say you were a priest?"

"A priest of the Triune, not your Divines. Anyone who studies Mephala or Boethiah for any length of time learns a little bit about political subterfuge."

The jarl sighed, and Velandryn was struck by how the bodice of her dress rose and fell as she did so. "Okay, so, assuming we were to go through with this mad plan of yours, you need an unpopular noble? Erikur would fit the bill. Man's a criminal and a lowlife. So I kill him?"

"No! We can't have him die yet! You need to set the pieces up first." He was enjoying this mental exercise, though he knew little about Solitude politics. "A criminal is easy. Expose something he's done that's directly harmed the Legion, and another that damages you. If you can find something true go with that, but otherwise just falsify something." He shrugged. "Hire some Orcs, set them up to take the fall, plant a trail of evidence. You don't have to make it stick, but make sure that everyone hears about it. General Tullius can't act, since the Legion wouldn't dare remove a Nord noble." He grinned. "Then, poor Erikur dies. Poison's good, and botched summonings are always popular, but that might not work so well here. It needs to be unpleasant, but no way to trace it to you."

He could see in her eyes that she understood. "So, everyone knows someone killed Erikur, and the Legion knows it wasn't them…"

"Exactly! Suddenly, you and the other major power in Solitude are a little bit more equal. Tullius and his underlings can't prove anything, and they don't really want to, since nobody's mourning poor dead Erikur."

Elisif cut in then, voice dry. "And the fact that I murdered one of my subjects?"

"Irrelevant, and that's the beautiful part! You're viewed as harmless by most, and only the Legion higher-ups will even suspect you! I'd bet sovereigns against septims that most of the nobles and commoners—and every enlisted man in Imperial red— winds up thinking it was a left-hand tactic by the Empire to send a message."

"So, General Tullius thinks I killed Erikur, and everyone else just magically falls in line?"

"I mean, it's not quite that simple, but in essence, yes. Once the Legion leadership recognizes you as a legitimate power player, the effect will bleed over into the nobility. If General Tullius is treating you as an equal, is Lord Proud-Spire really going to talk down to you when he meets you at," he waved his hand in an exaggerated manner—this is too much fun! "the anniversary of Norald Hairy-Bottom vanquishing the baby Falmer?"

He was certain that she was concealing a smile now. "Well, if Aldur"—that must be Jordis' father— "weren't already one of my staunchest supporters, you'd have quite the point. As it is though, most Nords won't fall into line behind a suspected murderer."

"And yet, Ulfric Stormcloak has quite the following." The moment the words left his mouth, he wondered if he'd gone too far.

Elisif's mouth was twisted in something that was not a smile. "Oh, there's no 'suspected' there. That monster marched into Solitude and murdered my husband in full view of the entire court. No, it seems Nords will follow a murderer just fine, so long as he says the right damn words!" That last was half a sob, half a shout.

Velandryn was struck by an uncomfortable urge; he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to comfort a Nord jarl. What in Oblivion is the world coming to? "You were there? I'm sorry."

She was laughing now, though there was more than a little crying in there as well. "He never stood a chance! He was younger than me, did they tell you that? A whole year! Just a child!"

"I know little about High King Torygg, I admit." In truth, he was more a point of conflict than a person to Velandryn. "I am sorry for your loss, however."

"Thank you." That response seemed more diplomatic then genuine, but her façade cracked just after. "He wasn't ready for any of this; he was just born to the wrong family."

"Wrong family? Most would say being the High King is a fairly good inheritance."

He'd said it more because it would help with the flow of conversation than because he truly believed, but Elisif was more than happy to keep up her end of the discussion. "He was a child who thought life was a story! Do you know how many times he told me he wished that he'd been alive during the Great War? He hated elves—" she looked, at, him a little abashed, and he motioned her to continue. "He hated the Thalmor and wanted to make Skyrim and the Empire free! He would have joined Ulfric, but instead he died! Why? So that…that monster could feed his own lust for power!"

Well, that's new. He'd heard speculation aplenty about the late ruler, but not that Torygg would have joined Ulfric. "You know this for a fact. The High King would have supported the Stormcloak cause?"

"He was young, and looked up to Ulfric. Thought he was a hero of the Nords. If he'd asked my husband to join him instead, he might well have done it. But no, Ulfric only wants one thing, and that's for Ulfric Stormcloak to be High King!"

Something in her tone struck him as odd, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "You think Ulfric doesn't care about the Concordat as he claims?"

She smiled at him. Velandryn had nothing against Lydia and her towering ilk, but he did like spending time with people who were a little closer to his own height, and Elisif had maybe an inch on him, if that. "What do you know about Talos?"

He'd play along if she wanted to lecture him, but he was going to give the Dunmer view of things too. Ask me about gods, will you? "Hero-god of the Empire. Supposedly the title given to Tiber Septim when he ascended to godhood. Three primary cults of worship in the Nibenay Valley, two in the Imperial Heartland and Colovian Highlands."

Elisif blinked. "I thought elves didn't care about Talos. And you won't make many friends in Skyrim saying he 'supposedly' ascended. Weren't your Tribunal once mortals as well?"

He snorted. "Not the best argument you could make. They …stole their divinity, you might say, and I very much doubt Tiber Septim had access to their methods." There was the possibility that he'd found another path of achieving godhood, but the idea of a mere human doing so was absurd. Few enough mortals achieve divinity; and I've never heard of a human doing it. More reasonable is that the most successful human in history gets a cult based around him. "I don't think he's a god, but I spent enough time in Cyrodiil to learn the basics. What were you going to say about him?"

"Do you know anything about his status in Skyrim?"

Truth be told, Velandryn didn't. "No." Only after a moment did he realize how odd that was. "Wait, he's not even in your pantheon, is he?" He didn't know that much about the human religions, but Talos was Imperial, not Nord. Why didn't I see it before? "Why in Oblivion is Ulfric Stormcloak—"

"Because people hate the Concordat! It's humiliating, being told you can't worship as you please."

"So Nords only care about Talos because they were told they couldn't worship him?"

Elisif made a small motion with her hand. "It's not that simple, but the Concordat made Talos-worship the focal point of the conflict between the traditionalists and the Empire. Most of the eastern holds are more traditional anyway, so Talos the Emperor never really caught on. To them, Talos is a grim warrior who killed a lot of elves." She smiled apologetically. "I think it was the only way the Imperial Cult could make much headway there. The way I hear it, nobody cared that much about Talos—"

"Until the moment the Dominion said otherwise." Velandryn finished her thought as his mind raced. "So Ulfric makes it an issue, and suddenly he's the champion of humanity." He considered that for instant. "So, it's all an act?"

Elisif was shaking her head before he'd finished his thought. "No, people do love Talos over there, but from what I've heard, they only got so loud about it once Ulfric did."

It made sense, he had to admit. Still… "So what do you think of the Concordat?"

Instantly, her face assumed a mask of expressionless serenity. "As jarl of Solitude—"

He made a chopping motion with his hand and leaned in. "Don't insult me! I know you have an opinion, and you can be pretty damn sure I'm not working for those lunatics in Alinor." He forced himself to smile through his annoyance. Treat me as if I'm just some nosy nobody, will you?

She might be human, but her glare managed to convey all the fury of any Dunmer. "Look, I don't care if you are Dragonborn, that's not something you just ask about! Religion's personal, and Talos-worship is a crime!"

That took him aback, until he realized his error. Of course. In the Temple, matters of worship were discussed openly. Anything that needed to be hidden was the responsibility of the one hiding it, and no inquiry was considered indecorous. Not so with Nords. Looking at her, especially her, who had lost her husband to this question, he understood why she'd be

He stretched out a hand, palm upturned in Dunmer a gesture of contrition. "Alai tuhae nauan, fer'yen belle." I spoke without thought, and harm was done. She had said she knew Aldmeris, and no language was better for formal apology.

Instead of making the counter-gesture, she put her hand into his, fingers pressing slightly in his palm. "Sel nauanne dia tebaare all siin." There is no wound when words are softly meant.

He smiled. He might not be a true scholar of Aldmeris, but even he recognized a bit of Aldoriah's Courtships when he heard it. "Untrue, I think, but I'm glad you think so."

She was smiling too, though there was something odd deep in her eyes. "I won't pretend to understand you, Velandryn Savani, but I think we work better as friends than enemies."

This was Elisif, he suddenly realized. A peacemaker and a diplomat, something he'd never been but always admired. The one who made rough-hewn riverboat captains genuflect in respect and had a city eager to see her happy. She was up against forces that could destroy her utterly, and yet she was holding her own. Who am I, next to her? A friend, she'd said, and somehow that seemed an even finer prospect than being Dragonborn.

He opened his mouth to respond, but movement over her shoulder caught his eye. When he saw who it was, he released her hand and stepped back involuntarily, extending his fingers should he need to summon fire or his blade.

That shade of red, worn by the Empire. That face, burned into his memory with dragon's fire. Different armor this time, but there was no mistaking who was coming onto the balcony. Behind him, a woman in Legion armor was confronting the huge Nord who had to be Elisif's housecarl, but Velandryn couldn't pull his eyes away from the supreme commander of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim.

This should be fun.

---

When the Dragonborn had asked about her own relationship to Talos, Elisif hadn't responded well, she knew. It wasn't his fault, even. He'd simply asked the same question as so many others, each of them thinking they were being ever so clever. Now, all it did was infuriate her. So, when he'd bulled through her attempt to brush him off, she'd let him have her ire.

His response, however, had taken her aback. Instead of matching temper with temper, he'd visibly considered what he'd said then apologized. In Aldmeris no less! Not many in Skyrim spoke the ancient tongue, and she was glad that her parents had insisted she have a classical education. She wasn't sure why he put his hand out; perhaps he intended her to take it?

She did so, putting her hand in his in the Imperial style—the thought of him kissing it like some southern lord amused her—and responding with a phrase she knew she could say without tripping over pronunciation. Fortunately, Aldmeris was a wonderful language for flowery apologies, and when she saw the recognition in his eyes, she knew that he was pleased.

His smile, though possibly faked for her benefit, still warmed her, and she spoke truly when she said they should be friends. The political sense of allying herself with the Dragonborn aside, she'd never met anyone quite like Velandryn Savani, ruthless and clever and strangely gentle all at once. She wasn't certain if he was serious with some of his more…outlandish suggestions, but he had certainly gotten her thinking, and there were few enough who managed to do that these days.

She found herself suddenly wishing that he didn't have to leave, despite how childish that thought was. It would have been nice, though, having someone like him at court. A friend.

Then, she realized that he was looking behind her, and turned as well. What she saw made her sigh. "General Tullius. I hope the evening finds you well."

The Imperial commander, as ever, didn't bother with much in the way of courtesy. "Well enough, though I wasn't expecting to see you again." That last was directed at Velandryn, who was either worried or angry. Or both.

So, the Dragonborn knew the General. It didn't really surprise her. "The Dragonborn and I—"

"Dragonborn? This elf's Dragonborn?" General Tullius jabbed a finger in Velandryn's direction. "What lies have you been telling her, Savani?"

Velandryn raised an eyebrow. "You remember my name? Impressive. And the fact that you recall my face; I admit I wasn't expecting that."

Now, Elisif was beyond confused. "Where did you two meet before?"

It was the general who answered. "Helgen." He glared at Velandryn. "Dragonborn, eh? Head on the block and suddenly a dragon appears, is that the way of it? Got a lot of good people dead because of that beast."

Velandryn's eyes were dark with what she presumed was anger, and he nearly spat out his response. "Only an Imperial could order me executed without trial or appeal, and then have the temerity to accuse me of…what, summoning a dragon?" He chuckled. "Accuse me of that when I manage to escape with my life."

Tullius shrugged. "I made a call, and I don't regret it. Last I saw, you were helping Ulfric Stormcloak escape. You know what happens to people who do that around here?"

Elisif felt her heart drop into her stomach. No. The Dragonborn couldn't be working with the Stormcloaks. Velandryn wouldn't do that!

Or would he? It wasn't as if she actually knew anything about him. Maybe she was just a foolish girl, taken in by the lies of a smooth-talking Stormcloak agent. Is he even Dragonborn?

Velandryn's lips curled up in a thin smile. "Yes, I saw your handiwork at the gates. But tell me, General, in which direction should I have run? Towards your soldiers, who had just ordered my death? I made a call, as you said, and as I am here talking to you, I don't regret it. Knowing then what I do now I might have been tempted to plant a dagger in Ulfric Stormcloak's gut, but somehow I doubt his followers would have appreciated that."

Elisif decided she'd had enough. "Both of you, explain this!" She locked eyes with Velandryn. "Why were you with the Stormcloaks?" She had heard what had happened at Helgen, and there was no reason for him to be there, unless…No! She didn't want to believe he was one of them.

Instead of answering her, though, Velandryn just started laughing. "And there we have it! Tullius, take notes! Before executing a Dunmer for being a Nord zealot, maybe you should try asking them why they're there!" His breath stood out against the cold as he exhaled. "To answer your question, I was picked up by the Empire crossing the border from Cyrodiil. They'd laid a trap for the Stormcloaks, and seemed to think I was one of them." He glared at the general, and Elisif realized that it had to be for her benefit—or to make a point to General Tullius. "For 'The most disciplined and effective military force in history,'" this last sounded as though he was quoting something and was simply dripping with sarcasm, "they never bothered to ask if I was a Stormcloak or not."

General Tullius just rubbed his chin. "They might have asked, but bringing you to Helgen was the correct course of action. You could well have been lying, and if they'd let you go, there's no telling what could have happened."

The Imperial was pacing now, gesturing as he spoke. "My orders were to operate under parameters of absolute secrecy. Those hills were—probably still are—full of Stormcloak camps, and if they got even a whiff of what we were about, there went our best chance to get our hands on Ulfric. Anybody, regardless of race, who wasn't part of the operation had to be seized. There was that horsethief, too, I think. You just had bad luck."

Velandryn snorted. "And dying? More bad luck, you'd say?"

For the first time, the general looked uncomfortable. "That was…not my decision. The local garrison commander made the decision to execute all non-vital prisoners to—"

Elisif broke in. "And you did not intervene? These are imperial citizens, General! They had been accused of no crime, and to take their lives is—"

"Enough!" The general's bark was harsh, and she was shocked into silence. I interrupted General Tullius! She'd never even dreamed of doing such a thing before. "I won't sit here and be—" he caught himself, and sighed. "You're not wrong, either of you. Truth is, I'd just gotten new orders, and I was trying to figure out what in Oblivion they meant."

Velandryn, from the tone of his voice, was as confused as Elsiif. "New orders? From who, I thought you were—"

"In command? So did I." it was a bad habit of the general's, to interrupt when he knew how a sentence was going to end. A token of his days as a soldier, it was said. "However, there were orders, signed and sealed by the High Command in Cyrodiil."

"And they said?" Elisif couldn't have stopped the question coming out if she'd wanted to.

"Can't tell you that. You don't begin to have authority to even know those orders exist, either of you, but," he shrugged, "I figured you deserve a bit of an explanation."

Elisif, however, wasn't done. "He deserves more than that!" She knew a righteous cause when she saw one, and she was going to stand up for Velandryn! "He's an Imperial citizen, and you almost killed him! The people have rights, you know!"

For some reason, however, General Tullius was laughing at her response. "Imperial citizen?" he turned to Velandryn. "Well, Master Savani? Are you a citizen of the Empire?"

Velandryn glanced over at her, and she thought she saw something almost like an apology in his eyes. "The Great Council's official position is that there are no treaties binding the sovereign nation of Resdayn-Morrowind to any other state." He placed his hands behind his back, looking for all the world as though he were giving a report. "While the Council makes no claim as to any continuity or lack thereof between the Septim and Mede dynasties, all previous treaties were negotiated by representatives of the False Tribunal, who currently hold neither legal nor spiritual authority over the people and laws of Morrowind."

Elisif could only gape. She'd known the Dunmer were hardly model Imperial citizens, but this was far beyond anything she could have imagined. They don't even think they're part of the Empire! She turned to see the general grimacing, and realized that he'd been expecting this. "Is this…do we…does everyone but me know?"

Velandryn only shrugged at her, but General Tullius looked faintly embarrassed. "It's not something the Empire advertises. Dark Elves don't make a big deal out of it, no reason that we should."

Velandryn nodded. "The current arrangement is fine. The Empire can write whatever they please on their maps; the Council doesn't much care what goes on beyond our borders anyway."

Something about this seemed wrong to Elisif. "But…diplomats, and emissaries? Is the Empire treating you as a member state or a sovereign nation?" There were Imperial dignitaries even in Alinor; the Dominion might not be a friendly power, but there had to be communication.

Velandryn shrugged again. "I've never given it much thought. I'd assume we have some way to communicate with the Empire."

This time, it was Tullius with the answers. "You'd be surprised. Last I heard, the Imperial embassy in Blacklight was in a state of disrepair, staffed by incompetents and wash-ups." He shrugged. "It's nobody's top priority."

A sudden laugh from Velandryn. "I didn't even know there was an Imperial embassy!"

The general snorted. "So, tell me again about all of the rights he has?"

Elisif, however, had no intention of letting this one go. "The Empire doesn't work that way! We don't choose who gets rights based on birth or status! The founding principle of the Empire, the guiding light that gives us the authority to rule, is that we all have value! You don't get to pretend that just because he was born somewhere else that Velandryn's life doesn't matter!" She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and wanted to wipe them away, but she wouldn't let them see her cry. Never let them see you hurt.

The general, however, only snorted again. "You aren't wrong, but you're painfully naïve. You keep your pretty ideals, I'll win your damn war." He jabbed a finger at Velandryn. "I don't much give a damn if you are this Dragonborn the Nords are ranting about, you'd best not cause any trouble in my city or I'll throw you in the dungeons until even you grow old."

The Dark Elf inclined his head ever so slightly, eyes dark. "And your soldiers on the gate? The ones questioning Dunmer?" Another of those thin humorless smiles. "Should I not worry about them?"

"That'd be Legate Rikke's doing. She's convinced you'd make a fine ally." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "If you want to try and work out something official with the Legion, talk to her. I'm not wasting resources on half-baked legends."

"And I wouldn't want to get dragged down with you as your Empire collapses." Velandryn sketched out a small bow, mockery etched in every motion.

Elisif felt her heart drop down into her stomach again. If the Dragonborn were to join the Stormcloaks…

She put a hand on Velandryn's arm, not even caring about the implied intimacy. He can't join the Stormcloaks! "I know the Empire isn't perfect, but the Stormcloaks would tear this land apart!"

"Why does it have to be one or the other?" If he saw how distressed she he didn't show it. Instead, he placed one of his hands over hers, pressing briefly for a moment before releasing. "I may…disagree…with the Empire on a great many things, but I have no desire to fan the flames of a pointless war."

She pulled her hand back, blood rushing to her cheeks. Why did I do that? And why had he put his hand there. Gods, I'm a fool! She'd just wanted to convey sincerity, and he'd taken it as…what? Flirtation?

Whatever he was feeling, it apparently wasn't love for the Stormcloaks, at least. Though given how his people have been treated in their territory, that's hardly surprising. The plight of the Dark Elves in Windhelm was well-known across Skyrim, and she couldn't see Velandryn just letting that go. Not to mention they seem to go out of their way to mention how much they hate elves, from what I heard.

The three of them stood there for a moment longer, before the general sighed. "You'd best not be trouble, Savani. I've no orders to bring you in, but there's a few down in the Province who are none too keen on an elf running around claiming to be Dragonborn."

Velandryn only nodded, though his eyes had lightened considerably. "Duly noted. I'll do my best to kill anyone who looks to be from Cyrodiil."

Elisif laughed, but the general did not appear amused. "You're lucky I have such a delightful sense of humor, Savani, or we'd have trouble." With that, he turned to return inside. Then, he paused for just an instant. "Jarl Elisif, we will need to discuss the disposition of the guard for the coming seasons. I'll summon your steward tomorrow."

Just now, however, she didn't feel much like letting other people rule in her stead. "I will be there at noon, General Tullius." She paused as a perfectly wicked thought occurred to her. "We can discuss it over lunch." There was no better place to use etiquette as a weapon against the general and whatever staff he would bring. "Falk and I would be more than happy to hear your proposals."

General Tullius had frozen, before giving her one of the stiffest bows she'd ever seen. "As you say, my lady." And then, he was gone, swinging the door open and striding off with the other Imperial in tow.

Velandryn hardly waited for the door to close before bursting out laughing. This was no chuckle or dry appreciation of wit, but a full-throated belly laugh like she'd never heard from an elf. It's a nice sound, though.

She moved back to stand beside him. With Tullius gone, there was no need for distance. "Something you find amusing, Dragonborn?" She was still a little amazed at how easily they were speaking with each other. She was good with people, to be sure, but this was something else. It was madness, but she wanted to keep him here. He'd be a fine ally to have…

"I considered your idea about how to take power, but I'm no Dark Elf. I'll do it my way." She thought perhaps it had been her attempt to take control from the general that had amused him, but he only shook his head.

"I get that, but that's not why I'm laughing."

"Care to share the joke?" She asked again, keeping her tone light.

Velandryn, however, was shaking his head. "Just something I realized. A minor mystery, but one I now understand."

"And that is?"

"Oh, no." His eyes were bright. "This is mine and mine alone."

"Very well." There was no way she was letting him off of this balcony without knowing what it was he'd been laughing about, but she was smart enough to pick her battles.

She studied him again. His face wasn't as long as an Altmer's, but he had some of that same angular beauty. His red eyes and dark skin were harsh at first, but even a little while with him had let her see what was going on in his head. He's not nearly as hard as he appears. She studied him for a moment more, and then his eyes flicked to hers, and she quickly looked away.

"You aren't what I expected." His voice was gentle, but there might have been a bit of humor in there.

"How so?"

"They think you weak." She knew exactly what he meant, but it still hurt to hear. "I'd assumed you were either hapless or a puerile puppet. You aren't."

"No, and thanks for noticing." She should have been more annoyed, but it wasn't as though he was the only person to feel that way. Or even say it to my face. Not to mention, most of them hadn't gone as far as deciding that she wasn't completely useless. "You aren't what I expected from a Dunmer either."

"Oh? Do tell?"

She wondered if this would offend him, but he'd just given her a very backhanded complement, so she figured he could live with it. "You're…normal, I guess? I'd expected a Dunmer to be full of rage, or else contempt. But you…" She trailed off, not sure how to put it into words.

He didn't smile, but she could see that he'd liked hearing that. "You should have seen me when I first left Morrowind. I've…had my eyes…opened, I suppose."

Somehow, she doubted it had been that simple. "Well, I'm glad you did. Skyrim needs you."

He nodded slowly. "So it would seem."

She had so many questions for him, but one took precedence over all the others. "You can really Shout, can't you? What's it like, using Thu'um?" She'd never forget what it was like seeing the Voice be used, but she had to know. How does it feel, to wield that power?

"It's like nothing else I've ever known." He spoke slowly, seeming to taste each word as he said it. "I'd thought it was a form of magic, some ancient Nord trick to funnel magicka through speech, but it isn't." He shook his head, apparently thinking as he spoke. "I could more easily describe what it isn't, but all I can say is that it's power." That last word was almost a growl, and she shivered. "The Tongues conquered my homeland and enslaved my people, and some sick part of me understands why. Each time I use it, there's…" He looked up from his reverie to gaze into her eyes, blinked once, and gave her a smile that almost managed to be convincing. "It's nothing. A strange power I don't yet understand. Part of the reason I need to go see the Greybeards, I think."

She wasn't sure she understood, but one thing was certain. He's no Ulfric. She couldn't see that monster of a man seeking to understand the roots of such power, or being so contemplative in its use. "So, you're off to High Hrothgar after this?"

"That is my plan, though I seem to keep finding myself farther and farther afield." She wondered if it was a quality of the Thu'um to give those who could use it such strength in their voices; Ulfric too had a way of speaking that could turn heads from across the room. Velandryn, however, seemed to slip in and out of it without knowing. Despite that, she no longer had even the slightest shred of doubt that the elf before was, in every way, Dragonborn. Even if I'm not entirely sure what all that entails.

And speaking of Dragonborn… "Did…have you felt any…guidance?"

"Guidance? As in people trying to tell me what to do?" He smiled. "A few. Jarls, mostly, and one very opinionated housecarl." He began ticking points off on his fingers. "Also some vampires, a werewolf, and a Daedra."

"Did they all walk into a tavern together?" She smiled at his joke, before realizing that maybe he hadn't been. "Wait, did they really—"

He waved off the question before she'd even finished asking it. "I've had a very odd few weeks. Now what did you actually mean by guidance?"

"I mean…the voice of the Divines—of Kyne." She almost felt foolish saying it, but she had to know. Did you send him to me, Mother of Men?

"Two months ago I would have puffed up in righteous outrage at the question, you know." Velandryn's voice now was free of any emotion save wry amusement, and he rubbed his head contemplatively. "Now, though, I'll just say that no deity, be it Divine, Daedric, or of any other sort, has—" he cut himself off. "Well, Kyne hasn't, at least."

She gaped. "So some other god has? Who?"

He waved a hand again. "Like I said, it's been an odd few weeks. I had a…run-in with some—well, I wouldn't want to worry you."

She'd heard that one before, usually from some older man who'd decided that the little lady Elisif couldn't handle the important matters being discussed. "Don't worry, you won't. I can handle big scary things, and I don't really appreciate being told I can't."

She hadn't tried to hide her anger. However, instead of mocking her or getting his back up at her indignation, Velandryn only studied her for a long moment. "All right. If you have any mages of skill, I would recommend placing detection wards on the Pelagius Wing. I encountered a…Daedric presence in there."

She could tell he was keeping something back—a calm face didn't make his voice any less obvious when he decided not to tell her something—but she was too busy processing what he'd just said. "You found Daedra in my palace?"

"Not so much in the palace as…look, location gets fuzzy when dealing with Oblivion. Just don't let anyone go wandering through that part of the palace until you've had someone competent take a look at it." He shrugged. "I think he left though."

"You know, most of the time when someone says they don't want to worry me, they're being patronizing. You weren't, were you?"

He leaned in again, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Jarl Elisif, believe me when I say that some of the things I've dealt with, I wish I could avoid being worried by." He let her go, and shrugged. "Sadly, I don't think that's a luxury we get. Our burden is to know these things, and worry."

And worry we do. He still hadn't really answered her question, though. "So Kyne's told you nothing?"

For once, his voice held something that might have been annoyance. "No, and why does it matter?"

"Kyne gave mankind the Thu'um, so that we could defeat the dragons. Didn't you know this?"

"I read the books, but no god has spoken to me." He laughed. "She'd probably just be telling me to get my worthless hide to High Hrothgar already."

Elisif didn't join in his mirth. "I…see." Kyne gave the power to learn Thu'um to Ulfric Stormcloak, and he killed Torygg and plunged us into war. Shouldn't she at least guide the Dragonborn as well? It was no easy thing, to doubt a god, but there had been many doubts of late. Kyne is good and wants only the best for us, of course, but…

Velandryn must have noticed her sadness, because his next words were back to being gentle. "Is there anything I could do? I know we just met, but…" he trailed off, then took a breath and continued. "I think we can and should help each other, and I'd like for us to be honest with each other.

That she hadn't expected. "The Dunmer is telling the Nord that we need to be open and honest?"

He rubbed his neck, eyes just the tiniest bit bright. "The world is all awry, I agree, but we gain nothing by working against each other. I badly need allies who aren't actively scheming to use me, and if that encounter with the general was typical of your relationship, having a Nord culture-hero in your corner could only help."

She should have just smiled and accepted, but something about him made her want to tease. "And how do you know I won't just use you as well to advance my own position?"

"Oh, please. What would betraying the Dragonborn get you besides the scorn of the traditionalists, who I'd wager are the exact ones you most need to court?" He was right, but the speed with which he was figuring out the politics of Solitude was a little unnerving. "Face it. We're both far too pathetic to be able to get much of value by breaking down the other."

He could have been a bit more diplomatic, but he's not wrong.

For the next little while, they spoke of things of small consequence. It seemed he knew Jordis, though he demurred from telling that story, saying that he wouldn't want to deprive the Young Wolves from telling it "in what I am sure will be a delightfully excessive fashion."

"It was Wolfskull Cave, wasn't it? Was there actually something in there?"

"I told you, you'll have to wait until…Sopha, was that her name?" She though he might be referring to Sophie, but let him continue. "The bard was composing an 'epic ballad,' she called it." Something suspiciously like a smile tugged at his lips. "I'll have to listen as well, and learn about all of the heroic things I did."

Just then, there came a knock at the glass, and she turned to see Falk Firebeard standing there. He pushed open the door and bowed. "My jarl, I am glad to have found you. There are several people who wish a word with you, and some are of sufficient import that they should not be kept waiting much longer." He bowed again and closed the door, but stood just beyond the glass, waiting.

Elisif turned to Velandryn apologetically, but he was already waving her off. "Go. You need to do this; it's your party after all."

"I…" suddenly, she realized she had no idea what to say. How did you say farewell to someone you'd just met , but who you desperately wanted to stay with? What is he to me? She had no answer, so she made do with one of the standard courtesies drilled into her by her parents. "This has been a pleasure, Master Savani."

He inclined his head, bright eyes never leaving hers. "It has, my lady." He smiled then, and she decided to believe that it was real. "Before you go, I owe you an answer."

"To what?"

"Why I was laughing before." His smile looked real enough that she could almost fool herself into believing it. "I couldn't understand why in Oblivion all of these nobles would come up to Solitude to court you. Now, I do."

She knew she was blushing, but she didn't care. If she'd thought for an instant that he was using some sort of ruse or attempting to flatter with lies, she would have been done then and there, but somehow she got nothing but sincerity from his words. Still, she couldn't resist teasing him a little. "Oh, why's that?" She batted her eyes.

He smiled again. "Love." What? Before she could even start to respond, he continued. "You love this city and its people, and even the Empire that thinks you only another piece in its game." He took a step forward, but made no attempt to reach out or pressure her with his movements. I won't pretend to love this land as you do, but it is a powerful thing to see." He gave her the smallest of salutes, one finger rising to tap his chest. "I don't know how many beautiful women there are across Tamriel, but I've never met one quite like you." He turned then, and gazed back out over the ocean.

She was quite glad he was looking away, because she had no idea how to respond. She had to be as red as his eyes, and speech failed her. I have to focus! Trying her utmost to put his words from her mind, she turned and opened the doors.

Falk bustled her towards a dignitary from Markarth, who would doubtless be begging for aid against the Reachmen within half a minute of opening his mouth. As he did, though, he glanced back. "Who was that? I didn't recognize him."

"A…friend. He's…" She realized she had no idea how to finish that sentence.

He's not at all what I expected, and I've never been so happy to be wrong.

---

Well, she wasn't at all what I was expecting, but I'm more than a little glad to be wrong.

Velandryn stared fixedly out into the blackness, not moving an inch until he heard the doors click shut, and then only relaxing the tiniest bit until a full minute had passed. He was so out of sorts, he doubted he could even get the control over his magicka needed to try and detect life. I must be alone now, right? She had to be gone.

Why did I say that? When he'd first had the thought, it had been because he'd heard her arguing so passionately for his rights. She clearly felt that the Empire was worth something, and wasn't going to let up until it conformed to her beliefs. Give her power, and she'd make a fine High Queen. Then, seeing her about to leave, he'd just wanted to let her know. Why? Had he been trying to impress her with his insight? Why am I acting this way?

Have you heard the voices of any gods? Elisif had meant to ask if he'd been given revelation by Kyne or whoever else was keeping tabs on the Dragonborn, but all he'd heard was, Is Sheogorath still in your head?

Are you there, Madgod? There was no answer, which left him with two options.

Either the Shivering Sovereign made me spout that nonsense, or I did it all on my own. He wasn't certain which was more worrying, the fact that he actually felt that way notwithstanding. I don't tell Nords how I'm really feeling!

And yet, he had. Something about Elisif had cut through his barriers and carefully constructed layers of deception. He'd come to within a hair's breadth of telling her that Sheogorath had been taking up residence in her Palace, and if she'd pressed him he might well have told her about the vampire and werewolf. How did she do that?

It wasn't that she was beautiful, or charming—though she is both of those things and more. He'd been completely honest when he'd been talking about her love for Solitude. Even a few minutes in her presence made it clear that she wasn't the shrinking child others thought. He wondered if that truly was why the other lords were seeking her hand, or if they really were simply after the questionable bounty of Solitude. Well, it's no concern of mine.

He shook his head. This line of thought was all well and good, but he needed to get back to some warmth. He'd managed to ignore the cold while with Elisif, but he could feel the familiar ache of magical exertion deep inside. And there's no way in Oblivion I'm facing this night without magic!

Thankfully, the hall was empty when he stepped back indoors, and by sticking to smaller and less ornate corridors, he seemed to avoid most of the guests. A couple of people gave him second glances, but he had long since mastered the art of avoiding conversation through body language alone. Soon enough, he was entering a large chamber, empty but for him. And where am I now?

He'd come through a small wooden door, but the room in which he found himself was anything but plain. Tall windows high above showed the night sky, and a floor of fine tile stretched from an ornate throne at the head of the room to a broad stairway that descended out of his view. So, this is Jarl Elisif's throne room.

He began moving towards the stairwell, but something gave him pause. In the middle of the room, he could feel a lingering echo , and he couldn't just walk away. It was nothing he could see or smell, but something was there.

Eyes closed, he shuffled his feet and positioned himself in a place that, for whatever reason, felt right. Again, there was no change in anything perceptible, but he knew he was standing in the correct spot.

Opening his eyes, he looked at the throne. He was standing about ten paces away, facing the seat squarely, and the knowledge rose. This is where Ulfric Stormcloak Shouted King Torygg to death.

Thu'um wasn't magic; he knew that without question. Magic manipulated the magicka that permeated the Aurbis, but Thu'um…

Thu'um affects it on a deeper level. He'd begun to see that, when Fus had pushed aside threads of magicka and Daedric Creatia alike, forcing them aside in a way that shouldn't have been possible. There were rules to what magic could do, and not even the strongest mages could overcome them. He was beginning to suspect that Thu'um did. How fortunate that I'm going to see the Greybeards.

"Not a good place to be standing, Savani." The voice of General Tullius made him turn, and he saw the two Imperials from before. The woman—Legate Rikke—looked at him as though she were trying to figure something out. Either I'm getting good at reading humans, or my imagination is growing in potency.

"Oh? Don't like mer in your throne rooms?" His inability to stop antagonizing human authority figures might be something he should work on, he'd realized, but it seemed this wasn't when he finally would.

Instead of the general, Legate Rikke responded. "Given what you've experienced, Dragonborn, I can understand your anger towards the Empire, but we are on the same side." She gestured, and they moved into a smaller chamber. Some privacy, but for what?

"Are we?" Velandryn had little experience with diplomacy, but he knew about lies. "In what way?"

"Dragons." With one word, the legate reduced him to speechlessness. Oh, right. The Dragonborn was supposed to be doing something about the dragons, presumably.

Velandryn inclined his head the smallest amount that he felt he could get away with while still displaying courtesy. "Very well. What is it you came to propose?"

The general studied him for a long moment. "Officially, the Legion does not recognize you as Dragonborn. Unofficially, I am willing to offer you unrestricted freedom of movement through Imperial territory in Skyrim and permission to join any Imperial operations against dragons."

So, no authority or actual help, but they can use me as they please? "And how has the Empire been faring against the dragons?"

It was the legate who responded. "We've yet to confirm a kill, but we can generally drive them away from populated areas."

Somehow, he doubted it was as simple as all of that. "And how many brave legionaries die each time?"

Now General Tullius broke in. "A few, but less than you'd like, Savani. We're moving battlemages into troop rotations, and even dragons flee when the ballistae start firing."

"You've made use of your engineers, then." From what he understood, the Empire was in a far better position than most Nord holdings to combat dragons. Magic and siege engines, just like Balgruuf and I talked about back in Whiterun. "I need to leave for High Hrothgar, and I can't really be putting on Imperial colors if I'm travelling through Stormcloak lands, but I'll be glad to work with Imperial command to combat dragons if the opportunity arises." He still didn't have much love for the Empire, but he'd be a fool to reject this deal out of hand. "I'm not swearing any oaths, however."

Tullius laughed. "And I wouldn't trust any oath you gave, Savani. You've made your opinion on the Empire quite clear."

That rankled. "Rest assured, General, that when I give my word, it holds. Dunmer are cunning, not honorless." In truth, oaths given to outlanders were somewhat less sacred than those sworn to the Three, but Velandryn didn't think the general knew that. And I'll be damned if I let his racism tar my good name! "We do not execute our prisoners without cause!" Well, most of the time.

The legate stepped forward then, hands raised. "Dragonborn, you have the apologies of the Legion for that incident. Now, however, we have to work together to defeat the greater threat. Are we agreed?"

Wordlessly, Velandryn nodded. "We are."

"Good." Tullius clapped his hands. "Despite what you think, Savani, the Empire doesn't bear you any ill will. Work with us, and you might just find us the best friends you've ever had."

Oh, I doubt that very much. "Perhaps." He raised a fist to his chest, tapping lightly as he'd seen the Imperials do. "I hope we can work well together."

The legate nodded. "Given the situation with the Stormcloaks and the likelihood of," her mouth twisted, "traitors within our command structures, any large-scale orders to all Imperial forces are considered compromised. A general command to aid you would probably just paint a target on your back for the Stormcloaks, so the most I'll do is add your name to the lists of persons to pass unmolested. It won't get you special treatment or equipment, but you can rest at our camps and garrisons if need be."

He nodded, with genuine gratitude this time. "Thank you."

The general leaned in. "And the next you see Jarl Balgruuf, tell him to get his act together and help us put down Ulfric before more Nords have to die. Whiterun's intransigence does nobody any favors!"

Considering that Velandryn actually liked Balgruuf, he doubted he'd be phrasing it like that. "I'll mention it when next I'm at Dragonsreach." The idea of denying that he held position within Whiterun was too patently absurd to even give thought. I won't insult Imperial spies like that.

Velandryn saluted, and both Imperials returned the gesture. The legate held out a hand, smiling. "I saw old Shield-Thane Kongir use Thu'um at Tall Pines. Broke the Thalmor lines singlehanded, and saved six hundred good men and women from capture or death. I hope you find what you need atop the Throat of the World, Velandryn Savani."

He clasped her arm, smiling back. "And, for what it's worth, I'd rather have the Empire in charge in Skyrim than Ulfric Stormcloak." At the general's disbelieving look, he had to laugh. "I might not like you too much, but how long do you think Skyrim would stay at peace with Morrowind without the Empire keeping them in line? Call it self-interest, but the thought of an independent Skyrim would make many of my people very nervous."

Tullius grunted. "Well, I'll take it over nothing." A brief smile. "Alliances have been built on less." He turned to Rikke. "Come on. We're getting out of here before Elenwen finds me."

There was one more thing, however, that Velandryn just couldn't let go. "The security here is terrible."

'Excuse me?" Rikke was more polite than Tullius, at least, who had simply given him an unamused stare.

"The Blue Palace is guarded by layabouts and incompetents. I snuck in far too easily. You need to do a better job protecting the jarl."

The general, however, did not seem concerned. "I've offered, but she says she wants her own people doing it. Besides, not like anyone really wants her dead."

"She's the leader of the Imperial jarls, isn't she?"

Tullius gave a bark of laughter. "She's a little pup! Wants to do good, but it's not like killing her would make a drop of difference. Only thing you'd accomplish is infuriating the entirety of Solitude." He shrugged. "They love her, you know, and I don't think even Ulfric's stupid enough to miss that." With a shake of his head, Tullius turned away. "The Queen's in no danger, and if she thinks she's in danger she can just swallow her pride and ask for help." With that, the Imperials departed, leaving Velandryn alone with his thoughts.

He nodded bitterly, considering Elisif's position. It made sense, in a cold kind of way. Her death might even strengthen the Empire's position here. Going by how the people feel, there'd be a mob signing up to take down whoever did it.

He left the room and headed down the steps, eager to be quit of the Palace. Legion, Nords, Daedra, and probably the Thalmor as well; this place is too crowded for comfort. At the main doors, he briefly worried about guards, but they only glanced over him as he left. No reason to keep people in. Still, he worried for Elisif.

The Blue District of Solitude was as beautiful in the predawn light—did I spend the entire night in there?— as it had been in yesterday's afternoon glow. The broad streets lined with flowers and the high-roofed manors looming overhead made even Nords look small, and Velandryn wondered what had changed to make him appreciate it so much more now than he had yesterday.

So, what comes next? He had, if not the formal support, then at least the assistance of the Legion, which was a load off his mind. The jarl seemed receptive for some sort of informal alliance, and he had a suspicion that Jordis would be more than happy to help out with small favors in the region. Insofar as the cities of Skyrim go, Solitude has more for me than most.

Wandering down the street, he found his mind wandering as well to distant companions. Lydia, unless something had gone tragically wrong, should already be in Ivarstead, doubtless growing ever angrier with him for being so late. He'd considered sending her a message by courier, but he couldn't take that risk. For one, she might not even be there to get the letter, though he fervently hoped that was not the case. For another, he didn't trust this courier system to actually keep his message secure, and he'd rather make Lydia wait than risk some enemy getting their hands on his letter. She swore an oath, and I told her to wait. She would do it, and she'd probably slap their guards into shape as well. Really, I'm doing that town a favor.

Then, there was the matter of Serana. He sighed; thoughts of the vampire never failed to pull him out of whatever good mood he was in. He knew he shouldn't be so concerned for her welfare, but he couldn't shake off those feelings. When I have to put her down, can I do it? In pitched battle he would wager he could face her without remorse, but if he had to steel his heart and end her life—well, unlife—he wasn't certain he could do it.

Not the time for this. He tugged his collar up a bit against the cold, and headed back towards the inn. He might say farewell to Jordis, but he really needed to start preparing to leave. Get my things from the inn, go to the bank and retrieve what I left there, and figure out the best way to Ivarstead. The way he saw it, he could go by either land or sea. While he might get lucky and find another ship bound for Morrowind, most likely he'd have to route through Morthal, and then either take the shorter route through the no-man's-land to the east or the path past the ancient ruins at Labyrinthian and through Whiterun Hold. Might be longer, but less likely to run into soldiers or bandits that way. Of course, he'd only studied the maps, so it was possible that the Labyrinthian road was more dangerous than he gave it credit for. However, Jarl Idgrod Ravenscrone had assumed he'd used that road before, meaning it saw at least some traffic. My best bet might be to find a caravan in Morthal and trust to numbers. Failing that, it would be more cold and miserable days on the road. Followed by climbing an enormous mountain as winter approaches. He sighed again. Why couldn't the Greybeards have summoned me to their holy sauna of meditation? At least I'd be warm.

Either way, he'd reach the Greybeards, and then he'd learn more about what it meant to be Dragonborn. He suspected that his use of Fus was only the merest bit of what he could accomplish, though if the Greybeards weren't themselves Dragonborn he wondered how much they could teach him about the aspects of his—title? Condition?—that didn't involve Thu'um. Well, only way to find out.

It was odd, all things considered, how optimistic he'd become. Dunmer weren't known for their cheery disposition, and even the idealists among his people generally tempered it with a healthy dose of cynicism. He'd never thought himself particularly downcast, but since this whole Dragonborn business began, he'd found himself looking forward to tomorrows with only the smallest amounts of certainty that something would go wrong. Might need to rein myself in, before I start dancing in the streets.

Solitude was far from deserted even at this early hour. It appeared that certain prominent citizens and public houses had been observing the Hearthfire in their own ways, and now the drunken celebrants were staggering home. He stepped over a woman snoring in a bush. Or to the nearest gutter. Some stereotypes about Nords were true—they loved drinking—and some were not—more than a few, it seemed, were not so adept at holding their drink.

Upon reaching the inn, he made his way through the reveling Nords and outlanders—don't these people ever sleep?—and reached his room with a minimum of fuss. He was fairly certain that someone had grabbed at his crotch in the press, but he'd thrown an elbow by reflex and heard a satisfying grunt of pain, so he was willing to call the matter settled.

Inside, he found the things he'd taken to the Blue Palace arranged on his bed, neatly folded and topped with what was unmistakably a human skull. When he'd shut the door, the unmistakable voice of Sheogorath echoed throughout the room. "Had a good night, did you? Enjoyed being free from the confines of sanity for a bit?"

I knew it! "So you did alter my mind, Madgod."

The skull began chattering madly, teeth clicking in an unnerving staccato. "Nope! But you thought I did! Never would have said half that stuff otherwise, eh? Did you a favor, really!"

Velandryn sighed, and collapsed into a chair. "Is this what having the favor of Sheogorath feels like? If so, I think I could do without it."

The skull chattered again. "Hah! This isn't my favor, mortal! This is the bare minimum! This is me making sure that you're not so horrifically boring that I have to deck my halls with your blood!"

"And why would you care? I know some mer who make me look positively giddy by comparison. Why haven't you paid them a visit yet?" What I wouldn't give to see Prelate Ilvan deal with this insanity!

"Dragonborn!" Sheogorath nearly sang that word, and the skull rose from his things. It began spinning madly, and then vanished in a flash of purple smoke. A singly butterfly flitted out of the cloud and alighted on Velandryn's nose. It flapped its wings once, tickling his eyes, and then made for the window. It passed through the thick glass with a shimmer, and vanished into the night.

Suddenly, he was exhausted. It's been a long day, and an even longer night. He was going to sleep, and sleep for a long time.

---

When he woke, it was still dark. No, he realized as he saw a line of golden light to the west, it's dark again. He'd managed to sleep an entire day away, and now he had another night to burn before he could leave. Ah, well, there's a few ways I can pass the time. One person in particular still needed to be…repaid.

There was no Dunmer on the gates this time, and the road down from the arch to the water ran straight and true. As he descended, he passed the shopkeepers opening for the morning, and the homes that were just now beginning to stir. Dawn will be here soon. He should really find a quiet place to observe it; after the madness of the previous night, some quiet would do him good. Right after I settle my last debt in Haafingar.

It occurred to him that he might have to leave the city rather quickly after this, but he quickly dismissed that thought. I've fought necromancers, vampires, dragons, and Daedra. I can handle a single treacherous sailor without alerting the guard. He briefly considered not performing a criminal act so soon after meeting the jarl and the general, but quickly dismissed that as absurd. What was it Malthanar said, carve every letter of my name on his bones? I'll do that one. One name for each day I was walking through the wilderness.

And if he tries to die on me, I'll heal him back up and keep going.

The docks and quays along the Karth were so extensive that it was nearly impossible to comprehend them all at once. Baan Malur might be a slightly larger city, but the Nords conducted far more trade by sea, and their dockyards were significantly more expansive. Well, at least our harbor's better-defended.

Not for the first time, he pitied those with poor memories; it would have been a nightmare to find anything here for anyone who didn't know where they were going. Fortunately, he recalled the exact place the boat had been docked. And with the Empire in charge, I'd bet sovereigns to scribs that you can't just stuff your ship anywhere.

The docks were actually less busy than he'd expected; perhaps he had the harsh Skyrim nights to thank for that. Though if I can make do with some magicka, Nords should have no trouble. More likely, he realized, was that the Hearthfire celebrations—they were still ongoing, as it seemed one night wasn't enough to contain all of the revels— meant this wouldn't be an early morning for many hung-over workers. Whatever the reason, he was able to make good time along the waterfront and soon enough the berth that had held Jolf—Gods, even his name is wretched!— and his miserable ship came into view. And there they are.

The boat was much the same as it had been, a single-masted little craft of some ten feet in length. More interesting than the ship, though, was the figure hunched over it, working with what looked like almost feverish concentration. As Velandryn approached, he expected the Nord to notice, but the human only continued working.

Finally, Velandryn was standing directly behind the man, waiting to be noticed. You're going to see this coming, s'wit. As he stood there, breath misting before him, he took in the state of the ship and its sole sailor. The ship looked much the same, but Jolf…

Before, Jolf had been a man of strength, a proud and hearty sailor who'd taken no lip from his passengers and been more than willing to call out someone who'd conjured an open flame on his ship. Velandryn was going to kill him slowly for abandoning him in the wilderness, of course, but the man had been no coward.

Now, Velandryn had to take a moment to make sure he had the right man. The Nord before him was huddled over something, with bony elbows jutting out of clothing that floated on a rail-thin frame. Still unnoticed, Velandryn leaned over to see what the Nord was working on so intently.

He was scrubbing a bench, and doing it so hard that the wood was peeling under his brush. What in Oblivion?

"It is good to see you again, Jolf." He tried to keep his voice calm, relishing the moment where the Nord realized who'd come back for him. Still, he was worried that some of his anticipation might have slipped into his words. Look at me, you bastard!

The Nord gave a violent jerk, and began trembling so violently Velandryn wondered if he was having some kind of fit. His eyes traced up to Velandryn's own, and the human recoiled back into a corner of the boat. "No! I did as she asked! No more!" Then came the tears, great sobs that racked his body as he gripped himself and rocked gently. "No more! No more!"

He's broken. All at once, the thought of revenge, of tormenting this man, felt like bile in Velandryn's mouth. He'd kept himself going through the wilderness at the thought of confronting the Nord who'd abandoned him, but he'd never imagined…this. He'd fantasized about the sailor angrily decrying him as an elf or an ally of vampires, and striking him down in righteous fury. He would be the hero, dealing vengeful justice upon the unworthy and treacherous. But this? This felt wrong, felt…sick. As thoughhe were the monster, preying on the wretched man.

Could it be an act? If it was, Jolf had missed his calling as a bard or a trouper, for this was masterfully done.

"Hey!" Velandryn turned to see an Legion guard, who followed up his exclamation by grabbing Velandryn's arm. "Don't harass the poor man!"

Though he had the momentary desire to incinerate this fool's skull for laying a hand on him uninvited, he quickly bit back that response. "What happened to him?"

"You know Jolf?" At Velandryn's nod, the guard sighed. "Poor bastard's been like this since he got back."

Suddenly, Velandryn had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "And when was that, exactly?" I thought it was so simple; the Nord betrays the mer.

The guard, unheeding of the Dunmer's sudden terror, scratched at his stubble. "Yesterday evening, I think. Nobody saw him come in, but he was here when I started my watch."

I was so ready to hate him for betraying me, I didn't see the obvious. They'd taken a boat, and Serana had even remarked that she hoped they weren't taking someone else's way back.

So what happens when a coven of vampires gets their hand on a sailor with a boat out of Solitude? Harkon hadn't struck him as the type to leave the comfort of his citadel without a damned good reason, but clearly he had no compunctions about using lackeys to do his dirty work. And a bloodless wretch who's terrified of his own shadow shows up in the night.

Velandryn was no vampire hunter, but he figured a city like Solitude was exactly the sort of place they'd love. So, what do I do now? Go find Elisif or Tullius, raise the alarm and hope for the best? However, it might be better to let the Volkihar do as they would. Let them think they have us fooled, and they grow careless. If they made contact with Jolf, for instance, he could well—

"Velandryn?"

He knew who was speaking—there was no way he could forget that voice, the subtle accent that turned his name into something unique—and would have given anything not to have met her here, but it seemed that his heart was not to be spared. I'd hoped I would have more time.

He began to turn, but she'd already stepped in front of him. Golden eyes blinked at him, and she pulled down the scarf that hid the lower half of her pale face. She was wearing her old armor and cape, but she had her hood down and a crown of white flowers was woven into her hair. He had forgotten how beautiful she—No, let's not lie. He hadn't forgotten one bit. He'd just tried to ignore his thoughts of her. And clearly I did a wonderful job.

Serana smiled at him, wider than she ever had before, dark lips parting to reveal the merest hints of pointed teeth. "Hey."