AN: Thank you all so much for the positive reception after I returned with this story. You are the reason I want to keep it going!

Chapter 16

Making Choices

"What makes man and mer different from animals? Is it the capacity for choice? Is it the ability to determine right from wrong? I could be a hero or a villain. I could be a tyrant or a champion. I could trust him or her. How should I know what choice is right? The Eight alone know. You must trust in their guidance."-Prior Tacitis, Prior of the Order of Saint Maborel, in a sermon encouraging The Imperial Legion forces before the battle to reclaim The Imperial City 4E 175

"And you came home so late last night, why?" Lydia asked, with an ever-so-slightly sly expression on her face. Her voice was carefully neutral.

"I got caught up at the Mare." Hammel felt his face flush so he shifted his focus to his crutches. He knew he was almost done with them, he just had to hang on a little longer.

"And her name was?"

"Unimportant. I'm doing this for Whiterun." Even he didn't believe that.

"That's why we're asking some prisoner about the location of some foreign thug?" Lydia wasn't convinced, "He's going to help Whiterun…how exactly?"

"Klamatu might be a threat to Whiterun, a killer without mercy. We need to find him and put a stop to him before Whiterun suffers." The stoic tone felt forced.

"You believe Saadia then?" Lydia's sarcasm was palpable.

"That's not her name," he grumbled in response, "It's Iman."

"You don't even believe that," Lydia retorted with a snort.

He didn't correct her.

Dragonsreach was becoming familiar to him. It was a great hall of history and myth that he, Hammel Greymist, a lowborn son of a lowborn woman, now walked as Thane. He could scarcely believe it. Guards saluted him as he passed, the continual echoing of "Thane," was music to his ears. The respect from the men who called him "hero" and "dragon-slayer" was almost enough to wipe away that little tingling voice in the back of his mind that he was making a mistake.

Is Saadia…I mean Iman…really innocent? She looked innocent enough naked in my arms…

As Hammel and Lydia made their way into the dungeon, the jailer on duty stood sharply and saluted. He was a portly, ugly looking man, with a greasy beard and shiny forehead. "Thane Greymist!" He said, seeming surprised, "What brings you into the bowels of Dragonsreach?"

Instead of voicing his thoughts about the jailer, Hammel said, "I'm here to speak to a prisoner, an Alik'r warrior. I want him to tell me something."

"It would be my honor to grant you access to the prisoners my Thane!" The jailer responded gleefully, "Just let me get my keys."

As the man fumbled with the heavy keyring, Hammel could hear Lydia whisper something that sounded suspiciously like, "You better believe it is your honor, you milk-drinker." After a moment, the jailer found the right key and unlocked the heavy wooden doors. With a bow and a gesture, he invited Hammel into the dungeon.

It wasn't difficult to find the Alik'r they sought. Dragonsreach, for all its size, didn't have a particularly large dungeon, and locating the trained killer amidst the rabble of drunks and pickpockets wasn't difficult. He was the man in the farthest cell, leaning against the stone wall with attempted indifference. As Hammel approached, the man made an obvious attempt to look unimpressed. "What do I owe the pleasure of my first ever visitor?"

Hammel wasn't going to be baited. "I need to find Kematu. I understand you know where he is."

"I do, do I?" He looked awfully smug.

"If you don't then I'm wasting my time," Hammel turned, "Let's go Lydia."

He'd actually taken his first step away when the prisoner said, "You have a death wish then?"

That got Hammel's attention. "Not that I know of." He turned to face the prisoner, "Why? Do you know something I don't?"

The prisoner laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "If you know that name, you must know that to meet him would be to meet your end. But it seems we both have needs, friend." He grasped the bars tightly and leaned forward, speaking in a hushed whisper, "Perhaps we can help each other out."

Even though he had a pretty good idea of the answer, Hammel still asked, "And how exactly can we help each other?"

The Alik'r smiled, and Hammel was reminded of how he felt when he'd hooked that salmon yesterday, except this time he was the fish. "I have dishonored my brothers by being captured, and so they have left me here. My life with the Alik'r is over, Kematu made that clear. The Alik'r are meant to be the best and, obviously, I am not. Still, I have no wish to die in a foreign land. If I can be released from prison, I may start over." He gave a knowing smile, "So, if you could see to that, I will tell you what you want to know."

Ah, the expected bribe.

"How much?" They both knew where the conversation was going and there was no point in beating around the bush.

"100 gold should be enough. Pass it to the jailer and he'll make sure I get the chance to stretch my legs a little bit. Do that, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Lydia looked at him with an "are you sure?" kind of an expression, as if asking if he was really willing to part with so much coin just because a pretty girl asked him too. Hammel did ponder just how far he was willing to go for Saadia until he remembered the heat of her body, the smoothness of her skin, and the taste of her kisses.

Hammel made a decision.

The jailer had been trying not to look like he was eavesdropping and failing miserably. His eyebrows wiggled like fat caterpillars looking at a particularly juicy leaf upon hearing the mention of 100 gold. He edged a bit closer, failing every attempt at subtlety.

"Jailer," Hammel announced, not looking at the man, "I believe there has been a clerical error. This man doesn't belong here. Your time has been wasted. My Housecarl will compensate you for it." It was his money and, despite her silent protest, Lydia couldn't keep him from spending it how he liked. She held the small pouch out, glaring at her Thane.

The jailer happily ignored the tension, snatching up the pouch and loudly announcing, "I'll file this contribution immediately. Take your time here sir, and let me know when you've finished!" He unlocked the prisoner's cell, nodded politely to both men, and walked away whistling.

The Alik'r stepped out, rolling his neck and smiling, "Amazing how fresh the air is mere feet from my cell." He breathed deeply through his nose, "Crisp and clean."

"Your fine's been paid. Now tell me where I can find Kematu. I have questions for him." Hammel was not amused by the lollygagging, already feeling the sting of the lost gold.

"Very well. Kematu is west of Whiterun in an unassuming little cave called Swindler's Den." He smiled slyly, as if he knew something Hammel did not and said in an overly confident way, "You realize if you set foot in there, you're never coming back out. They'll kill you. But that's your problem, not mine."

Hammel wasn't impressed. "I've heard that before." Hammel and Lydia turned, leaving the man behind. Before leaving he announced, "I don't ever want to see your face in my city again. Are we clear?"

He didn't need to see the man to know the Alik'r understood. "Absolutely. You never will."

The man faded from Hammel's attention, it was time to pay Swindler's Den a visit.

Lydia leaned close, "Should we get some help for this? Maybe a few guards or one of the other Companions?"

While the suggestion was a sensible one, Hammel couldn't go through with it. "No, I want to keep this between us," he paused, adding, "I will see Arcadia first though. A stamina potion should get me feeling well enough to handle a few thugs."

If it comes to that.

"It is magnificent." Ulfric stated without fanfare, gripping the parapet before him while gazing over the city of Windhelm from the castle walls. Snow fell steadily as the wind blew his hair and cloak. The Palace of Kings remained sturdy, lending him its quiet, ancient strength. Mother Skyrim wrapped him in her powerful embrace, the chill granting a comfort no mortal could.

Ulfric didn't look at Galmar, He didn't need to. Galmar had returned so he'd have the crown as promised.

"The Jagged Crown of legend, plucked from the skull of dead king Borgas, after we killed him again." Galmar shook his head, growling quietly, "Damn draugr." He proudly presented the crown, while bleeding slightly from several untreated wounds along forearms and face. Ulfric knew he hadn't wasted a second before bringing the Jagged Crown, proving his loyalty once again.

"How many?" Ulfric asked softly, his voice laced with barely perceptible sorrow.

"You don't want the answer to that, Ulfric." Galmar told him, his own emotions masked behind a wall. "Those who did, died for Skyrim. This is a solid blow to the Imperial war machine and another step closer to freedom. Our children's lives will be made better because of those sacrifices."

Ulfric picked up a loose stone, bouncing it casually in his palm. "I know what the Thalmor's puppets say about me," he gazed somberly over the city he so loved. "I do not enjoy death and I take no pleasure in war," Ulfric said, turning to look his friend in the eye. "I want nothing more than for this war to end and for the young on both sides to return to their homes and families. I remember everyone who has died for the cause." He tossed the stone from the parapet. Galmar stood by quietly, waiting for Ulfric to continue.

"I am a warrior, Galmar," he confessed, still facing away. "War is all I know, yet I bear no love for it, just as I bear no love for the tyrants, king-makers, and blasphemers who start it." His face contorted with contempt. "While I respect a man willing to fight and die leagues from his home, I cannot allow his masters to continue this charade and oppress our people. I will not stand idly by while men bend their knees to elves!" He clenched his fist tightly, his eyes turning to flint. "So I fight. I fight on, despite the pain in my soul, despite the sorrow I feel at the names of the dead, despite the images I see when I close my eyes. I fight because I must." He paused, letting the wind whistle by. "I fight, because there is no choice. Skyrim must be free."

Ulfric clasped his hands tightly behind his back. Galmar took the silence as an opportunity to speak. "This crown brings us closer to achieving that peace, Ulfric. It will bring many to our banner. The sooner all of Skyrim joins you, the sooner we will be free. The sooner we are free, the sooner we can destroy those blasphemous Thalmor. The sooner they are destroyed the sooner Skyrim achieves true and lasting peace."

Ulfric finally turned to face Galmar. Despite his exhaustion he took the Jagged Crown from Galmar's hands and placed it on his head without hesitation. It fit proudly, matching the Jarl's head like it had been forged specifically for him.

"It's a sign!" Galmar stated proudly pounding his chest twice. "Talos is with us! The Nine favor us!"

Ulfric allowed himself a sad smile. "What you say is true, old friend. I have never doubted that. My only regret is that not all Nords see that truth." He returned his gaze to Windhelm. He said, mostly to himself, "Raising my blade against old comrades is difficult."

"I take no pleasure in striking down old friends myself," Galmar admitted. He became reflective, as if remembering battles fought long ago with friends now dead and buried. "Still, if they truly loved Skyrim, they would not fight for an Empire so desperate to placate an enemy who seeks to destroy our way of life! We shed blood in The Great War stopping those damn elves! Thousands of good men died, fighting for their families and freedom! What did their Emperor do? How did the Empire honour all those mighty dead?" He spat furiously upon the ground, putting all his hatred into that one gesture. "They spat on the dead, they placated the elves! They gave up our god! This was our only choice."

Ulfric laughed suddenly, his attitude changing, "Do you remember the battle of Long-River? Rikke was so certain we'd die that day, she drafted her will!" He leaned over the parapet chuckling again, "I almost believed it myself at the sight of all those golden elves charging us." He looked at Galmar, "The two of us knew right away someone was missing, and, after a head-count, learned it was you. Thus began a mad scramble to find you." Ulfric shook his head, a far away look in his face.

"Rikke and I, under orders from the Legate, looked everywhere we could think of. While I never doubted, whispers began spreading that the mighty Stone-Fist had turned coward and fled in the night." Ulfric leaned back and laughed heartily, "You, afraid? The opposite was true!"

Galmar held out his arms in protest, "I'd just been involved in a night raid!" He gave a rare smile of his own, "and I'd had too much mead to drink..."

Ulfric continued his story, "We'd almost given up hope of finding you when the snoring reached our ears. Rikke looked into that tent and laughed until she cried..."

Ulfric's tone shifted again, the words trailing off into nothingness. His smile turned to a downward glance, the Jagged Crown seemed a mighty weight. "Galmar," he confessed, turning away from his old friend to gaze over the city, "I pray to Talos every night I do not see her on the battlefield. Yet I ask my men to go into battle against old friends, family, lovers." He shook his head. "We must be strong, despite our selfish natures. Rikke chose her side." Ulfric turned from the wall, making his way towards the door leading inside, murmuring under his breath, "As did I."

"If we reinforced the two cohorts stationed at Dragon Bridge with only three pulled from the Seventh Legion, to ensure the Forsworn don't get any ideas, we would have more than enough men to push the rebels out of Winterhold." Quintus Decimus said boldly, jabbing the map with two fingers for emphasis. His brow was furrowed, free hand stroking the horse-hair plume on his helmet, which he'd left sitting on the table. "Dawnstar's garrison might be strong but if we bypass them and take control of Winterhold we could strike it or Windhelm itself. We need to break Ulfric's hold on the north. If we don't, we'll regret it."

Tullius said nothing, simply looking down at the maps before them. Rikke watched, taking stock of the three men.

Despite his desperate battle with the Dogs of War, Quintus looked no worse for wear, save a new scar. His forces made short work of the mercenary band, stamping it out so thoroughly it was possible none of the Dogs in Skyrim were still alive.

The other officer in the room was Legate Metilus, a burly Imperial man. From his large bushy sideburns to his mostly toothless grin, Metilus was the very model of the career soldier. He was tall for an Imperial, with the width of a small mountain and similar personality, his sense of superiority never totally hidden. Rikke didn't care for him. Metilus shared Tullius' view of her people, and was far too vocal about voicing it.

"We can't spare any of the Seventh," Metilus challenged Quintus, "I need them near Falkreath. Ulfric's rebels have been probing for the past week. If they launch an all-out attack, they will take the city without support from the Seventh." He scowled, taking a menacing look in the Castle Dour candlelight. "Siddgier refuses to listen to my warnings about the rebel threat and the pompous ass has barely any militia worth mentioning. We need to guard the road out of this damn country. If the rebels cut the supply line from Bruma it could cost us the war." He folded his arms and scowled at imaginary rebels lurking in the shadows.

"If we take Winterhold, Ulfric will be far too concerned with the threat we'd pose to Windhelm itself to attack Falkreath," Quintus protested. "We need to strike now, before Ulfric knocks on Solitude's gates."

"We can't spare the men! It will take months for the local levies to be trained so I have no troops to send you!"

Tullius held up his hands, silencing both Legates. "You both raise fair points," Tullius said. "We can't afford to lose Falkreath, but I agree with Legate Decimus. If we don't break up the northern front it will cost us." He turned to face Quintus, "Legate, how many men, honestly, would you need to take Winterhold."

Quintus spoke without bravado. "At least three more cohorts."

"Make it more than that," Rikke said. She looked each man fully in the face, "When we march on the city, anyone wavering about whose side to support will jump to Ulfric. Everyone trying to avoid the war and stay neutral will fight when our men attack. They'll believe the Stormcloak propaganda, that we're invaders out to destroy their families, and they'll fight us tooth and nail." She looked down at the simple word, 'Winterhold,' written with a practiced hand. "Nothing is more dangerous than a Nord fighting to protect his home."

Metilus snorted. "It sounds like you admire that rebel and his filthy horde." He spat on the floor, his sour expression implying he thought more of his own saliva than Skyrim.

Rikke's eyes flashed and she clenched her fists tightly. "Hold your tongue, Metilus. These people are fighting to defend their homes, their traditions, and their gods. What are we doing?"

Quintus raised an eyebrow at the outburst but Tullius sighed deeply. "Rikke," he began with an exasperated tone, "We have orders, including the White-Gold Concordat, which we will follow regardless of personal opinion."

"I think your former...relationship with Ulfric is clouding your judgment," Metilus sneered, looking down his nose at her. His air of superiority hung so thick, Rikke could not have found her way through it with a torch.

She tried to keep calm, to ignore the slander he threw her way, but her fiery Nordic temper flared up and couldn't be checked.

"How dare you imply I let feelings get in the way of my duty!" Rikke snarled, dropping her hand dangerously close to her sword. "I'm standing here, loyal to the Empire. I've sided with her over old friends who, even now, I like more than you, milk-drinker!"

"Enough!" Tullius roared, ending the argument before it could continue. Purposely ignoring them, he turned to Quintus, "I'll get your three cohorts and furthermore, I'll send two cohorts worth of town guard and militia to bolster the attack. I want Winterhold and I want it before the month is over. Then I want it fortified. Let's make it a thorn the Bear can't get out of his paw."

Tullius scribbled down the command on a scrap of parchment and stamped it with his official seal. After Quintus received it, he confidently proclaimed, "I'll have that city under your command within twenty days."

"Very good," Tullius pounded his chest in salute, "Dismissed." He turned to the only woman present and said, "Rikke, stay here for a moment."

After the Legates left, Tullius pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes and breathed heavily. After a moment of simply looking at her, he spoke. "I know you Nords are a passionate lot, but exploding all over Metilus isn't helping." He held up his hand to silence the response before it came. "I don't doubt you Rikke, you've proven your loyalty to the Empire a hundred times over, but please, keep your religion private. Talos is no longer a god."

"Who the gods are and aren't isn't dictated by elves," her voice was flint, but non-aggressive to Tullius.

"No, but they are dictated by the Emperor. These rebels are opposed to the lawful Empire, one that only has Skyrim's best interests in mind."

"I'm sure the Redguards thought the same before the Empire cut them loose." Tullius' gaze dropped slightly and Rikke instantly regretted her statement. "I'm sorry sir, that was uncalled for and unprofessional." She shook her head sourly. "It's hard, when something you love makes decisions you don't understand."

Tullius nodded, "The sooner we put down this rebellion, the sooner we can turn our attention to our real enemy," he looked at her with a somber expression. "I know you will not let past friendships overcome your sense of duty, regardless of what Legate Metilus says. Is that right?"

Rikke nodded, "Yes, general." The words were flat but without hesitation.

"Good." That seemed to be his final say on the matter. "Now, get some rest, we've got a war to win."

Clob didn't know what this Vigilant Durgaz was going to be like, even with Hulda setting up the meeting. She'd said to meet Durgaz outside the city by the stables at dusk and that was it. He wasn't expecting the Orc to be so pale, and he wasn't sure why Hulda failed to mention he'd be accompanied by a boar.

Durgaz appeared to be an Orc, though something suggested mixed ancestry, his pinky-green skin. He was tall even among the Orsimer, though lanky, with a hint of pious fasting, but with the rippling muscles of a warrior. His greasy black hair was shaved down to a scalp cut, visible thanks to a currently lowered hood. His eyes were an unexceptional yellow and his nose was more man than Orc in appearance. The tusk on the right side of his mouth was broken off, leaving only a jagged stump.

He was dressed like any other Vigilant of Stendarr, robes and hood clean but well worn, steel boots and gauntlets battered but functional, and the amulet he wore proudly displaying his loyalty to the Divine Stendarr. He wore only one weapon, an ancient looking Dwemer mace that seemed to crackle with power.

Standing beside him was a large brown boar, with splotchy grey patches throughout his fur. Despite the size of the animal, he seemed relatively docile, happily rubbing up against Durgaz like a loyal hound. The snorting and sniffling was oddly endearing, and Clob found himself liking the animal, without any good reason.

"You must be him," Durgaz said, voice rumbling across the field. It was a gravelly voice, but not unkind.

Clob nodded his affirmative. "I am him, assuming him is the mage Clobnak gro-Grogork."

The Vigilant offered his hand, "Durgaz gro-Borba," he said simply, "Friend of Stendarr and of Hulda. She said you needed someone trustworthy to help on an honourable quest. Though she didn't tell me what that quest was."

The boar snorted in agreement.

He takes his mother's name? Unusual.

"That is because I did not tell her." Clob answered, taking Durgaz's hand in his own and shaking it firmly. The two Orsimer seemed almost evenly matched in strength, though Durgaz had a slight edge. Clob tried to gauge the other's initial opinion of him but couldn't make anything out.

Hopefully Durgaz can be the new Greymist, but only Malacath knows.

"This quest is a matter of personal and familiar honor," He told Durgaz, "I assume you understand that."

Durgaz narrowed his eyes. "I'm a Vigilant first, Clobnak gro-Grogork, and an Orc second. That said, if you don't want to clarify, I won't probe." He crossed his arms, "Assuming there is no evil intent, no support of abominations, or Daedra, of course."

Of course.

"Even so I have a few requirements before Porkchop and I agree to accompany you."

Clob couldn't help but be amused, "Porkchop is the boar, I assume?"

Durgaz nodded, "His full name is Porkchop the 11th, but I call him Porkchop for short. He comes from a long line of Cyrodilic fighting boars, an enemy of evil and a good friend." He reached his hand down and scratched behind the boar's ears. The great pig chuffed happily, closing his eyes and rubbing against the offered hand. It was clear the boar was loyal, but seemingly dangerous to anyone who threatened his master.

"Now," Durgaz said, turning his attention back to Clob, "I am not a sword for hire, I'm a Vigilant and that must be my utmost priority. If I must leave to deal with certain issues I will do so. That must be understood. Secondly, I need clarification on who or what Porkchop and I will be fighting. We will not raise tusk or mace against the innocent. Finally, we need to know where we're headed, and what sort of situation we will arrive at."

The terms seemed fitting to Clob, about what he'd expected from a Vigilant.

This could prove complicated later. Malacath knows that the Vigil doesn't think kindly of him. Still, he's my best option and hopefully maybe he'll overlook my loyalty to the Spurned Lord.

"Agreed." Clob held out his hand again and, once again, Durgaz shook it firmly.

"Now, in the name of the Merciful One, tell us where we three headed in our pursuit of honour."

Clob drew a small sack of coin and a tattered old map from his belt pouch. After offering the purse to Durgaz, Clob unfurled the parchment. "That money should cover any expenses you accrue while we travel together. Donate whatever you don't need wherever you feel it best. The map shows the fastest route to the Orcish stronghold of Largashbur, our final destination. I have personal business there. We will not be battling any innocents along the way, only monsters and bandits who happen across our path. The stronghold will be at least open, though I'm not sure how our meeting there will end. Once my quest ends, for good or ill, you will receive more gold if you wish it, or whatever else you consider fair for your service. Is that acceptable?"

Durgaz didn't even bother counting the money, "Porkchop and I will accompany you Clobnak, and see what Stendarr has in store for us three."

Clob clasped his quarterstaff tightly. "Excellent. Fetch your horse. We begin riding immediately!"

As Durgaz headed for his own horse, Clobnak, son of Grogork, took a moment to reflect on the journey to come.

It's been a quest long delayed. Far too long. Soon either honor will be restored or I will die in the attempt. Either way, it is good to finally begin.

Eola felt the already chilly Hall of the Dead grow considerably cooler at the man's presence. An almost physical evil radiated from his shoulders and Daedra practically danced in his shadow.

He was a tall man, bold and fearless, with a black moustache and thin dueling scar across his cheek. His dark eyes, strong chin and hawk nose cut a handsome figure, and Eola found herself drooling at him, not with her typically cannibalistic desires.

He was clad in unscathed ebony mail that seemed to flow with his body's movements, steps completely silent despite the metal boots. Attached to his belt was a strange helmet, resembling a man's face with two curving horns sprouting from its head. The shield on his back was of Dwemer make, ancient and arcane. While he wore many knives and long blades, it was a particularly horrific mace, dripping with seemingly fresh blood that drew her attention.

The Mace of Molag Bal! Someone has claimed it!

He hadn't noticed her yet. He had wandered into her den with all the confidence of a skilled warrior, not the timid pitter-patter of her usual prey which made him ignorant of her. She knew he was the one to approach with Lady Namira's guidance.

While remaining hidden, Eola began her seductive whispers, "Not many would walk blindly into a crypt, smelling of steel and blood, but not fear. I feel the hunger inside of you. Gnawing at you. You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls. It's all right. I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. I will tell you everything you have forgotten."

She was moving around the tombs, keeping out of the man's sight. In response to her honeyed words, he laughed, callous and cruel. "Spare me the speech, priestess of Namira. I am no cannibal, though I fear no vice." He looked around, trying to find her, hand dropping to a large knife with a bone handle, "I've come to bargain for your mistress' artifact. I know she'll grant it to a worthy champion."

So bold, so arrogant. So handsome.

"But you already possess such wonders," she breathed. "The Ebony Mail of Boethia, the Masque of Clavicus Vile, Peryite's Spellbreaker and, if I'm not mistaken, the dreaded mace of the King of Strife himself at your waist. Is it wise for a mere man to traffic with so many Daedric Princes?" She was toying with him, playing a cat and mouse game that, she suspected, they both enjoyed.

"My name is Claudius Nero," he announced with all power and pomp. "It is my destiny to claim Daedric power, to overthrow the champion of Akatosh and usher in the domination of my lord Molag Bal, not seen since The Second Era." He paused, then commanded her, "You, priestess, will follow me, or you will die. Either way, the blessing of Namira will fall on my shoulders."

It was too much. He was the one. The newest initiate in her cabal, and the prized champion in the flock. Eola emerged from her hiding place between two caskets and knelt before him.

"Claudius Nero, I name you Oblivion Walker, a title not granted in over two hundred years." She looked up into his eyes, a combination of pride, reverence, and lust burning within hers, but his held only darkness. It thrilled her.

"As you say," his voice was firm and dark, "Tell me, of what use can an Oblivion Walker be to Lady Namira?"