Season of Ending

by Tyranidlord

Summary:

Nodding in agreement, Kaius’ breathing was slow and controlled. “I need to face Alduin and stop such an event from happening, but even if I am successful you all are faced with a much darker threat.”

“Just what is this ‘darker threat’ you speak of?” Asked Jarl Korir. While younger than most of the other Jarls, his health and strong build was somewhat a contradiction to the relative small size and wealth of Winterhold. There was also no doubting the authority he had in common with the others.

Without batting his eye, Kaius spoke nothing more than a single word. “Falmer.”

 

Story completed! - 24 Apr 20

Notes:

The is the last story in Sos do Dov but it is not the end of Kaius and the other's adventures. I have an entire story arc planned out and I have started working on the continuation but it will be some time before I start posting it. I plan on finishing Champion over working on the next series so I can concentrate on on story and plot at a time to reduce the chances of me burning out. Especially with how crazy real life is right now.

Otherwise thanks for everyone who has read, kudo'd and commented my works! I hope you are all staying safe and healthy in this crazy times!

Chapter 1: Evgir do Oblaan

For the first time in years, Skyrim was at peace. Not a complete peace brought upon by truce or agreement, but a peace consisting of curiosity, uncertainty and a significant portion of fear. The previous months had seen many strange stories and tales spreading throughout the province; some too fanciful to be true, others too grounded in reality to be ignored, but some things could not be simply ignored.

Tales of the destruction of the Volkihar vampires were rampart, fuelled in many ways by the previous increase of vampiric attacks in both towns and cities that had suddenly ceased without warning. These rumours were further enhanced by the obvious effects from the appearance of Dawnguard hunters at the slightest rumour of any remaining vampire activity and the fact that most of the time they would return with burned skulls containing lengthened incisors. Other stories of more dragons appearing in the wilds were also proven true from the rising number of convoys and villages suffering attacks. The luckier ones would find themselves bereft of some of their livestock, the unluckier ones would be discovered later with the buildings razed to the ground and the only trace of their inhabitants were shadows burned into stone from dragonfire.

Despite all of the arguments and here say all of Skyrim had stopped when an event that hadn’t occurred in generations occurred for the second time in years. The Greybeards had spoken once more; a cataclysmic event that hadn’t occurred in hundreds of years, perhaps longer if their summoning of the Dragonborn was to be ignored. They were uniquely placed within Nordic society, beings to be respect and honoured but the power they wielded was too great not to be feared.

When they had summoned the Dragonborn there wasn’t a single being in all of Skyrim that hadn’t heard the shout and from Winterhold to Solitude, Riften to Markarth the rumbling power had felt like the coming of a summer storm. It was a herald of a time of legends, a singular event that would be passed down through the generations by those few who had been alive to experience it, which had made the second time even more incredible.

Evgir-do-oblaan! Had been the shout; a cry that certainly had not been heard in centuries. Like Dov-vah-kiin it was certainly a summons that was far too great to ignore, however unlike their summons of the Dragonborn this was not focussed on a singular individual.

The last time Skyrim had heard “Season of Ending” had been in the dark days of the Second Era. Skyrim had been at war both with itself and its neighbours and the slaughter of Nords, Bretons and Dunmer had been horrific until the Greybeards had intervened.

War was common in Skyrim. Säsongen oändlig in the old tongue simply meant Season Unending, and for the Greybeards to speak of Season of Ending in Dovahzul meant one thing and one thing only; a peace summit had been called.

No matter their alignments, opinions or disagreements between themselves, each Jarl had left their holds within days of the echoing shout, taking only a handful of retainers and other officials as was the custom. While it mightn’t have happened for hundreds of years there were very few who didn’t understand what was expected and this was not something any of them could afford to ignore. And so, while their rulers began their long journey to the Throat of the World, all eyes; whether they were Stormcloak or Imperialists were gazing upon the mountain, watching and waiting for what was to occur.

For Elisif her eyes were indeed upon the mountain, but unlike those she ruled over as Jarl and Queen she didn’t have very far to look at all. Leaving the comforts of the Blue Palace many days behind her she too had obeyed the summons without question and a personally surprising lack of hesitation. Not a single person in all of Skyrim were under any illusions of what the 7,000 steps truly represented but being forearmed with such knowledge had not made the trek any easier.

After three days of climbing, each step was painful and felt as though her fur lined shoes were filled with lead. She dragged them through the thin snow layers of the ancient path, keeping her gaze on the ground directly in front of her as though her entire universe had shrunk down to the few square metres of frozen dirt and stone in front of her face. Her feet hurt, her lungs were burning, her back ached, her forehead was burning from the wind and despite her own trepidation, after the first day’s climb she had resorted to her guards’ trick of rubbing tallow into her cheeks and lips to stave off the windburn.

The only true light in all of this that was in her mind as she continued to place one foot in front of the other was that she was certainly not doing this alone. Traditions dictated that every hold was to be represented by their Jarls from such summons, but it was also tradition that they were also supported by key members of their court. Falk Firebeard was close by as he always was, the steward showing that under his rich clothes and a not-too-considerable amount of fat was a body proving capable of such a climb.

Hovering near her at all times like her shadow was the comforting presence of her personal housecarl, Bolgeir Bearclaw. As always he was dressed in full plate armour that was ceremonial and functional at the same time, yet he was showing very little discomfort from climbing for three days in full armour. He was one of a few of their party who showed no signs of fatigue or exhaustion and was always nearby to provide assistance to his queen. Whether it was catching her as she tripped on a loose stone or offering her a hand of assistance on some of the steeper portions of the path he was always there and ready for her.

Both he and Falk however had been a source of contention for Elisif during the first day of the journey. It was known to be brutally punishing and difficult for even the most seasoned of climbers and pilgrims but when they had suggested that she rode up the mountain they had quickly regretted it. After almost three straight days of climbing she may have been the one left regretting the choice but at the time there was no way that she was going to undertake the most sacred pilgrimage up the holiest mountain in all of Skyrim perched on top of a mule like a jester at a fair.

Although there were advantages of making the climb on foot, despite the fact she was struggling to keep them in her mind. Her refusal to ride had certainly endeared her to her handful of guards and the word how their Queen had made the pilgrimage to High Wrothgar would spread throughout Skyrim, and what’s more such things had also helped her gain respect in herself.

There were a couple of others in her small party, besides her steward, housecarl and the six guards constantly keeping an eye out for dangers, some of which were more than welcome, others not so much. Despite his own advancing age Elisif was pleased that Tullius had chosen to accompany her as the Empire’s representative and she struggled not to be in awe of the old legionary as he made the climb. She knew that he was nearing his seventieth birthday but years of campaigning and marching had left him with a will of iron and a body to match. Whether it was a typically Colovian refusal to give in and show weakness or whether he truly was fitter than his appearance alluded to he made the climb without complaint and almost without slowing. There were only two others within the party who shared a similar constitution and endurance, one being his direct subordinate Legate Rikke, and the other was her robed and hooded court wizard Sybille Stentor.

Only Elisif truly understood why Sybille was able to climb the mountain while appearing to have as much difficulty as though it was a grassy plain, but Legate Rikke appeared cut from the same cloth as the Governor-General despite her Redguard heritage. Neither the Veteran legionaries complained or really slowed down during the climb, and seemed to take great pleasure in driving them all onwards, especially the last members of their party.

Of everyone in their group there was a literal handful who were not welcome and had in many ways not been invited to take part. They were making the journey with them, camping with them and usually spending the day’s lagging at the rear but despite it all they continued on with a similar streak of stubborn refusal to be left behind. It was mostly fear and diplomatic niceties that resulted in their continued presence but decorum didn’t mean that they had to be treated nicely.

“Almost there now.” Tullius exclaimed, striding up the slope and showing no real signs of his age beyond the stiffness of joints. Every night Elisif had seen him and his tiny collection of potion bottles and knew that it wasn’t just an iron-like will that allowed him to keep going.

For the others lagging at the rear there wasn’t much of their fatigue that they were able to hide, dragging themselves up the slope one foot at a time. It was these individuals that drove Elisif on even more than her military advisor and guards. At twenty-seven years old she was one of the youngest, but she would be damned if she let the elves see her weakness.

“You said that an hour ago.” Snarled one of them, her robes pulled tight against the wind and the golden flesh several shades lighter from the cold. Like the other four in their armour that was already playing host to a collection of icicles, the lead elf was struggling against the frigid temperatures and the thinning air and doing their best not to show it.

Standing almost twenty metres ahead with Rikke close behind, Tullis turned at the edge of the latest of a long series of steep stone steps and gestured in front of himself. “This time Madame Ambassador, we have finally arrived.”

Driven on by such a simple statement, Elisif forced her complaining limbs to drive her up the last handful of steps and for the first time in what felt like several hours lifted her gaze from her boots. Everything was painful, the fresh blisters on her heels aching like she had walked on hot coals but for the moment at least the sight took away all of her pain.

Built into and onto the rock of the greatest mountain in Tamriel, the monastery loomed over them, looking out over the endless expanse of clouds and land. Somehow the grey-black stones of the monastery itself spoke of its history, almost as though the years had wept their essence into the blocks and had seeped up from the ageless mountain that appeared to hold up the heavens themselves.

They were within the very sky itself now, living above the clouds and despite herself and the swimming sensation of vertigo Elisif looked out over the mountain’s edge less than a dozen metres away. Like islands in an ocean of white the other great mountains rose up as though they were simply the grandchild of the patriarch that she stood upon. It was impossible not to marvel at such a sight, looking down across rolling valleys, soaring mountain peaks and the more she looked the more she realised just how much of her homeland she could actually see. To the west was the lonely hill amongst the grass with the city of Whiterun built atop, to the north and just over the mountains she could see the endless marshes of Morthal and for a moment she wondered that if only she could simply climb on top of the monastery she would be able to see far to the east as well.

The sight however was ruined by a handful of obvious additions that were certainly newer additions to the mountain. Taking advantage of the flatter, wider space in front of the curving staircases leading to the monastery’s entrance were clusters of tents, each marked out with flags bearing their owners heraldry and quite obviously keeping themselves separated by the last stretch of pilgrims’ road.

“He’s here.” Muttered Rikke, and for a moment Elisif wondered if it was sorrow or anger that was infusing the Legate’s tone. She could understand anger all too well; it was anger that she had felt for many of the long steps up the mountain at one man that she would have to face in such a place of honour and worship who truly deserved none. As it was, it was difficult not to feel the burning hatred and keep her emotions tucked deep away and hidden at the sight of the blue banner marked with the bears head.

“Of course he’s here.” Tullius was less guarded with his words and tone, but there was a measure of acceptance within it as he looked over the collection of banners and the individuals taking note of their arrival. “Winterhold is easily a day or two closer than Solitude.”

Turning about to the rest of their party as they managed to climb up the last painful set of stairs, Tullius’ eyes narrowed on Elisif’s guards before focussing on one in particular.

“Praefect Hadvar. Secure a position for our tents and get comfortable. We could be here for a few days.”

The young legionary saluted the Governor, his eyes moving between him and the others for a moment. “Aye sir.”

Despite herself, Elisif was pleased that Tullius had come and had specifically chosen her guards. Each were fit and capable soldiers and Hadvar especially had a confidence that was hard to fault. Rumours had it that the young man had been present with the General at Helgen when it had been razed by the dragon and unlike many of the others had actually travelled on his own and reported to Solitude less than month later. His loyalty and commitment was impossible to ignore especially after so many others had either died or deserted following that event.

Their brief time together had allowed Elisif to learn more about her chosen guards. Some things, like Staarth’s singing voice was easily noticeable, others such as Olavida and her habit of trying to place bets on everything with her comrades was not so obvious. For Hadvar, the way his eyes were constantly looking over to the handful of tents closest to High Hrothgar and the people sitting around the tiny campfire was something that she wouldn’t have noticed a week before.

“You look troubled Praefect.”

For a brief second he looked startled, as though she had broken into his stream of thoughts before he shook his head. “No my queen. It’s just… I know one of those men.”

Following his gaze, she looked over the collection of blue cloaked soldiers trying to hide their own interest and scrutiny of her party’s arrival. Of their number there was one in particular who was not hiding or pretending to continue on their conversation; a broad shouldered, blonde haired Nord dressed in thick furs and an expression as cold as the air billowing around them.

Hadvar must have seen her interest and even as he gestured to the other four legionaries leading their pack animals he nodded sadly. “His name’s Ralof. We grew up together in Riverwood.”

Had civil war not infested the lands of Skyrim for the better part of the last decade, she would have been surprised at the admission but this conflict truly had a dark power to turn friends and families against one another. Not for the first time the bitter taste of anger made itself felt in the back of her throat and burned her stomach, but with considerable practice she kept it hidden.

Instead she gave the faintest smile of sympathy for the young soldier as he excused himself to fulfil his duties, turning to find Tullius’ attention fully focused on her.

“How are you feeling, your majesty?”

“Better now that we are here.” She replied, just a little too truthfully as her blisters and aching legs reasserted their presence in her mind.

“I suppose we better go and meet these Greybeards. It’s rude to keep our hosts waiting.”

For a moment Elisif hesitated, using the amazing views as an excuse to lag behind. Whether they were commoner or nobility meeting the Greybeards was something that most Nords aspired to achieve in their lives, and while she had some small measure of trepidation it was nothing in comparison to the sight of the man who had started the civil war by killing her husband. Even after eight years she didn’t know how she was going to react seeing Ulfric Stormcloak again and that terrified her.

“Looks like most of the others have already arrived too.” Rikke remarked as they made their way between the two sets of tents. It was all too easy to see how they had arranged themselves, with a large number of those on the right displaying their heraldry as well as pennants and banners of blue, and the others on the left closest to the cliffs edge marked by varied markings of the Imperial Dragon.

“Riften, Morthal, Falkreath, Dawnstar, Winterhold.” One by one Tullius identified the collection of banners, passing an experienced eye over those who still remained with the tents. “and obviously Windhelm. It appears that Bulgruuf got the best seat in the house.”

Unsurprisingly, especially due to his proximity and shorter distance needed to travel to the Throat of the World, Jarl Bulgruuf had arrived first and his men had set their tents up closest to the monastery. It was also blindingly obvious that they had set their tents up in such a way that they weren’t on one side or the other of the stony path.

“Looks like Jarl Igmund is all that is left.”

Nodding to his comrade, Tullius’ stride seemed to lengthen perceptibly and Elisif felt her legs twinge in response. Everything was hurting but she knew all too well why he was suddenly walking slightly faster from the series of melodic cursing in elvish as their companions of the Aldmeri Dominion became the centre of attention. She also had a sneaking suspicion that Tullius did as such more because they were struggling the most out of their entire party from the climb, and not to reduce the chances of a diplomatic incident between them and a handful of diehard Stormcloaks.

Even as they reached the curved staircase they realised that their arrival had been noticed by more than just those from the other holds. The doors to the monastery were grinding open and several individuals in grey robes and hoods were appearing in the threshold in-between them and the promise of warmth and protection from the wind.

There was a dozen of them, young and old alike but only one stepped out into the wind that whipped through his robes and long white beard.

“Sky above, Voice within.” He said as they made their way up the steps.

Anywhere else within the Empire it would have been highly improper for a Jarl, let alone a Queen to bow before anyone with the exception of the Emperor, but this was not just anywhere else. This was the Throat of the World; the holiest site in all of Skyrim and she bowed her head to the grey robed figure.

“Greetings Gråttskägge. I am Elisif.”

“We greet you; Jarl of Solitude, Queen of Skyrim.” Slowly, she raised her eyes and head and ignored the slight concern on Tullius’ and Rikke’s faces as she looked upon one of the Greybeards. “I am master Arngeir. Welcome to High Hrothgar.”

Chapter 2: Choices

High Hrothgar had been a hive of activity for days now, preparing for the arrival of more people than had come in decades. Normally closed off to outsiders with only a few notable exceptions, the monastery had always been a quiet place of contemplation and meditation but the events of the previous weeks had been more than enough to break that solitude.

It had begun shortly after the return of the Dragonborn. Kaius’ arrival bearing an Elder Scroll had been one of great concern that had only been compounded when he scaled the peak despite Arngeir’s protests. What had happened later that day could only be described as cataclysmic. The power that had been unleashed on the very top of the Throat of the World had shaken the mountain to its very roots and almost scoured it clean of ice and snow. Such was the unleashed fury that the lowlands themselves were threatened and the Valtheim pass was almost unseasonably blocked for the second time in just as many years, but by the end of it all Kaius had returned, battered, bruised and exhausted but even more determined than he had been when he left.

One of the greatest, and most terrible of shouts; Dragonrend was now infused into the core of his being and it was soon apparent that he had faced the World-Eater in battle but the great wyrm had somehow managed to escape. The titanic clash had been impossible to ignore but in the days that followed Kaius was relentless, spending hours atop the peak with Paarthurnax and in discussion with Arngeir but in the end there was limited choices available. Kaius needed to follow Alduin, but only dragons could follow the World-Eater where he had gone.

The plans had been made and despite the lunacy of it, Kaius soon left with his companions to do something that normal beings would have considered unthinkable. If dragons were the only beings to follow Alduin, the Kaius and the others would seek to capture a dragon, using the ancient fortress of Dragonsreach in Whiterun.

None of the Greybeards would have guessed that Kaius would return, and return less than two weeks later still filled with the same resolve and determination. If his intention to capture a live dragon seemed ridiculous, it was even less so compared to the fact that Jarl Bulgruuf agreed to such a daunting task.

Perhaps it was the simple fact that he had added a single requirement to such a scheme, a requirement that seemed even more daunting than the capture of a dragon. For his assistance and use of his castle Jarl Bulgruuf would need a truce or peace treaty arranged between the Imperials and Stormcloaks. In many ways it was born in pragmatism, as to capture a dragon would require a large number of troops and would directly put his city and Hold in grave danger. Such an act would ensure that Bulgruuf’s carefully maintained neutrality would be destroyed if he mobilised the forces and fortified his city against a dragon attack. On top of this, the threat of being attacked and deposed by the Legion or the Stormcloaks, or even both at the same time would a greater risk than anything a single dragon could accomplish.

As Kaius moved through the monastery he could see the dozens of acolytes moving about in preparation for the peace council. It was a far cry from the quiet and peace that it normally represented and in a way he felt tired and somewhat despondent at how he had brought such conflict and tension to such a place.

While it appeared that there was only a few Greybeards, in reality there was quite a number of people who called High Hrothgar home. Many of the men and women living within the cold stone halls would spend their entire lives meditating and seeking the meaning and true power of the Voice and only a true handful would ever achieve it. Some such as Arngeir would be the only ones to truly become those known as the Greybeards, able to speak Dovahzul and even gain the true understanding of the power each word represented but it was walking on a knife’s edge.

To gain such understanding was a delicate struggle, that once lost could never be regained and many paid the price of their understanding. So great was their knowledge that their ability to speak was gone, lost forever to the power of meaning and as such they could only speak the Thu’um.

It was a fear that churned within Kaius that he too, despite the innate abilities of the blood of the Dov that coursed through his veins would lose the ability to speak. The sensation of overwhelming power locked away behind the curse of the blood was lingering there, haunting his unconscious mind and he knew that it was only through the three dragon souls he had consumed that such a future was being held at bay.

For now, at least.

“Dragonborn. We need to speak to you.”

The sound of the voice snapped him out of his thoughts and the writhing sensation deep within his chest subsided into nothingness, being replaced with a mild annoyance stemming from recognition.

“And a good morning to you too, Delphine.”

Either ignoring or choosing not to notice his humour tinged annoyance, the aging Breton woman continued walking towards Kaius, stopping only when she came within arm’s reach.

It had been months since they had last seen each other at Sky Haven Temple but both she and Esbern looked no less tired and exhausted than Kaius did. The only real differences were that neither of the two Blades had added to their personal collection of scars.

For his companions it was still taking some getting used to the way that he was now perpetually scowling at the world. The scars on his face had healed considerably with a combination of restoration magicka and his vampiric nature but not even the greatest healers could have saved his eye after one of Harkon’s talons had gouged it out. Serana had been having some difficulty being able to look him in the face since the battle that had resulted in her father’s death, but not from the horrific injury but instead from the guilt of having been unable to assist him during the fight.

Sofia on the other hand used it to amuse herself by attempting to sneak up on him from his blind side, or by simply making faces at him when she thought he couldn’t see her. If either Delphine or Esbern were put off by the missing eye, neither of them showed it, instead making a point to meet the gaze of his good eye as they approached.

“We know about Paarthurnax.”

As cold as the wind howling through the rows of tents outside of High Hrothgar, Kaius expression could have chilled the blood but there was no sign of any emotion in the scarred visage. “You know… What?”

“Paarthurnax. The dragon, the one that the Greybeards have been protecting for all these years.” A tinge of annoyance was entering her voice now with Paarthurnax sliding over her tongue like it left a foul taste in her mouth.

“And?”

“He needs to die.”

Breathing in slowly and carefully, Kaius’ remaining eye moved from her stern expression to Esbern’s before returning. “He has helped me. He has helped us.”

“That’s fine. We needed his help.” A corner of her mouth cracked in the approximation of a smile but there was flint behind her expression. “Now we don’t and it’s a long past time for him to pay for his crimes.”

“His crimes. Really. Are you a judge as well as a Blade?”

“He’s not just any dragon.” Esbern added, nodding from Delphine’s side. “He was the right hand of Alduin. He committed atrocities so infamous they are still remembered, thousands of years later.”

“Thousands of years later.” Slowly and carefully Kaius drew the words out almost like a hiss.

Ignoring the mocking tone in Kaius’ voice Delphine pressed on regardless of the sudden interest from the handful of younger initiates of the Greybeards looking on in growing interest. “He needs to die. He deserves to die and it falls to you to kill him.”

“Hmm…” The sound was almost a growl and despite the coldness of his expression there was a steel like edge to such a simple response. “Tell me, why does he need to die?”

Her face may have been lined with increasing age, but there was no doubting the strength of will that had allowed her to survive decades of hiding from the Thalmor. It was this will that allowed her to meet Kaius’ gaze from his remaining eye without flinching. “Here’s the big picture.” She began, drawing the words out with only hints of mocking tones infusing them. “He helped Alduin enslave our ancestors. He may have betrayed Alduin in the end, but that makes him worse, not better. We can’t afford to give Paarthurnax the opportunity to betray us in turn, and return to his old master.”

His expression remaining cold and mask like, Kaius turned to the older Blade at Delphine’s side. “And you agree Esbern?”

While not made from the same stern stuff as his younger comrade, the last Archivist of the Blades nodded, refusing to back down. “It’s true that his crimes are long in the past, but justice does not count the passage of years. Everything that I have found has shown the Blades have been hunting him for centuries, but he has been protected by the Greybeards and then the Emperors. Whether or not he has truly repented or merely acted to save himself, justice demands that he pay with his life.”

Silence fell between them and Kaius was as still as a statue, seemingly oblivious to the fact how the acolytes of the Greybeards had stopped in their tasks, milling around and watching and listening to their conversation. Their cold expressions hid their true feelings towards the two strangers in their midst, the pacifistic codes and ethics the only reason why they didn’t show their outrage openly.

Seeing the silhouetted figure of one of the actual Greybeards in the corner of his eye, Kaius clicked his tongue against his teeth as he thought. “And of course it is up to me to wet my hands in his blood.”

Both of them nodded in agreement. “Justice can be harsh, but it is still justice.” Esbern replied, his gravelly voice rasping in the stilled interior of the monastery.

Delphine’s tone was just as cold, visibly steeling herself for the words that were within her mind. “Until he’s dead…” she began, biting down and forcing them to be spoken aloud. “Well, I’m sorry, but we would dishonour our oaths as Blades if we continued to help you.”

Both of them turned as one, long journey from Sky Haven Temple and the climb up the Throat of the World having provided ample time for them to prepare themselves for this moment, considering the possibilities and reactions from Kaius as they provided him the ultimatum. They had both expected shock, perhaps even anger, but what they were not expecting was for Kaius to break out in laughter before they even managed to take three paces.

“Your oaths…” he snorted loudly, his face finally breaking into one of absolute amusement as they turned in surprise. “Your… Oaths? Which ones would that be, hmm? Actually, never mind that…. Who the fuck do you think you are? What’s more, who do you think I am?”

“You are the Dragonborn.” Delphine retorted immediately, trying not to see the confused reactions on the handful of witnesses peeking from doorways and in the halls. “The greatest dragonslayer of them all, and your purpose is to kill them. Paarthurnax is…”

“You have only partially answered my questions.” The snap in his tone was enough to send shivers up their spines despite the fact he hadn’t moved from his spot in the slightest. “I’m Dovahkiin, but that’s not all who I am. You also didn’t answer the more important question either Delphine; Who the fuck do you think you are?”

She paused for the briefest of moments trying not to glance as Esbern at her side or look away from the frightful intensity of Kaius’ stare. “I’m a Blade. One of the last of the Order of Dragonslayers.”

“You keep saying the Blades are Dragonslayers.” Only now did he move, his feet stepping forward very lightly and both of them couldn’t help but think of a giant wolf prowling through the snow. “That interests me greatly. I never heard of the Blades as being an Order of Dragonslayers. The Akaviri Dragonguard were, but not the Blades.”

“Well it is true that they have served other purposes throughout the centuries…”

The snap of his head from Delphine to Esbern was sharp enough to cut her off in mid-sentence and the elderly Blade tried his best not to look as intimidated as he was suddenly feeling. “Well, Esbern? What has been the role of the Blades for the past millennia?”

“Well, spies and bodyguards of Emperors, but I don’t see…”

“Serviret Imperio Imperatoris.” Kaius growled, the words flowing from his tongue as fluidly and as easily as common. “Serve the Emperor and the Empire. Does this sound familiar to both of you?”

Their expressions changed from determined to a mixture of concerned and confused at how Kaius had spoken the ancient motto and oath of the Blades. It was hard for either of them not to feel alarmed at how well he knew the phrase or the way that he was staring at them both.

“In all of our time together not once did you both look into my history or try to work out who I am. I can understand this, especially with how much has been lost to us since the fall of the Order but did it never cross your minds just how I knew so much about the Blades?”

“You were one of us.” Delphine said hesitatingly, trying to gain some control of the conversation. “We spoke about this when we first met in Riverwood.”

“Yes; I was, and yes; we did. But did you both ever try to work out anything more than that? From the very beginning you have deigned to use me as a tool… a weapon to be directed and used how you saw fit. You were so impressed with having such an asset; one to be directed against the dragons and the likes of the Thalmor that you decided to do everything in your power to keep me as such.” The darkness in his eye grew deeper for a moment before he managed to subdue it. “You’ve even gone to rewriting history in your attempts to use me.”

Despite himself Esbern took a tiny step backward, trying hard not to feel the chill coursing through his belly at the way that Kaius was looking at him even as Delphine spoke again. “As the last surviving members of the Blades it is only right that the senior member inherits the title of Grandmaster.”

“There we go.” Kaius chuckled, but it wasn’t pleasant. “Now we’re getting somewhere. How old are you Delphine?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Just answer the question. How old are you? Esbern is obviously older but as Archivist he doesn’t have a claim to the succession which just leaves the two of us.”

“I’m fifty-two. Does that answer your question?”

“It answers a couple actually. It means that you were a junior member of the Blades during the Great War, and if I am not mistaken you took your oath two years before it started.”

“And what does that prove? You only became a Blade after the Imperial City fell.”

The smile he was suddenly wearing was blood chilling and he continued looking between them both. “In some ways this is true. In an order whose business is secrets and subterfuge there are layers upon layers of secrets that even those within will never know. Isn’t that right, Esbern?”

Slowly the archivist nodded, his expression growing lined with confusion.

“Delphine Gelevanne. I remember when you were gifted your sword by Grandmaster Crecian. You and five others if memory serves. Your sword once belonged to Islsteve Khothom who died in 4E98. Or 4E99; I can’t remember exactly when.”

“How would you know that?”

“The better question would be who, or more precisely what I am and what I was.” Slowly he paused and breathed heavily, controlling his rising emotions before saying a very simple phrase. “Ferrum in Nigrum.”

Both Esbern and Delphine were stunned, their mouths falling open in shock and staring into his face, trying their best to look into his expression for evidence of falsehood or deceit and feeling their stomachs drop as their saw none. Kaius was too cold, too resolute to be simply lying and the simple knowledge was too much to be deception.

“So… my answer is no. No, I will not be killing Paarthurnax. Nor will I be blackmailed or coerced into anything; whether it be by yourselves or anyone else on this damned plane of existence.”

“He… He deserves to die.” Delphine spluttered, grinding her soul and forcing herself to stand up for her convictions.

“And who the fuck are you to judge? What part of all this gives you the simple right to order me to play the role of your executioner?” Seeing her mouth open to speak again he snarled, shaking his head and cutting her off before the words could be heard. “What about after all of this and the dragons are no more? What happens to me when my ‘purpose’ is fulfilled and the dragons are truly extinct?”

“I don’t think I understand your meaning.”

“What am I really, Delphine?”

Her reply was once against choked in her throat as his face tightened perceptibly and his upper lip was drawn back over a pair of incisors that lengthened before her shocked eyes. It was only for a moment and long enough that the rest of their witnesses didn’t see the change but it was more than enough.

“Once the dragons are slain, I suppose that I too will have to pay for my crimes. Will you have the courage to ensure that ‘justice’ is fulfilled or will you make the arrangements for others to do the deed on your behalf? Perhaps the Dawnguard could assist you in that endeavour?” The shadow in his remaining eye had transformed from emotion into a physical thing, the pupil growing and swallowing all colour and whiteness in an all-encompassing darkness. “Whatever happens, don’t ever believe that you… both of you are guiltless enough to determine the fates of others. I know much, much more than either of your two realise. I even know what really happened during the Falinesti incident.”

There expressions were white as the blood drained away, not from their suspicions about Kaius’ true nature being proven but from the understanding that he truly was who he had said he was. Or at least had been. Through the history of the Order since the Third Era the Black Blade had been a legend among their number. A champion of champions; the greatest member of them all. There had been plenty of rumours and stories, assisted by the fact that no one beyond the Grandmaster or the Emperor’s themselves could ever see the Black Blades face but to have the evidence standing and admitting it to them personally was overwhelming. There was also no doubting that he had known more than they could have ever realised about their own pasts and that in itself was more than enough to still their tongues.

“I think you both now understand exactly where we all stand in this.” Kaius said eventually as the silence dragged on and the darkness faded from his visage. “The threat that we are facing is beyond anything that you and all of these people can truly comprehend and despite outward appearances I could use some damned help. First you both will have to understand that the Blades are gone… Destroyed. Maybe one day they will be reborn again but in the meantime you are right in a way. We; the last of the Blades will become what the Order had been before it was established. We will be the Dragonguard once more, but we, and I especially will not kill every damned dragon or thing that looks at us funny.”

A finger raised itself warning before they could bring themselves to speak and very pointedly he inclined his head at them both. “In the meantime either help me or get out of the damned way. I don’t need any more enemies, and I certainly don’t need to be going out of my way to turn potential allies into foes or to put them in the dirt. If you don’t understand or want to take part in what is to come, then fine by me. Go and hide like you have since the Great War. Hells, if you are feeling up to it climb the rest of this damn mountain yourself and see where that gets you. Whatever you decide though, never think that you have authority over me.”

Slowly, with only a slightest glance between the two of them Delphine and Esbern nodded, their expressions grave but lips sealed tightly shut. There was nothing more left in them, and almost as a single entity they turned and quickly strode away while trying to retain some dignity.

His thunderous expression fading as their proximity increased, Kaius rubbed absently at the puckered scar tissue of his empty eye socket in irritation. All around him the younger acolytes and initiates quickly went about their tasks once more lest they drew his attention but one of their older masters shuffled over in his billowing robes.

“Hi wahl fin vahzah miiraad, Dovahkiin.” He whispered, his voice barely audible but the power within the words was far from it. The rumbling tremor through the ground and pulsing through the air was less a physical sensation and more the world itself trembling.

“Nii los ni aan miiraad, Wulfgar.” Replied Kaius, the same pulsating reality-quake causing the very air around him to vibrate like an overtightened lute string. “Nii los fin vahzah fin wah dreh.”

With a sad smile, the powerful Greybeard nodded once to Kaius before turning away, his mere presence feeling like the winter storms in the far north with the intensity. For several moments Kaius watched the elderly master of the Thu’um with a mixture of trepidation and pity, again wondering where his own future was going to lead.

For the moment at least he knew exactly what his immediate future held. He and Alduin had a score to settle but first he had other priorities. With that and a barest of glimpses at the hastily retreating Delphine and Esbern he turned and began walking further into the Monastery.

One way or another, the civil war was going to end.

Notes:

Let's be honest, no matter your preference or side you take regarding Paarthurnax, I doubt there is many who didn't want to tell Delphine to go fuck herself at some point. Or several.

This flows into the main reason why I think that Oblivion's storyline and Hero is actually a superior hero to that of the Dovahkiin. In all of the quests in Skyrim I always felt like the Dragonborn was bouncing around from place to place at the behest of others and regulated into a pawn. The Hero of Kvatch/Champion of Cyrodiil seemed more in control, more of an actual hero with a choice and decision (and frankly, a bit more fortitude to stand up for themselves.) And if I'm really honest, the Main Quest against Mehrunes Dagon actually felt like an end-of-the-world scenario, and Alduin and the dragons are just... there...

Anyway, like I have done with all of my writing I have tweaked or changed the world slightly, some is obvious like the fact that there are more than just the Greybeards you see in game and that this peace summit includes all of the Jarls, but the others are a bit more subtle is like how Arngeir is the only Greybeard that can talk normally.

It appears that the most common theory is that he has mastered the Thu'um and has full control. I personally like the other theory is that he's actually the junior member. In the world of Bloodtide Rising, those without Dragonblood ultimately succumb to the power, because after all it is quite literally the song of creation they are messing about with and tapping into.

Translations:

"Ferrum in Nigrum" - The Black Blade
"Hi wahl fin vahzah miiraad, Dovahkiin." - You made the right choice, Dragonborn
"Nii los ni aan miiraad, Wulfgar." - It was not a choice
"Nii los fin vahzah fin wah dreh." - It is the right thing to do

 

Again, Delphine can go fuck herself. Haha.

Chapter 3: Negotiations

The Greybeards were known to be solitary, high upon the slopes of the Throat of the World but they were fair from isolationists. Some of those living at the base of the mountain would travel regularly up the 7,000 steps with supplies and donations in agreements that had existed for centuries. Even despite the harshness of the environment their monastery was home to handfuls of crops eking out a harsh existence and assisted by the tending hands of the junior members.

Members like Arngeir and the other masters of the Thu’um were what the population of Skyrim thought of when they considered the holy hermits, but at any time there was at least three dozen men and women of all ages who called High Hrothgar home. These initiates had spent days preparing for the arrival of the Jarls and their retinues and now that they all had arrived it was time for the council to begin.

The dining room, its furniture of stone long since worn smooth from generations of monks had been prepared and the central table had been arranged to host the delegations. Long and carved from the bones of the mountain itself, the granite was so worn that it had turned almost as black as ebony. Even the ancient carvings had lost their details, but the talon-scratches of the dragon’s written language were still visible across its surface.

One by one the various Jarls and their supporters filed into the room, looking about the room and the enormous grey-black table that was awaiting them. Too rounded to be called a rectangle, the somewhat oval table was also hollowed out in the centre to allow for a pair of deep braziers that for the moment were little more than glowing coals. It was easily large enough for them all to have a seat with space to spare, and the initiates had done their job in ensuring that there was exactly the right number of seats for those who had a place.

As they had outside, the Jarls quickly separated themselves, casting suspicious glances at each other as they arranged themselves around the long circular table. Unsurprisingly one of the first to enter was Bulgruuf of Whiterun, his broad shoulders hidden under a thick layer of bear furs. With Farengar and Proventus Avenicci flanking him as his court wizard and steward respectively he was also the very first to place his axe on top of the gleaming granite, the pommel pointing in towards the softly glowing braziers.

There was no mistaking that he had purposely chosen his position at the very head of the table furthest from the door. Instead of figuratively and literally taking a side between the opposing factions he was making no illusions that he was still seeking to maintain his neutrality in the conflict, no matter the potential outcome of the current event. His amber coloured eyes looked over the assembling rulers of the other holds but there was a moment’s pause as he nodded and smiled warmly at the figure occupying the other end.

Of all those present there had been one individual who had been waiting for them for quite some time, his own weapon laid out upon the surface similar to how Bulgruuf had just placed his. Unlike the rune engraved Axe of Whiterun now occupying a space on the table, there was nothing Nordic about Kaius’ blade. Even as he returned Bulgruuf’s friendly acknowledgement, many of the others entering the room were gazing upon the sword, seeing the black-red hilt, the silvery edge and the elven design of a weapon that was as old as High Hrothgar. For those like the Jarl of Whiterun and his advisors, it was a different weapon than the Skyforge Steel broadsword that they had gifted him and if the rumours were true than it was a trophy from the destruction of the Volkihar vampires.

Queen Elisif and Tullius were the next to place their weapons down onto the table, Tullius placing a heavily worn, but lovingly cared for gladius next to a sword that Elisif had chosen for this event without hesitation. Whether Ulfric would recognise her late husband’s weapon would remain to be seen, but it felt good to the young Queen to know that many of the Jarls would know the meaning of the weapon.

Soon the table became host to an array of weapons as varied as their owners. Most of them were swords, ancient heirloom weapons that had been passed through the generations but there were still a handful of axes from the more ‘traditional’ holds. No one seemed to bat an eye at the addition of a flanged mace from Jarl Igmund of Markarth, or Skald, Jarl of Dawnstar’s chained flail.

Very quickly did both sides take their positions, the divisions of loyalty between the factions evident from the sides of the table that were claimed, even more so than the hostile expressions they had for the others opposite them. It didn’t take long until their household weapons were arrayed, their pommels and hafts facing inwards to signify the current truce and their owners standing behind the high backed chairs surrounded by the closest advisors.

As the last to enter, even those with the most hostility towards their counterparts couldn’t help but be still in the presence of the grey robed individual as he moved through them unimpeded. Although Arngeir held no formal title in such a gathering there was instant respect, although something of a coldness was present between him and the towering Ulfric as they passed.

“Everyone is here.” The elder Greybeard said simply as he took up his place at the end of the table near Kaius, looking over the expectant expressions of all those before him. “Please take your seats so we can begin. I hope that we have all come here in the spirit of…”

“No,” Rumbled a voice as deep as the roots of the mountain, cutting Arngeir off in mid-sentence.

Towering over most of the individuals in the room, Ulfric was a bear of a man, his shoulders broad and body filled with a strength born of a lifetime of fighting. Ever since he had entered and taken his place to Kaius’ right he had been death staring at a trio of individuals standing closest to Tullius, who was directly to Kaius’ left. “You insult us by bringing her to this negotiation?” he practically spat in Tullius’ direction, gesturing towards those who he had been staring at. “Your chief Talos-hunter?”

Many within the room alternatively snorted in amusement or flashed their teeth in support, but more than one groaned in resigned annoyance. Bulgruuf especially sighed loud enough that even those at the other end of the table could hear, before muttering darkly to himself.

For her part Elenwen, Ambassador to the Aldmeri Dominion smiled but there was nothing pleasant about it. It was the grin of a sabrecat before it devoured a child, and as one of the few individuals in the room that matched the Jarl of Windhelm in height she stared him down like he was but an insect. “I have every right to be at this negotiation. I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.”

With Queen Elisif standing between him and the pair of elves guarding their ambassador, Tullius cleared his throat, briefly licking his lips for a second. “She’s part of the… Imperial delegation. You can’t dictate who comes to this council.”

“Please. If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere.” Arngeir shifted a handful of paces forward, his hands out and palms open as though attempting to still the noticeable increase in tensions with his presence alone.

“You have some nerve Tullius.” Again Ulfric growled, purposely ignoring Arngeir’s attempts to intervene and coldly staring the elf down. “To think that you would sit down with that… Thalmor bitch. Either she walks or I do.”

“Ulfric, why so hostile?” Elenwen’s voice cooed, as sweet as Blackbriar mead. “After all, it’s not the Thalmor that’s burning your farms and killing your sons.”

More than one of the Jarls and their retainers bristled at the comments and not all of them were sharing Ulfric’s side of the table. Several of the Jarls and their courtiers on the Imperial side of the table turning with expressions of surprise and anger towards the Elven members.

“She’s supposed to be on our side?” Hissed Rikke into Tullius’ ear, trying her best not to show her own surprise at the Elven Ambassador’s comments and trepidation at the tensions within the room.

“You know exactly…” Tullius began, seeing the fury in the expressions of almost all in the room and pausing for a heartbeat. “No. Not this time.”

“Bringing her here is a deliberate provocation!” Like the others there was fury in his words but Jarl Skald was not backing down. His loyalty to the Stormcloaks was not in question and his reputation as a firebrand was well deserved as he too stabbed a finger at the ambassador’s direction.

Several others nodded or otherwise spoke out in agreement as the tensions bubbled but there were several sources of calm within the building storm. Eight years of conflict between them had pushed their relations beyond breaking point, but there was a sudden wave of silence as one individual stepped forward and rested his hands on the table.

“The Thalmor have no business here.” Despite the utter lack of emotion from Kaius, there was a chill that coursed through the room as he rested his remaining eye upon the Elven delegate and her two golden armoured bodyguards. “This is an internal matter of an Imperial province and not subject to the terms of the Concordat. You have no authority and even less reason for being here.”

Golden yellow like the first rays of sun, Elenwen’s eyes looked over those surrounding her, narrowing down onto Tullius and Elisif and seeking any measure of support from them. Tullius was standing ramrod straight, his face passive and Elisif was just as quiet and reserved. After a few moments of hostile silence, the tall Altmer raised her head proudly, her formal robes waving from the slight movement as she managed to portray a haughty sneer without changing expression in the slightest.

“Very well. Enjoy your petty victory.” There was no hint of displeasure in the tone, proving her years of experience as a diplomat and a senior member of the Thalmor. “The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your civil war.”

Without the slightest word of command or gesture, one of her guards stepped forward, gracefully lifting the elven blade from the table in front of her and handing it to his mistress. All eyes were burning into her as she turned and strode out of the room, flanked by the knife-thin expressions of her chosen protectors the whole way.

“I will have Sunchild back one day.” Kaius added as she reached the door. His own gaze had been firmly ahead as she had left the hall but she had stopped in mid step at his tone. From anyone else it would have sounded like a threat, but from the scarred warrior it sounded more like a promise he fully intended on keeping.

With his back turned to the elf he couldn’t see the sudden shift of the Elenwen’s expression as she glanced at his current blade resting on the table. Those few Nords in the room that could see it, could clearly tell that the blade she now wore at her hip was a sister to the weapon Kaius had claimed from Lord Harkon. In fact, the only real differences was that the hilt was coloured a flawless ruby red, where’s Kaius’ was a red so dark it appeared like a deep pool of blood.

Despite all of her grace and willpower there was no mistaking the sudden flash of concern and realisation that consumed her features, or the sudden flare of fear in her eyes before she quickly turned and vanished from the room.

There was also no mistaking the sudden drop in tensions or the way how smiles cracked on several faces as the Elven delegates left. Jarls and their courtiers alike were left nodding in satisfaction or simply breathing out sighs of relief, but for Rikke she was left staring at her commander in confusion as she was left wondering whether she had seen the aging general smile at Elenwen’s departure. It had been brief, so momentary that she barely even registered Arngeir step forward once more as she tried to decide whether she had seen it at all.

“Now that that’s settled,” As for Arngeir there was no sign of annoyance or emotion in his voice as he gestured to the array of seats scattered around the table. “may we proceed?”

Without any further ceremony, each of the Jarls moved forward, sitting down onto the chairs provided and looking over the array of their fellow nobility and their weapons of office. There were only enough chairs for the Jarls and an additional one for Kaius, leaving their stewards and wizards to stand by their sides.

“This unprecedented gathering has been called at the behest of the Dragonborn.” Arngeir began from his position at the opposite end of the table to Kaius. Jarl Balgruuf may have taken the seat assigned to him but he moved forward to stand by the neutral Jarl’s side. “There is a need to capture one of the dragons, utilising Dragonsreach keep in Whiterun but to do so there must be peace between you all.”

“Just how do you expect such a peace to come about?”

In direct response to Tullius’ question, Ulfric leaned forward, casting his gaze across those seated opposite before resting on one individual in particular. “We want control of Markarth. That’s our price for agreeing to a truce.”

Mouths dropped open in surprise but the reactions were pale in comparison to Jarl Igmund. His expression was one of amazement, that quickly changed to snarling anger as he slammed his hands into the table. “Outrageous! You may have taken the city for my father but I’ll be damned to hand it over to your kind. We have held against your attempts to siege Markarth. Do you hope to gain in council what you’ve been unable to take in battle, is that it?”

Several of the other Jarls were already raising their own voice in attempts to be heard but somehow, the softer tones of Elisif seemed to cut through the indignation. “So… That’s why you are here, Ulfric? You dare to insult the Greybeards by using the council to advance your own position?”

“Jarl Elisif,” Tullius quickly added, seeing the flush of anger building in the young woman’s neck and face as years of hatred came to the surface at the sight of Ulfric. “I’ll handle this.”

“Governor, this is outrageous! I thought we were here to discuss a truce, not haggle for entire Holds as though they were wares at the markets!”

Sitting in her chair in the very centre of the Imperial supporters, Jarl Ravencrone leaned back with an amused smile as the rest of them began raising their voices despite Arngeir’s attempts to keep the peace. Her carved walking stick was leaning up against the edge of the table as she fished a small pouch from her robes, loosening the cord and pouring out a selection of dried fruits that she began eating. After a few unsuccessful attempts to take the pouch away, her husband; the steward of Morthal gave up with a long suffering expression on his face as his wife entertained herself watching the squabbling of her fellow Jarls.

More and more accusations and demands were being thrown through the air, directed at the other side of the table or at selected individuals. Only the likes of Jarl Ravencrone and Kaius were sitting quietly, watching and listening without taking part themselves. Some of the Jarls were already on their feet, hurling their insults and emotions as though they were weapons themselves but one man alone stepped forward and through the carved channel allowing access to the central braziers.

He was as old as the Greybeards themselves, but unlike them he wore a long faded tunic completely lacking in ornamentation or details. Despite the fact that he was quickly the centre of attention of the great and powerful of the realm, Esbern had no hesitation in raising his hands and physically intervening between the two groups.

“Stop!” He called, having to repeat himself several times before the noise subsided enough for his voice to be heard clearly. “Are you all so blind to our danger that you can’t see past your petty disagreements? Here you sit arguing about… nothing! The fate of the land hands in the balance!”

Leaning forward with an arm strong from years of service in the Legion and as the leader of the Stormcloaks, Ulfric gave Kaius a cold stare and gestured at the old Archivist of the Blades with a thumb. “Is he with you, Kaius? If so, I advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.”

None of them, Jarl or courtier alike had seen Esbern or Delphine enter the room and neither of them had been seen while the Thalmor were present but Delphine slid out of the shadows like grown from them. “He is with me, and I advise you all to listen to what he has to say, before you do anything rash.”

Rolling his eyes, Ulfric slouched back into his seat, looking along the row of his supporting Jarls and seeing amusement mirroring his own. Cracking a smile, he gestured theatrically in Esbern’s direction to continue on.

“Don’t you understand the danger? Isn’t there a single one of you who understands what the return of the dragons means? Alduin has returned! The World-Eater! Even now, he devours the souls of your fallen comrades, growing more powerful with every soldier slain in your pointless war! Can you not put aside your hatred for even one moment in the face of this mortal danger?”

Coughs and a handful of snickers were heard throughout the hall as Jarls and courtiers alike scoffed at Esbern’s words. Unseen at the back of Jarl Bulgruuf, Farengar hesitated for a moment before sheepishly putting his hand down, his agreement to Esbern’s statement of the World-Eater returning remaining unspoken.

Sitting beside the amused Ravencrone and her fruits Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath openly laughed, the movement echoing with metallic chiming from the rings adorning his fingers as he rubbed them together. “A very pretty speech,” he drawled, his voice sibilant and sliding through the air with his naked contempt. “but what does it have to do with…”

“Shut up.” Suddenly serious and his expression hardening, Ulfric turned his attentions away from Esbern and directed a scowl of full force at the Imperialist Jarl dressed in his finery. Where there had been snickers and amusement there was now an uncomfortable silence, especially from his side of the table. “If he’s right about Alduin… We both have just as much to lose here, Tullius.”

While not fully in agreement with the leader of the rebellion Tullius nodded after sharing a briefest of nods with Elisif. “I don’t know about the end of the world, but this dragon situation has gotten out of hand. If this truce will help the Dragonborn here put an end to that menace, we all gain.”

“More than a truce will be needed for what is coming.” Said a voice that had, up to that moment remained silent. Slowly and noting that every single set of eyes were focussed on his remaining one, Kaius was as still as the stones under their feet and no less relenting. “Peace, true peace is needed for Skyrim to survive.”

The expressions of confusion, especially from Esbern were impossible to ignore but slowly gave way to a level of amusement from the assembled nobles.

“I don’t see how… True peace will be an impossibility with the likes of them!” This time it was Rikke jabbing an accusing finger at Ulfric’s chest. “They have been slaughtering the very people they claim to be fighting for!”

Unable to contain his own building anger, a figure wearing the tattered bearskin surged forward from over Ulfric’s shoulder, spitting his words as though they contained as much power as the Thu’um. “Damned Imperial lies!” Roared Galmar Stone-Fist. “My men would never stoop to such methods, even in retaliation for your butcheries!”

“Butcheries that have only started occurring in the past six months?” Kaius said, his voice low and yet the soft spoken way was silencing the others with his words. “Villages and farms destroyed seemingly at random, their populations massacred and bodies despoiled, and yet never in places with any strategic interest.” His eye roamed over the faces seated around the table, focussing specifically on the two military leaders of the Civil war. “Butcheries that have also happened in places where there has been no real Stormcloak or Legion forces present for dozens of kilometres and no real evidence to who the culprits were.”

The matter-of-fact way that he spoke caught the interest of more than one of those who listened to him, and from Esbern to the Jarls, and to Rikke and Galmar Stone-Fist they were suddenly feeling uncomfortable with Kaius’ tone and bearing.

“Alduin is a threat. A greater one than you all truly realise as his coming truly is the end of the world.” Confident that he had their attention, Kaius continued, unmoving in his seat and speaking just loud enough for them to hear. “It was him at Helgen… but it was no random attack. He attacked on purpose to ensure the fighting continued. This war that you all have been fighting for the past decade has been strengthening him; much like Esbern said. He is feeding... Gorging himself on the souls of the dead in Sovengard to regain his lost power, and when he regains it…”

“He will consume the world.” Esbern breathed from his position near the braziers.

Nodding in agreement, Kaius’ breathing was slow and controlled. “I need to face him and stop such an event from happening, but even if I am successful you all are faced with a much darker threat.”

“Just what is this ‘darker threat’ you speak of?” Asked Jarl Korir. While younger than most of the other Jarls, his health and strong build was somewhat a contradiction to the relative small size and wealth of Winterhold. There was also no doubting the authority he had in common with the others.

Without batting his eye, Kaius spoke nothing more than a single word. “Falmer.”

“Snow… Elves?” Ulfric’s laugh was deep and rumbled from deep in his chest and was shared by many of the others. “You are telling us that the beings that hide under our beds to steal our children are…”

“How many hamlets and farms have you lost Jarl Ulfric? How many of your people have vanished and had their homes destroyed where no Legion patrol could ever reach?” Burning with determination, Kaius’ turned his attentions towards the Imperial Governor and his Legate, seeing their confusion tinged with unease. “and you, Governor Tullius… How many of your patrols have vanished during the night, camps raided and forts destroyed where no Stormcloak had been seen or even rumoured to be?”

Uncomfortably the silence was now hanging over them all and no longer were the uneasy glances restricted to those on their sides of the table. Rikke, Galmar and their immediate rulers were sharing expressions of slow realisation as their claims now felt hollow.

Kaius was not yet finished, and his attentions moved further down the table to the Jarl who had first reacted to Ulfric’s claim of territory. “Jarl Igmund, just how many men have you lost these past months?”

Snorting with disgust, his expression was mirrored by that of his Uncle standing at his shoulder in his position as steward of Markarth. “I hope you aren’t insinuating that the soldiers of the Reach are victims to poor discipline and skill. There are no Foresworn within…”

“I am not talking about losses within your hold.” Kaius interrupted, his attention turning to one of the few remaining Altmer within the room standing beside the Jarl in his enchanted robes. “Calcelmo, how many have disappeared within Nchuand-Zel?”

Shocked at the direct question, the greatest researcher and scholar of the Dwemer looked about the room as gazes were drawn towards him and cleared his throat nervously. “Well, the dig under the city has suffered some recent setbacks, but we have attributed the disappearances to Animunculi.”

“Animunculi aren’t in the habit of kidnapping. You know that. Better than anyone I would wager.”

Puffing his chest with pride, Calcelmo missed the darkened expression from his Jarl and the warning inherent in it before shrugging. “Well, sixty-three labourers and guards have vanished in the undercity in the past four months alone. Before that, barring the odd accident or trap the excavation had a total of three fatalities and a handful of minor injuries over fifteen years.”

None within the room could deny the feeling of dread crawling into their bellies, even if they couldn’t pinpoint or understand its source. For the moment they were silent, looking and murmuring between themselves in the moments before Kaius spoke once again.

“They are reaching the surface now, and these… ‘random’ acts of destruction are only a taste of what is to come. Under our feet, stretched deep beneath the surface is the ancient Dwemer kingdom of Blackreach and it has been home to creatures that had once been the Snow Elves.”

“And you have seen them… These, ‘falmer’?” Tullius asked, his professional cynicism rising to the surface.

“I have. Myself and the other survivors of the Alftand Expedition have tread in the Zhardum D’faldin. We narrowly escaped the fate that awaits all of Skyrim, possibly even beyond if you all do not put aside your petty squabbles and unite.”

“I must admit; it is a difficult claim to believe that we are threatened by a collection of children’s stories.” Skald’s expression couldn’t have been twisted into more of a sneer if he tried, glaring at Kaius from his seat. “Especially given a lack of evidence…”

Almost with practiced ease, Kaius reached down to the bag alongside his chair, and threw a pair of items onto the table in front of him with solid thuds. The first was unmistakable even for the least educated of them all; the golden rollers inlaid with impossible gems and shimmering against reality’s hold was unmistakably an Elder Scroll, while the other item was somehow much more physical and horrifying.

The weeks since it had been hacked from its torso had not done the skull any favours but one of many of Lydia’s trophies bounced onto the stonework with a chattering of bones and teeth. Taken shortly after their battle at the Chantry of Auri-El, Lydia had taken considerable time and effort skinning and scraping the flesh away from the head of one of the several falmer alpha’s she had killed.

Accusingly it stared at them all, somehow looking into their very souls despite the utter lack of eye sockets. While somewhat chipped and broken from the journey, there was no mistaking the misshapen features of the creature, the pinched structure of the facial bones or the collection of sharpened, peg like teeth that still rested in its decayed maw.

The effects from the assembled Jarls and courtiers were immediate, many drawing away from the throbbing presence of the Elder Scroll while those of a magical background drew forward with interest. Those closest, especially Tulluis and Ulfric leaned forward in their seats, gazing upon the skull picked clean of flesh with distaste and concern.

“I took the scroll from the Tower of Mzark in the depths of Blackreach.” Kaius explained, gesturing to the shimmering, shivering artefact resting atop his recently claimed Ayleid blade. “That skull however was taken from its owner by my housecarl in the mountains bordering High Rock… Three months ago.”

More than one of the Jarls were looking at each other now with unease, as were Tullius and Ulfric as the old legionary picked up the grey-white bones and studied them with growing distaste.

Ulfric however was leaning forward, chin resting on his fist and staring off in the direction of the skull. “How do you propose that we should unite against this supposed threat?”

Only now did Kaius’ expression change from that of deadly seriousness and a smile curled a single corner of his mouth. “The war must end. That much is simple and undeniable.” A handful of nods were seen around the table and he continued without pause. “For too long has the sons of Skyrim spilled their own blood, lacking leadership and direction. Do we all wish to continue on like this? Bleeding the fate of all into the dirt, letting it burned into cinders by dragonfire or even worse…” A thumb was thrown over a shoulder but there was no doubting that he was directing it towards the now departed elves of the Dominion. “leave it to the likes of them? It has been too long. Skyrim needs a King.”

Eyes were glancing throughout the room, each of the Nine Jarls looking amongst themselves and seeing similar emotions no matter their chosen sides. Despite their conflicts and differences there were not many within the room who truly desired bloodshed, and the past eight years hung heavy over them all.

As Ulfric leaned back, feeling his heart being to race and making to rise to his feet Kaius was looking about the room with the same curl in the corner of his mouth. The Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the Stormcloaks was confident, feeling the moment was right and sensing a majority of support in the room but was stopped in mid movement as Kaius spoke once more.

“By my right as Thane of Whiterun and the blood of the dragons flowing through my veins,” he began, his voice rising slightly so that there would be no doubt to his words. “I claim the title of High King of Skyrim, and declare this gathering of Jarls as the Kingsmoot.”

 

Chapter 4: Decisions

Shock had been a common emotion already, but the silence was punctuated by the softest crackling of the coals and the lonely howl of the wind outside the thick stone walls of the monastery. Many present were left staring, trying to understand and believe the true of what they had heard. Kaius was sitting, as unmoving as stone but his eye was roaming over them all, watching the collection of faces that were focussed entirely on him.

Jarl Skald was the first to break free of the shock, his face contorting as though he was struggling to decide whether he was amused or insulted, leaning forward and pointing at Kaius. “You ‘claim’ the title of High King? You have no right!”

“He is a thane of Whiterun hold.” Bulgruuf said, his tone suggesting that while he was partially amused, he was also now second guessing some of his decisions over the previous three years. “He is a noble of Skyrim and has claim.”

“But he’s not even a Nord!”

“Does that make him any less of a Son of Skyrim?” Still popping a fruit or two into her mouth with her cataract dulled eyes twinkling in amusement, Ingrod Ravencrone gestured at Kaius and to the rest of her fellow rulers. “His actions and deeds speak much louder than his words ever could.”

Many of the Jarls and their advisors were looking concerned but Jarl Korir was leaning back in his chair, brows furrowing as he thought. “Tiber Septim was not of Nordic blood,” He began, his voice cutting through the building chatter from the dozens of men and women in the room. “And yet he was High King until he became Emperor.”

“And Talos.” Whispered someone from the Imperialists side who managed remain hidden despite the sudden questing eyes.

While shock and amazement were running strong through the assembled nobles, there was one in particular who’s emotions were now running differently. Ulfric was stunned, perhaps even more so than the others but a rage was beginning to consume him, rising up especially seeing the power and title that he had been coveting for over a decade still remaining out of his grasp.

“We cannot be considering this!” He snapped, his voice long since grown accustomed to shouting order in the heat of battle cutting through the chatter with ease. “Have we fallen so far that our customs and traditions mean nothing? The lines of succession are clear and have been for centuries!”

“Where was this talk of tradition when you became a murderer!” Despite the clear difference in size, Queen Elisif rose to her feet and leaned over the table with fire burning in her eyes. “You certainly have no right to preach to us all about what is right and what is not! You may have forgotten what actions were taken that lead to this war, but I certainly haven’t!”

The way her hand came to rest on the naked blade of her late husband was not one of anger or of the suggestion that she was considering using it, but the message to everyone was quite clear. The last man to have wielded that blade had been her late husband, when the man that she was staring down had killed him on the base of the throne that she now possessed.

If the giant Jarl of Windhelm noticed the way that she was touching her late husband’s sword he didn’t show it, nor did he seem to notice the way that some of the others were looking at his own sword. The uneasiness of the room was building but before he could even offer a reply Tullius had also risen, resting a hand lightly on the woman whom he supported.

“As a representative of the Empire I have no say in this matter.” He began, trying to diplomatically calm Elisif down and to meet the expressions of all those present.

“With the choice between seeing the Dragonborn on the throne to Skyrim or yourself.” Elisif hissed, interrupting Tullius with her lips peeling back from her teeth as she continued to stare daggers at Ulfric. “Then I support Thane Kaius.”

The sensation of falling was present through most within the room, as though they were slipping into an abyss without anything to arrest their fall. There were others who were already looking at the developing situation with their own agendas, and sitting back in his chair Jarl Siddgeir was nodding to himself, ignoring his Steward, Nenya as she attempted to get his attention.

“I support Thane Desin as well.”

“I’m not supporting the claims of some damned Imperial.” Spat Skald, both figuratively and literally in Kaius’ direction. “I don’t give a fuck whether he is Dragonborn or not; he’s not going to be king of me. As Jarl of Dawnstar, I claim the title of High King.”

“As much as I don’t want to agree with a Stormcloak, I have to agree.” Igmund was nodding, looking about the room at the others while gesturing to Skald on the other side of the table. “However I will not be a potential cause for more fighting. As such I abstain.”

“Are you all damned fools?” There was no mistaking the rising anger and amazement from Ulfric as he looked about the other Jarls. “This is not a Kingsmoot! He does not have the right or authority to make it as such, let alone make such claims.”

“Why not Ulfric?” Kaius asked simply, his bearing and manner not having changed since throwing the Elder Scroll and skull onto the table. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who has heard the tales of how only a master of the Thu’um is truly worthy of becoming High King.”

Ulfric blanched and somehow managed to keep his building anger in check despite Kaius’ words striking home. Those rumours and stories had spread throughout Skyrim during the civil war and he knew them all too well. After all, he started them in the first place.

“If you are worried about the reaction from the Emperor,” his gaze may have turned from Ulfric to Tullius but there was still no change to Kaius’ tone or manner. “you might be surprised just how Titus will react to this.”

Finally managing to calm Elisif down enough to get her to take her seat once more, Tullius’ clenched jaw was the only real sign of his thoughts or of hearing Kaius’ words. There was the hint of amusement in Kaius’ tone as he mentioned the Emperor but for those few who detected it, they couldn’t understand why it was present.

“One way or another this war must end.” Leaning forward and gesturing to the skull with its utter lack of eye sockets Kaius’ voice was only just audible for everyone to hear. “We face destruction from multiple sources; dragons, falmer, Thalmor. We cannot afford to bring about our own doom and I will do anything to stop these events from occurring. How many within your holds would throw their support behind the Dovahkiin if they received a call to arms?” His eye moved from Tullius and Rikke to Ulfric and Galmar in turn, narrowing as he spoke to them directly. “How many would remain loyal to your causes?”

They may not have answered but their expressions said everything. The tales of Kaius’ accomplishments were known throughout Skyrim and into the neighbouring provinces, and the Dragonborn was so deeply engrained into the culture of the Nords that many wouldn’t hesitate to desert and rally behind his banner. His simple act of claiming the title of High King would have been more than enough to ensure that he would command the largest faction within Skyrim even without word of it having left the room yet.

“We have fought enough.” Admitted Laila Law-Giver, speaking up for the first time since entering the room. “Haven’t enough died already, Ulfric? We wanted independence, to be able to pray to Gods of our choosing, but at what cost?”

Staring the Jarl of Riften in the face with hooded eyes, Ulfric almost snarled and cast his gaze over them all. “So this is what it has come down to? Throwing your support behind this… ‘man’. You all clearly do not know what he really is!”

“Just what am I, Ulfric?” Kaius asked simply, his expression flat and voice neutral.

Many of the Jarls and their courtiers were wearing expressions of confusion, looking amongst themselves trying to understand Ulfric’s words even as he jabbed a finger at Kaius as though it was the point of his sword. “I have known this man for some time. Known him, and known of him. He may have been able to trick and deceive you all but I won’t fall for it.”

“Get to the point Ulfric.” Tullius added with building annoyance.

“He’s a gods-damned vampire!” seeing the expressions of disbelief on some faces, but being bolstered by the sudden awkwardness by others Ulfric continued without hesitation. “Don’t you all deny knowing it! The rumours have been around for years! The truth for months now! Are you going to put your support behind such a creature? A bloodthirsty monster that’ll enslave us all?”

Elisif didn’t need to see her court wizard’s expression to feel the building anger at Ulfric’s words and a simple gesture was enough to stop Sybille Stentor as she went to move forward. So intent on discrediting Kaius, Ulfric never saw the glow as Sybille’s eyes burned like coals in the darkness of the dining hall before she contained herself.

There were a few concerned reactions from those present, some fearful glances at Kaius but one person alone seemed entirely unfazed by the revelation. Idgrod Ravencrone simply poured the last of her dried fruits into a palm and didn’t even look at the Jarl of Windhelm with a smile creasing her aged face.

“A desire for blood he may have.” She said, chewing thoughtfully on a dried apricot. “But his thirst is a product of his nature and necessary for his survival.” Slowly, and for the first time she met Ulfric’s gaze with her customary smirk joining the wrinkles of her face. “At least he won’t demand the blood of Skyrim’s sons and daughters for power and personal gain.”

“You brain-addled witch!” Galmar surged forward again, slamming his hands into the table hard enough to make some of the weapons jump. “You knew!”

She didn’t even hesitate or react to Galmar’s reaction, her smile remaining as though nothing could remove it. “Of course I knew. I knew even before I met the Dragonblood what he really was, but I didn’t judge him on it. I judged him on his deeds when he saved Morthal, and I judge him now on both deeds and intent. That’s why I support his claim.”

“For what he could do for Skyrim is more than enough for me.” With a hand thudding into his chest, Jarl Korir nodded in Kaius’ direction. “I support your claim.”

“I made you a thane when you saved Whiterun.” Bulgruuf added from the far end of the table, tired amusement infecting his voice. “Seems almost fitting that I am part of making you a King after all this.”

Watching as each of his fellow Jarls, including some of those that had supported the Stormcloak rebellion for the past decade Ulfric was conflicted between blinding rage and despair. For eight years he had been fighting, doing everything he could to secure Skyrim’s independence and after all this time, right at the moment where his final victory was close at hand it was suddenly, and inexplicitly being ripped away. His support base had been ripped out under his feet. Korir had thrown his support at Kaius without hesitation, Lalia, while not having openly supported the usurper was too weak-willed at the best of times and it wouldn’t take much for her to agree to Kaius’ claim. What was worse was Skald had immediately put his own claim forward instead of standing together as comrades should, leaving Ulfric entirely on his own, and Kaius with the backing of more Jarls than what he had ever mustered.

He knew that they were all watching, all waiting to see how he would react and what he would do. He had come to the council expecting to be able to haggle and pressure the Imperials into gaining new lands and territories, firming up an independent Skyrim after a stagnated war. Instead he was so close to losing everything, feeling that hatred build within his gut even as he came to a decision.

As a child he had been one of the many acolytes of the Greybeards, having lived within these cold stone halls until the Great War. They had taught him well during his teenage years, learning much between his fifteenth and twenty-third years when he joined the Legion. In that very room, on both sides of the table were comrades that he had fought alongside against the elves; Rikke, Galmar, even Tullius. It had been Tullius who had first raised him to Centurion when he had been Ulfric’s Tribune and yet the old soldier was nothing more than an embittered enemy now.

Friends and companions, countrymen and comrades and yet now after all the fighting and blood that had been spilt it was all for nothing. He was fifty-five years old, had suffered more at the hands of the Empire and the Thalmor than any in the room and at that moment the burning knowledge of how he knew he was far more worthy was a fire in his veins. There was no one more worthy, no one who had bled more for his people and his decision was remarkably simple.

Like the breath of a hurricane, his Unrelenting Force shout pitched Kaius off his seat as though a doll flung by an angry parent, cracking the stone seat into pieces that rained across the hall. It had been so sudden, so unexpected that none of the peace council had been prepared for it and many threw themselves away simply through instinct alone. His tutelage under the Greybeards may have been brief but he had learned well and the power of the Thu’um had served him well through the Great War, during his time as a mercenary leading to the Markarth incident and into the rebellion.

Involuntarily Elisif shrieked in absolute horror even as Tullius and Rikke’s reactions from a lifetime in the Legion resulted in her being shielded by their bodies. At the sound of Ulfric’s Thu’um her mind was immediately cast back to the time of her husband’s death, seeing all too clearly in her mind’s eye as the legendary Jarl had approached Torygg within Solitude’s Blue Palace. The young rulers had believed Ulfric had come to discuss Skyrim’s place within the Empire, to decide on ways to relax their commitment to the White-Gold Concordat and gain freedom of religion once more but instead Ulfric had drawn his sword and challenged the much younger king to a duel for Skyrim’s crown.

The outcome of such a battle had never truly been in doubt and yet her husband had accepted, loyal to traditions to the last even as Ulfric used the same power to cast the broken twenty-two-year-old to the ground and stab him in the heart. That scene had played itself out in the darkness of her nightmares ever since that day and the sight of Kaius being thrown away left her knowing that she was about to see the same event happen all over again.

Shouting and screams of panic drowned out the few with the presence of mind to attempt to intervene. Despite his best efforts, Arngeir was unable to move through the sudden surge of movement of the council as they retreated from Ulfric as he dragged his sword from the table and began striding over towards Kaius’ fallen body. No one was willing to intervene against such terrible power contained within a single being, the threat of simply becoming another broken corpse stopping them in their tracks.

Coughing and hacking up a mouthful of blood onto the floor, Kaius jammed his elbows under his chest and began hauling himself upwards. He groaned loudly, lifting his head and grinning with bloodstained teeth. “I accept your challenge Ulfric.”

“Dovahkiin! Ulfric! Drem!” Arngeir called, the word of power pulsing through the room and lifting fears and the rushing adrenaline from almost all those present. Ulfric however didn’t slow his advance towards the stunned Kaius, sword grasped firmly in hand and readying to remove the threat to his goals.

“Nid, Arngeir.” Kaius replied with the Thu’um shuddering through the floor as he got to a knee with Ulfric raising his sword to strike. “Fus!”

Ulfric’s Unrelenting Force was power incarnate. He had used it to great effect throughout his life, breaking elven battlelines during the great war and becoming a living siege weapon during the retaking of Markarth. It had crippled High King Torygg and allowed him to slay the young king without effort but Kaius was not a young man. He was a Tongue, capable of wielding the Thu’um and while Ulfric knew that his Voice was powerful, he and everyone else didn’t truly know how powerful.

Although just a single word instead of Ulfric’s Fus ro Dah, Kaius’ Fus was somehow just as powerful. He was almost within reach of his blade when the energy struck him full in the chest and had he been any closer it could have quite easily killed him. Instead it picked him up and threw him away like a leaf, slamming him down hard and skidding across the ground with the taste of copper filling his mouth.

“You turned your back to the Way of the Voice, Ulfric.” Kaius said as he finally managed to rise to his feet. “You have plunged Skyrim into a civil war to fuel your own petty ambitions and even now you have proven that you would murder anyone in your path to a crown. Your rule would result in Skyrim falling to darkness, followed by the rest of the world if you were successful. Now you have left me no choice.”

“Dragonborn! You need to stop!” Arngeir shouted and he wasn’t alone anymore. The use of the Thu’um within High Hrothgar had attracted many of the acolytes and the other Greybeards but neither Kaius or Ulfric were truly heeding them.

“He cannot Gråttskägge.” Said Balgruuf, following quickly after Arngeir to stop him from physically stepping between the two men. “Ulfric has raised the challenge and Kaius has accepted.”

Any further complaints from either Arngeir or the other Greybeards were rendered moot as Ulfric Shouted again, the Unrelenting Force cracking the stones near his feet as he struggled to rise. Unlike before, Kaius was strangely unaffected, his boots skidding backwards slightly as the wave of power washed over him but otherwise doing little to stop his advance.

“This is bigger than you, and certainly bigger than me.” Kaius said, raising his voice to be heard as Ulfric called upon the Thu’um for a third time with just as much effect as the second. “You could have been in my place; destined to face Alduin and more but you have chosen your path.”

The pulsating energies within Kaius were building and his eye was almost rolling into the back of his skull as he called upon the Thu’um. There was no doubting the potency of the dragon’s blood flowing through his veins as he twisted and stared Ulfric down as the Jarl prepared himself for what was to come.

When Kaius Shouted it was no Unrelenting Force or similar trio of words of power. It was a crashing storm of energies, word after words joining together in sentences and even for the robed masters of such power it was astounding. Arngeir and the others had performed a similar ceremony when they had recognised Kaius as Dragonborn all those long months ago, using the Thu’um in a chant that would have killed lesser beings. Now, as it had then, Kaius’ use of the Thu’um buffered them with ethereal winds as reality itself buckled under the warping nature of such power.

Ulfric, contained with the heart of the storm was screaming but the Thu’um was gripping him tight like the depths of a Blackmarsh Swamp. Every word from Kaius’ mouth as he advanced pounded into his very soul, imprinting themselves on his being and entering his mind and all the others witnessing it. Kaius was speaking of fate and destiny, of ambition and greed and each word rolled into the other in an increasing wave of pain and thought. Ulfric could feel his life-force being affected even worse than the torturous magicka the Thalmor had used on him when he’d been their prisoner during the Great War and yet unlike that magicka this wasn’t killing him.

Stopping only a few short paces away from Ulfric, the power of the Thu’um faded into nothing as reality reasserted itself once more. Only the Elder Scroll, laying on the table where Kaius had tossed it showed signs of the latent energies as the soft glow faded and it dropped the three centimetres back down to the granite surface as though it had briefly shifted through time and space. Ulfric however, being of flesh and blood was struggling to keep himself conscious, kept upright only by his considerable will and burning hatred of the man standing before him.

He didn’t say a word, lashing out with his sword that felt as though it had been joined into the muscle and meat of his arm. Like ripping cloth, the sword sung through the air but the Thu’um had affected him badly. Kaius simply stepped out of the way, not even having to rely upon his vampiric nature or the otherworldly nature of the Thu’um as he began dodging Ulfric’s wild attacks.

Blow after blow hit nothing but air as Ulfric tried his best for his sword to bite into Kaius’ flesh. Although unarmed Kaius did little more than duck and weave from Ulfric’s attacks, shifting step by step backwards until his opponent over extended himself and allowed for a counter attack. With complete ease Kaius managed to twist and lock Ulfric’s arm under an armpit, locking his sword arm tight and trapping it against his body even as he moved. In the space of mere heartbeats Ulfric found himself from being on the attack, to staring at the point of his blade as Kaius locked their arms together and began to bend his own weapon back on him.

With both hands locked tight, one gripping the sword by the hilt and the other trying desperately to lever up his own wrist as Kaius forced it back, Ulfric was stuck staring into his opponent’s remaining eye as they grappled. He could see how the use of the Thu’um had affected Kaius almost as badly as it had himself, sapping his own considerable, supernatural strength and leaving not much more than the man behind. Bloodied patches were visible under the skin and his eyes were bloodied as though he hadn’t slept in days but there was still strength enough in him to contend with Ulfric.

Centimetre by trembling centimetre the blade drew closer and closer to Ulfric’s flesh and despite throwing all of his weight into fending Kaius to the point where they were kneeling it was no use. Their eyes remained locked together, even when the cold tip pressed and begun to slide into his body where his throat met his sternum.

There was no sound from the two of them and such was Kaius’ Thu’um he was exhausted as the Jarl died on his own blade. His use of the Voice in such a way had almost stripped him of his vampiric strength entirely but being eternally trapped within the body of the thirty-year-old had still left him at an advantage over the physically older Jarl. He didn’t stop forcing Ulfric’s arm back until the hilt was pressed against his flesh and the tip was buried deep within his torso, and only rose to his feet once more when all life had flowed away and Ulfric had become still.

Everyone was too shocked to think or react, even the likes of Elisif who had more reason to hate the leader of the Stormcloaks stood in silence and uncomprehending eyes as Kaius carefully, and respectively laid the dead man down. Friends and foes alike they all watched, trying to understand what they were seeing even as Kaius rose to his full height with sadness infusing him.

Only one person in all the room overcame his shock, and the rasping of metal on leather was loud enough to startle everyone else out of their stupor. Only Galmar Stone-Fist, Thane of Windhelm and Ulfric’s oldest friend moved in the wake of his comrade’s death, dragging his own sword free in a fist trembling in grief and rage and facing down the man responsible.

“Please don’t.” Kaius said, almost pleading with the military leader of the Stormcloaks as he moved closer.

“I have no choice.” Galmar growled, his anger overpowering. “Ulfric must be avenged.”

Almost as though he was offering his head to the approaching warrior, Kaius bowed very slightly as his face slackened with sadness.

“Dinok.”

There was no warning or signs of his use of the Thu’um once more, and much like Ulfric’s Unrelenting Force no one present were prepared for it. In that single terrible moment of raw energy, Galmar Stone-Fist; friend to Ulfric and once comrade to Tullius and Rikke simply died in mid step. All life left his body in a rush, collapsing on its face with a thump and a metallic ringing as his sword skittered across the floor.

No one moved, many were struggling to breathe and were stuck to the ground as though frozen to it by an ice rune. Whether they were Greybeards, Jarls or their courtiers they were struggling to comprehend what they had seen, how they had just bore witness to a death of one of their own and the powers that had been unleashed in the process. Even the Greybeards, perhaps even more so were shocked at Kaius’ ability with the Thu’um, staring at the man that they had assisted in teaching as he stood over the two corpses.

Looking as though overwhelmed with sadness to the point of tears, Kaius lifted his gaze from Ulfric’s body, stooping down momentarily to close the Jarl’s eyes before looking over the room of shocked expressions. Only one person appeared entirely nonplussed at the events, but Ingrod Ravencrone was just as quiet as she continued being the only person still sitting down. She and she alone sat in silence, quietly nodding to herself as though she was simply reliving a memory.

“No more blood.” Kaius said as the silence threatened to stretch on into minutes, wiping his mouth where the Thu’um had left him dribbling gore. “No more death. We must stand together to weather the coming storms before we lose everything. We must decide. All of us must decide and decide now.”

The hints of moisture in his eye lingered but the hardness of his soul was burning it away as he looked over the collection of Skyrim’s most powerful individuals. “What is your decision?”

Notes:

Oh boy, I reckon I might piss off the Ulfric fanclub in this fandom from this chapter, but eh... he had it coming.

Although she only plays a small part in my works, I have a bit of a soft spot for Jarl Ravencrone. Even in game she seems like the sort of woman who is secretly laughing at the entire world as a result of her knowledge and I couldn't help but include her in this as well.

I also know that in game shouts are limited to three words, with the exception of Miraak's special shout but I've never seen any real explanation to what the greybeards do when they acknowledge you officially as Dragonborn. Those are full sentences that shake the mountain and are apparently powerful enough to outright kill a normal being so I'm tempted to chalk that up to Bethesda oversight.

Anyway, we're very close to the end now!

Chapter 5: Epilogue

The fire was burning pleasantly, fuelled by the collection of tinder and branches retrieved from the edges of the road and despite the darkness falling over the land it was calming and peaceful. After a long day’s travel, Lashma and Fjorndi had finally stopped for the night and were almost finished setting up their camp. The air still had the bite of a chill growing within it but for the moment at least the fire was keeping it at bay. It would do so long enough for them both to eat and retire for the evening, but for the moment they were enjoying another night under the stars.

Lashma watched as her husband ran his hand down the side of their draught horse, patting the giant animal affectionately as it cropped at a patch of grass alongside their wagon. As she always had, the Nordic Clydesdale had made very easy work hauling their wagon loaded with trade goods and showed little sign of such effort at the end of each day.

“One more day.” Fjorndi muttered good naturedly as he moved over to where his wife was sitting. “We’re making really good time.”

“I still don’t know how you managed to convince me to come.”

“The same way that you agreed to marry me.” His beard lightly tickled her cheek as he kissed her head and the warmth was not just from his proximity.

“Well, I wish that you could put some of that good charm into hiring a guard or two. Surely those mercenaries we met in Karthwasten would have agreed for lower prices.”

Despite the smile there was a coldness in his expression as the Nordic merchant remembered his brief conversation with the thugs within the mining town. “They weren’t the type of guards we could depend upon, love. Besides, the worst part of the journey is behind us.”

“There are no Foresworn in the Reach.” She muttered, mocking the official statement of the Jarl of Markarth and his supporters. For those who lived within the Reach it was simply a part of their life but the Jarl and the others’ denials didn’t affect reality. Lashma and Fjorndi were lucky only in the fact that the Reachmen natives; the Foresworn didn’t have interest in merchants or anyone not wearing the Jarl’s heraldry. It still didn’t stop them from collecting ‘tolls’ however but that was something they were well accustomed to.

“I know you worry, but there is nothing to be concerned about.” An arm wrapped around her shoulders and squeezed affectionately. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Dragonsbridge, and by the end of the week we’ll be in Solitude with more money that we have seen for years.”

She smiled, but the trickle of fear in her gut had not subsided since her husband had decided to take a selection of goods to Skyrim’s capital. Over the previous weeks he had managed to make a remarkably good deal with a handful of Redguard merchants in Markarth with her assistance. The collection of silken rugs and bolts of the expensive material would fetch a large amount of coin in Solitude, and had the additional benefit of being uninteresting to the occasional bandit or Foresworn insurgent. Normally neither of them would have made such a trip, especially without a guard or two but Skyrim was the quietest it had been in years with the Jarls climbing the Throat of the World.

In the distance they could see the twinkling lights of Dragonsbridge, the village clustered over the ancient river crossing still several hours travel away. The bridge was enormous and was also one of the only crossings for dozens of kilometres in either direction in the mountainous region of Haafinger but besides Solitude there was no greater trade hub in western Skyrim.

“I have something for you.” Again his arm squeezed her tightly for a moment before he got to his feet.

Walking back over to the wagon and their horse Ingina, Fjorndi climbed into the back with a practiced ease that belied the grey hairs that were beginning to sprout in his beard. In a few more years their son would take over their business and join it with his but the Nordic merchant would probably continue out of pure stubbornness. Lashma couldn’t help but smile as her husband rummaged among the rolls of silk and cloth, digging into one of the several chests at the bottom and pulling out a bottle of Blackbriar mead.

“If that is your present for me, I think we may have to seek a divorce.” She called out with humour. Even after twenty years living in Skyrim she had never grown accustomed to the taste of mead.

Smiling down on her, Fjorndi laughed. “That’s a gift for myself. This is for you.”

The sight of a bottle of wine was much more appreciated that the mead, especially as he fished a pair of glasses out of the straw packed trunk. Gone had the days where the two of them had drunk directly from the bottle, and while their youth had faded their feelings for each other hadn’t.

“Does it bring back any memories?” Fjorndi said as he carefully climbed down the wagon with bottles and glasses in hand. “I know it does for…”

As he moved away from the wagon and towards his wife, Fjorndi stopped in mid step as Ingina suddenly lifted her head, looking off into the darkness and whinnying. The enormous draught horse was twitching and stamping her feet, shifting away from the darkness and against the wagon that rocked alarmingly.

“Woah girl! What’s gotten into you?”

The sensation of fear was blooming inside her as Lashma glanced between the shadows of the road and her husband as he tried to calm the horse down. “What is it?”

“She’s caught the scent of something.”

Trying to juggle the bottles of alcohol and pat the Clydesdale at the same time, Fjorndi was also looking about himself in search of his sword. No matter their age or profession, only the dead in Skyrim didn’t know how to fight.

“Might be a wolf or something.” He stammered as Ingina pushed back further against the wagon in her fear. “But I’ve never seen her act like this before.”

Right before her very eyes, Lashma saw how a long shaft sprouted from her husband’s chest as though it had grown there in a blink of an eye. Milky white like off milk, the long thin object vanished in the thick folds of her husband’s tunic and furs, twitching like it was alive as he reacted to its sudden intrusion in his flesh.

She never heard the tinkling sounds of the bottles and glasses breaking on the ground, or the way that Ingina reared up in terror as several of the strange shafts punched into her as well. Lashma could hear nothing more than her scream of horror as she called out her husband’s name even as he collapsed like a puppet.

There was no sign of their attackers in the darkness as she rushed over to his fallen body, seeing the strange glassiness of his eyes and the way his veins were distended in his throat as his breath puffed with misted blood. She had seen enough soldiers and fighting in her life to recognise an arrow when she saw one but the one that had punctured her husband’s chest was unlike any she had seen before. It was made of what could only be identified as bone and even stranger was the utter lack of fletching on the end. Only from the sheer number that were flitting out of the shadows had their unseen attackers managed to hit them at all, even a target as large as their horse but the arrows weren’t the deadliest part.

The arrow that struck her in the back felt like she had been mildly slapped, the pressure of the foreign object alerting her conscious mind even as the toxins and poisons soaking the flint arrowhead flooded her bloodstream. So potent was the substances smeared over the crude arrow that she died just as quickly as her husband, lasting long enough to see the light die in his eyes even as her body wracked with spasms.

Even Ingina, their giant draught horse was quickly brought low by the poisoned arrows as dozens of them thudded into the panicking creature. Although her strength allowed her to snap her reins binding her to the wagon, the virulent toxins made her crash into the road after only a handful of paces.

Hissing and clicking, the beings responsible for their deaths shambled out of the shadows towards the flickering campfire and the stilled bodies. Hunched over and low to the ground they moved from rock to stone, their ears twitching as they sought out any further threats or sources of food. Some moved quickly into the tiny campsite, their desire to feed overwhelming their natural fear and very quickly blood was soaking the ground as they hunched over the bodies of the dead merchants. The giant horse was quickly covered by a cluster of their writhing forms as their peg toothed maws bit and tore, swallowing hunks of cooling horseflesh with wild abandon.

Only some held back from the frenzy, their nasally breathing increasing with the scent of blood on the wind and a few quickly clambered onto of the wagon, rifling through the contents and despoiling them with their touch. Nothing was left to their curiosity, but one of their number stalked into the light of the fire seemingly oblivious to its specie's unceasing hunger.

Several clicks like the popping of sun-dried bones knocking together stilled the starved feasting of the pack, twitching ears lifting up and bloody maws hanging open in expectation. Larger and more powerful than the rest, the Shadowmaster cowed those nearest with displeased hisses, chirping and clicking until a number of them dragged their bloodied and mauled prizes away.

The scents of more prey, a concentration that was impossible to ignore was heavy on the breeze and the Falmer brood master growled with pleasure. There was little within the polluted mind beyond scraps of instincts but like the rest of its corrupted kind it understood the thrill of hunting well enough. It, like the others surrounding it could sense the source of flesh, pulsating and tempting on the horizon even if they couldn’t see it.

More hisses and a squeal ripped through the night and once more the horde was moving. The dozens within the campsite bounded off into the darkness at the whim of their alpha and behind every rock and boulder more and more of their kind were growing like a mould. Like a tide of ravenous hunger, they surged forward, loping across the ground on their demented limbs as they turned their blind skulls towards the mass of lights.

In the growing darkness, under the faint light of the moons Dragonbridge’s bells began tolling their alarm into empty sky. They chimed and echoed, the sound rolling and overlapping over the mountains before forever falling silent.

Notes:

Well... It's done. Sos do Dov is complete but as I have mentioned throughout this is not the end of Kaius and co's adventures. The steaks however have just been raised somewhat haha.

As a bonus I am also immediately uploading the prologue to the next series "The Dragonblood King" for everyone's enjoyment, however it will not being updated until I am much further through "Bloodtide Rising"

As a slight side note, Lashma and Fjorndi are based off a pair of unnamed npcs south of Dragonbridge you find after the fact. Although in this story I doubt that anyone will be finding their bodies or the Journal after the fact...

Sos do Dov has come a long way, a lot further than I had originally intended as "Bloodtide Receded" was meant to be the Epilogue to "Bloodtide Rising" and nothing more. 270,000 words and two and half years of writing later...

A great, massive shout out to everyone who has read these stories, especially those who have left comments and the like! I never expected to actually have anyone read any of these haha.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 17 of Sos do dov (Blood of Dragons)