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nerevar-quote-and-star · 5 months ago

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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part 12: Owl

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Author's note: Picking up where the previous chapter left off, Leara must work through the rest of the peace conference, all while her day continues to spiral out of control.

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@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid @thelurkershideout

Content Warning: After the third line break, Bishop is, well, the worst of Bishop. Attempted dub/con; sexual assault.

#######

The pinprick of eyes didn’t leave her even after she shut the outer door and darted down the hall. Up a short flight of stairs and then down a long corridor, she ran until she fell against the door to her cell. With a silent sob, she twisted the knob and fell into the room.

Karnwyr was at her side at once, his soft face and warm body pressing up and into her to keep her from collapsing all the way. Shaking, Leara wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his fur. The wolf’s gentle breathing was the only sound beyond her frantic heartbeat. She tried to focus on it, to focus on the wolf. Bishop had told her once that wolves knew loyalty. If there ever was a wolf loyal to a fault, it was Karnwyr. Warm, safe, comforting Karnwyr.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered into the wolf’s neck.

A high whine rang in Karnwyr’s throat; she could feel it vibrate against her cheek. Sometimes, she was half-certain that the wolf understood her. Others, she didn’t know. But she wanted to hope. These days, she had little else to put her hope in.

“She’s going to get me,” she went on. Karnwyr’s ears twitched, listening. “She’s going to get me and kill me if Alduin doesn’t kill me first.” New tears gathered on her eyelashes, their frost melting from Karnwyr’s warmth. Her chest still hurt, breathing was still a chore, and she was cold and numb and electrified all at once. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die alone!”

Tap! Tap! Tap! came from the door.

Leara stilled, her arms locking stiff around Karnwyr’s throat. A growl rumbled from the wolf as, slowly, Leara lifted her head. Meeting Karnwyr’s dark eyes, she sniffled. “Shh,” she soothed, rubbing a trembling hand over his shaggy velvet ears. “Shh.” But Karnwyr simply looked at her, a deep sadness reflecting back at her. Leara swallowed back the lingering tears.

The knock came again.

Struggling to her feet, Leara grabbed the handkerchief from beside her small bag of toiletries and dabbed at her face. With icy fingers, she pressed along the underside of her eyes, easing the redness and soothing the skin. This was followed by reinforcing her little glamor spells, the same she’d been using to cover up the sleeplessness for the last couple of weeks. The sensation sent a new swell of tears rising in her throat, but she forced them down. She had a job to do. She could not afford to keep crying over Elenwen. She’d wasted years of her life doing so already.

The third round of knocking was cut short when she opened the door.

“Ah, see, Delphine? I told you she would be here!”

The pinch-faced Breton rolled her eyes.

“Good afternoon,” Leara greeted the Blades, an unchecked warble in her throat. She clamped her mouth shut.

Either not noticing it or not caring to point it out, Esbern brushed past her into the room, a reluctant Delphine following. At the intrusion, Karnwyr growled, neck bristling as he pressed his side against Leara’s leg.

“Do you mind calling off your dog?” Delphine sniffed, popping a hand on her hip.

Leara’s fingers were already carding over the top of Karnwyr’s head. “Shh, boy. It’s all right. They’re friends.”

If wolves could look skeptical, Karnwyr did. Leara pretended not to notice.

“What can I do for you?” Leara asked, drawing attention away from the still-agitated wolf.

“Now you’re asking?” Delphine half-laughed. “Where have you been? You disappear off to Talos knows where, chasing Dragonrend, and the next thing we hear is you got your ass handed to you by Alduin!”

“Delphine, please,” Esbern shook his head. “That’s not why we’re here.”

“It’s why I’m here,” grumbled Delphine. “Did the Greybeards turn you against us? Do they have you a little meditation mat out in the snow so you can Shout to the wind like a mad woman?”

Leara’s eyes drifted closed. Inhale. Feim. Exhale. Zii. Her spirit was too strung out for this. “I’ve been following the path laid out for me as Dragonborn, just as you so eloquently pointed out earlier, Delphine, or have you forgotten?”

“That’s why we’re here,” coughed Esbern.

Delphine scowled, her thin brows scrunching into little knots. “We need you to take this seriously, Leara!”

“Oh, but I do!” Casting her hands out beside her as if to say Look at me! Leara let out a hoarse laugh. “I’m taking this very seriously. I am the most serious I’ve ever been, and I was able to continue my primary mission during the Great War, unlike some people! It’s hard to get any more serious than that, but I have!”

Delphine lunged.

Karnwyr barked. Esbern cried out. Leara sidestepped, avoiding the steel dart grabbing for her. Pivoting, Delphine rounded again; though she made no further movement, her face was dark. “Somehow, I doubt that! Because at least some people didn’t run away when things got too hard! How could we know when you went after Dragonrend that you hadn’t done it again?”

Ice tickled the palms of Leara’s hands. Her rings burned. The lingering frostbite stung. Just as Delphine understood her meaning, Leara understood hers. Delphine may be inept, but she stuck to the Blades’ mandate. Leara did not. She ran away. She always ran away. Her face tight, she turned to Esbern, who was looking toward the ceiling, an unwilling witness to the continued rift between his fellow Blades. After a moment, his gaze dropped, and Leara met it with an awkward tilt of her head. Ignored, Delphine crossed her arms.

“I’m not running now,” said Leara, flat. “What do you want? After today, I won’t be coming back to High Hrothgar. I’ll be able to rededicate myself to my oath as a Blade.” Elenwen would be hunting her anyway. If Leara survived Alduin, serving as a Blade would be all she had left. Bishop would either have to live with that or leave.

Elenwen said he would leave anyway. She was usually right.

Clearing his throat, Esbern said, “That is part of what I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Here we go,” Delphine rolled her eyes. Leara frowned.

“What is—”

Tap! Tap! on the door again. As one, the three Blades turned to stare at it. Karnwyr grunted.

“Come in!” Leara called.

Cracking the door open, Master Einarth poked his head in. In silence, he regarded Delphine and Esbern before looking to Leara. His hands flew in a quick sign. Then he watched her.

“Thank you, Master.” Nodding, the Greybeard withdrew. Leara turned to Delphine and Esbern. “It’s about time to rejoin the peace talks. This will keep until later.”

“According to the old man, it’s already waited centuries,” Delphine grumbled, almost under her breath. Nonetheless, she brushed by Leara and Esbern to the door.

Karnwyr made to follow Leara. “No, boy,” she whispered, chest pained. Karnwyr stared up at her, eyes wide and full. The iron encasing her lungs buckled under her breath. “I’ll come back for you later, okay? I need you to wait here for me until then. That’s a good boy,” she whispered, running her hand over his head and down his neck once, twice. “It’s for the best.”

Karnwyr whined, but Leara didn’t look back as she shut the cell’s door.

The other two Blades were already far down the hall. Leara slowed her pace, pretending to straighten up her ruined hair. She wasn’t eager to catch up with them and risk more of Delphine’s temper. She would deal with it later.

Outside the doors to the meeting hall, Legate Rikke and one of her legionnaires stood in the quiet discussion, though Leara saw them still as Delphine and Esbern went through to the chamber. Rikke’s eyes followed the Blades with a frown, then connected with Leara’s down the hall.

“That will be all, Orianus. Rejoin General Tullius in the hall.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Saluting, the blonde legionnaire left.

Then, Leara found herself face-to-face with the Legate. She just kept her shoulders from dropping under the taloned point in her eyes. “Good afternoon, Legate.”

“Dragonborn, can I have a word before you go back in there?” Rikke asked, to the point. “It will only take a moment.”

“Of course.”

Casting an eye in either direction, Rikke waved Leara closer. “Look, I don’t think talking peace with Ulfric is the way to handle things.”

“What do you mean?”

Rikke’s face was grim. “If Ulfric gets his way, he would expunge from Skyrim citizens whose only crime was to be born of a non-Nordic woman.” A quick dart of amber eyes told Leara that Rikke’s attention was on her elven ears. “That is unacceptable to free men everywhere. If you think you can get through to him, you’re either a fool or an optimist, and I don’t think you’re an idiot, Ormand."

So, the Legate wanted to caution her against the potential fallout from the peace conference. If Leara wasn’t already keenly aware that Skyrim’s—and the world’s—fate hung by a thread entangled with her fingers, she’d give the warning about Ulfric’s intentions more consideration. Yet, it niggled at her. She recalled walking through the Grey Quarter in Windhelm with Jolinar Aren. There was a cultural divide in the city that cut through its citizens. Did the people there make any attempt to understand each other? It was so far removed from the cosmopolitan melting pot of the Imperial City that she was used to. Leara regarded Rikke, keenly aware that they needed to return to the meeting hall. Yes, there were racial tensions in Windhelm—there were racial tensions throughout Skyrim and the whole Empire, even the Imperial City, if she were being honest—but until Ulfric threw her out because she was half-elven (and that was the only reason), she would push for peace. She would try.

“Perhaps I am an optimist,” she conceded at last. “Thank you, Legate.”

Rikke nodded, mouth drawn, and they entered the chamber.

Leara had a peace to negotiate.

·•★•·

The melancholy shroud that wrapped around her with the strength of burial linens hadn’t left when she woke up far too early the next morning. For a while, she lay there, the weight of darkened memory pressing into her chest nearly to the point of suffocation. Pearls glittered in her mind’s eye, fractured and crumbling to bone dust with every beat of her heart. And oh, how deep her heartbeat felt, pounding a drum she never knew she could play. At once, there were festival and funeral drums dancing together. Joy mingled with grief, and it wouldn’t leave her. It clung to her like white sand between her toes, working its way throughout her person until she came through pain to be a pearl herself. Safe in her warm bed amid the furs, behind palace doors and city walls, she still felt thousands of miles and years away. Lost, lost to a time without balls and wars, or at least not the kind that moral men understood. She couldn’t sleep again, not with that melancholy kissing her soul.

One glance at Julia on the other side of the bed told Elisif that her friend was awake. Supine on her back, Elisif could only see part of Julia’s face and the trickle of tears slipping down into her hair, spread in a dark cloud across the pillow.

Elisif reached out and snagged her hand, giving Julia’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “I didn’t know anyone could play like that,” she whispered.

Julia turned to her. “I don’t even know what that was.”

“Do you,” Elisif began, then cut off. Blinking, she realized she was also crying. Divines. “Do you think it’s because she has the Voice?”

Julia’s hand in hers tightened, bone-crushing, pearl dust. “I don’t know.”

Elisif and Julia weren’t abed for long. At half past six, a knock came at the door. Although the ball ended prematurely, and they’d gone to bed earlier than expected, neither Elisif nor Julia felt as if they’d slept at all.

It was Erdi, with a note. “Your grace, Lady Julia,” she curtsied to Elisif and then Julia, her knees and ankles wobbly. Sitting in her bedclothes with a face damp from tears, Elisif waved her on. “This came from Castle Dour.”

“General Tullius?” Elisif asked.

“Yes, your grace. He expects a reply as soon as possible.”

The note, it turned out, was a short directive telling her to get ready for a long trip to High Hrothgar—High Hrothgar!—where the Dragonborn was holding a peace conference between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. “Is she mad?” Elisif asked Julia as they quickly put together a traveling trunk.

Julia didn’t pause her work, but she looked thoughtful. “I think she’s trying.”

“So are we!”

Julia just shook her head.

That was over two weeks ago. Now Elisif sat at a table in High Hrothgar, across from her husband’s murderer, while General Tullius debated giving away Markarth, and her concerns went ignored.

The trip to the Throat of the World wasn’t horrible, per se . . . only, General Tullius made as much time for her on the road as he did back in Solitude, and traveling, Elisif didn’t have Julia’s arm and will with her to get Tullius to listen to her. Legate Rikke was willing to give her an ear on occasion, but Elisif knew that was more out of sympathy than anything. The Legate was strong and commanded respect, knowing what to do and when to act, even if her temper sometimes got the better of her. Elisif wished she could be like that. As it was, she spent most of the trip in turns dreading the peace conference and caught in the memory of sorrowing harp song. When she wasn’t pushing for the General’s attention or dwelling in her turmoil, she was entertaining Erdi.

Oh, Bolgeir said she didn’t have to entertain her ladies’ maid, but the girl was so excited to be on the road, traveling through Skyrim, that Elisif felt she could give the girl some of the attention no one would give her. Divines knew she wasn’t going to as the two Thalmor for company. Yes, she did enjoy Elenwen’s dinner parties and soirees, but there was something in the First Emissary’s eyes that had unnerved Elisif since they left Solitude. And Hindalia, well, she wasn’t very amicable from her experience anyway. It was a very trying trip.

Sitting there, stuck in a peace conference she couldn’t believe in, Elisif hoped that Erdi was keeping out of trouble. Hopefully, the other legionnaires wouldn’t get too upset with her.

Lost in thought, she half-watched the Dragonborn, Leara Ormand, enter the room. Legate Rikke came after her. Somewhere behind her, General Tullius and Jarl Balgruuf were talking in heated whispers, the Jarl of Whiterun seeming not entirely pleased with whatever Tullius wanted to talk about. At Leara’s reentrance, the two men quieted.

“Where’s Master Arngeir?” Leara asked.

“He went to meditate,” Ulfric told her.

Leara nodded, pale gold face pensive as she returned to her seat.

Across the table, the pale Breton in armor, the one Ulfric had called Delphine before, rolled her eyes. She mouthed something to herself that Elisif couldn’t catch. No one else seemed to pay her any mind, so Elisif ignored her.

Elisif twisted the handkerchief in her lap. As soon as the Dragonborn called a recess and left, the Greybeards left to meditate, a sigh whispering in his wake. Ulfric and his general, with their guards, went quickly after, leaving the Imperial delegation hauled up in the meeting hall with Jarl Balgruuf and his men. General Tullius paced the length of the room for much of the remaining hour, his face drawn in a thoughtful frown. Occasionally, he would stop to speak to Legate Rikke or ask her a question, but otherwise, he kept to himself until the other delegates returned. Clearly, he didn’t like being here any more than Elisif did, but they came nonetheless at the Dragonborn’s request.

She was going to trap a live dragon in Whiterun!

How could she do that? Even if Whiterun still had the mechanisms that legends said were used to bind Numinex, how did Leara Ormand plan to lure a dragon into that trap? And how did she draw out the dragon? Reports flooding in over previous months made it clear that dragon attacks couldn’t be timed. But was it possible for the Dragonborn to time them? Elisif was bursting with questions, but she held them in check. Now was not the time.

General Stone-Fist slid a new goblet of mead to the Dragonborn. Elisif then realized that earlier, when she was serving, she never set one down for herself. “Care for some mead, Dragonborn?”

Leara blinked up at him, owlish with surprise. “Oh, thank you, General.”

“It’s not poisoned,” he added.

What?

A slight giggle escaped Leara’s mouth. “Why would it be poisoned?”

Galmar Stone-Fist actually smiled at her. Elisif couldn’t believe it.

Apparently, Ulfric couldn’t believe it either, if the slight crease between his brows was anything to go by. Then he caught Elisif’s eye on him, and his narrowed at her. She ducked her head.

From the corner of her eye, she spied Legate Rikke steal a glance toward the Leara, who was sipping her mead. Perhaps Elisif wasn’t the only one who couldn’t quite make her out. She couldn’t decide if that was reassuring or not.

As she mused over this, Master Arngeir returned alongside the other Greybeards. Seeing that they were all seated around the table—more or less—Master Arngeir nodded to himself. “Dragonborn, I trust this recess has helped you.”

If Elisif hadn’t turned to watch, she would’ve missed the pale knuckles blanching as Leara tightened her hold on her goblet. “Yes, thank you for obliging me, Master Arngeir.”

Master Arngeir seemed not to notice. “Good. Now, General Tullius, Jarl Ulfric, if you would, we will resume the negotiations.”

“Yes, let’s get on with it,” General Tullius agreed, straightening in his chair.

“At present, the negotiations stand thus: Before our recess, General Tullius made a bid for the Rift, which was met with Jarl Ulfric’s demand for Markarth and the Reach. These terms have not been agreed to. As the mediator, the Dragonborn spoke against land trades from either side.” The Greybeard Master turned a steady watch from Tullius to Ulfric.

Involuntarily, Elisif shuddered at the memory of the explosive shouting match that broke out earlier and her heavy hand in instigating it. But if getting a rise out of General Tullius was all she needed to do to protect Western Skyrim from being broken apart to feed the Stormcloaks, then she would do it again and again.

“Now that we have reconvened, I would ask the Dragonborn to elaborate on her reasoning,” Master Arngeir continued.

“Thank you, I will,” Leara said, standing. Her gaze swept the room; for a moment, Elisif looked into eyes bluer than a winter sky and nearly as cold before they moved on. She shivered. Leara continued, “I recognize that all of you have come here to negotiate a treaty, and with that comes certain expectations. You see this as an opportunity. I do as well. This peace conference is an opportunity for us to come together for the good of Skyrim so that despite whatever differences we may have, we can rest assured that our cooperation here today give us the opportunity to address those differences at a later date.” She paused, breathing evenly. “I cannot stress enough how vital this treaty is as a means to handle the dragons and Alduin himself. Esbern has already explained how the ongoing conflict is feeding the World-Eater’s strength.” She clenched her fingers together. “I know with the present conflict, it’s hard to look beyond the turmoil of politics and battle strategy, but we need to remember that our enemies are not always other men and mer. History has shown us that we struggle not only against flesh and blood, but against darkness and evil itself. Was the Oblivion Crisis so long ago that no one remembers what we were fighting against? Is our memory so short that we cannot see the greater picture beyond our personal desires?”

“She makes longer speeches than Stormcloak,” Elisif heard Captain Thrain whisper in an aside to Lieutenant Orianus.

“The dragon threat is real. Alduin is real. Many of you have seen him already.” Then Leara held out her palms so that everyone could see. For the first time, Elisif noticed the pink flush lingering along her hands, tapering into a pink at the ends of her fingers. It reminded Elisif of snowberry juice stains after having washed her hands twice but with the pigment still clinging to her fingertips. Frostbite. “I fought him, and I must fight him again, once more for all. If I don’t, Skyrim will burn, and the land you conquer and trade will be dead.”

“If you lost to the World-Eater once, what makes you think you’ll be victorious in a second meeting?” Jarl Balgruuf asked.

Leara’s hands fell against the light blue of her skirts. “Before, when I faced Alduin the first time, it was here on the Throat of the World. When I fell, he fled back to his stronghold. To defeat him, I need to cut him off at the root.”

“Why didn’t he kill you then?” Elisif heard herself ask before she thought better of it.

Straightening, Leara merely smiled. “He couldn’t get to me. I was in a safe place.” Then she looked to Master Arngeir, who Elisif was surprised to see give the Dragonborn an almost-fond look, but it was gone so quickly that she was sure she imagined it.

“I’m sure we’re all very thankful you survived,” Tullius said briskly. “But I can’t just agree to a truce because you asked nicely. The Emperor will expect a reason why there’s a ceasefire without a resolution. You can’t just expect us to come here and agree to your treaty without receiving anything in return. We need something substantial here, or else you could have gone ahead with your little plan without dragging us halfway across the province to talk about it.”

“Of course,” Leara agreed. “I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time, General. What do you suggest?”

Tullius tapped the tabletop. “We want compensation for the massacres Karthwasten and Kolskeggr Mine.”

General Stone-Fist’s fist slammed against the tabletop. “Shor’s bones, what are you saying?”

It was Legate Rikke who replied. She always seemed quick to try and match Galmar Stone-Fist’s temper with hers. “You slaughtered the very people you claim to be fighting for! True sons of Skyrim would never do such things!”

“Damned Imperial lies!” General Stone-Fist spat. “My men would never stoop to such methods, even in retaliation for your butchery at Dunstad—"

Ulfric’s face was hard. Elisif could feel the weary sigh escape Leara Ormand, even if she couldn’t hear it. “This is our homeland, Tullius. All the blood spilled in this war is on your head.”

“Don’t forget who started this war, Ulfric!” jabbed Tullius. “One way or another, you’re going to pay for your crimes.”

“If I’ve committed a crime,” Ulfric sneered, “it’s because the Empire decreed the lives of men should be held by the Aldmeri Dominion, rendering free men to be slaves!”

“Once again, the Empire gets blamed—"

“Excuse me,” Leara interrupted, holding up two frost-damaged fingers. Jaws snapped shut as she directed those fingers toward Galmar. “What happened at Dunstad? Where is that?”

“Dunstad Grove was fortified by Fort Dunstad in the Pale, south of Dawnstar,” Galmar explained. Elisif shifted uncomfortably: She knew what he’d say next. “The Imperials attacked in the night with a couple of their battlemages. Next thing our men knew, the wall was breached, and the village inside was on fire.” His voice was gruff, emotion swelling his words. Elisif felt her own throat wobble. But while tears stung the backs of her eyes, Galmar Stone-Fist’s grew dark with rage. “It was a bloodbath! The entire village was destroyed!”

A tear trailed down Elisif’s cheek. But Legate Rikke, she was affected in a different way. Rikke’s hair flew about her shoulders as she rose to her feet, righteous anger glinting in her amber eyes like fire. “That's a lie! Dunstad Grove burned because of your marauders! My legionnaires are disciplined, unlike those—"

“By Shor, that’s a mug of sheep’s piss!” Galmar Stone-Fist spat. “You saw what happened, Rikke! You slaughtered them, and not just the men, but the women and children too! You slaughtered them like animals, you butchers!”

“Do you hear that, Tullius?” Ulfric asked, low. “The blood of Skyrim’s innocents cries out for wergeld.”

“You’re determined to have our silver whether you get Markarth or not! But you don't really expect compensation every time a village is destroyed in a war that you started, do you, Ulfric?” Tullius asked, passing a weary hand over his chin. Elisif could hear the grit of his teeth.

“What happened at Karthwasten? And Kolskeggr?” Leara’s voice broke in before Ulfric could retaliate.

“Ulfric’s made no secret that he wants Markarth. The Stormcloaks led a raid, and half of Karthwasten burned or fled!” said Rikke, still heated. “Now the town’s more vulnerable to Forsworn attacks than ever!”

“And Kolskeggr?” Leara asked, raising a hand to cut off whatever sharp remark was pending from the Stormcloak side.

“Richest gold mine in Skyrim. Now the Forsworn have that too,” bit out the Legate.

Leara cast a brief glance at the seething Stormcloaks. “Let me see if I understand this correctly: Because the Stormcloaks failed to take these places and the Imperials couldn’t hold them, the Forsworn came in and took over.” She sniffed, “Perhaps I should be negotiating with the Forsworn then.”

“Try if you like, but they’ll betray you as soon as your back is turned.” A storm darkened Ulfric’s face.

“Aye,” said Galmar.

“Both sides want compensation for grievances dealt by the other,” Master Arngeir said. “The Imperials wish to recoup the losses from Karthwasten and Kolskeggr Mine, while the Stormcloaks seek retribution for the massacre of Dunstad Grove.”

“That’s fair,” said the Dragonborn, tone placid. “Seeing as both sides demand compensation from the other, the clear solution would be for both sides to nullify their claim.”

General Tullius actually groaned. “So, that’s it. You’ve dragged us across Skyrim for a social call.”

“On the contrary, General, I believe we’ve accomplished quite a lot here today.”

That was it, Elisif realized. There was nothing left to bargain for, and they couldn’t leave without agreeing to the truce, or else every military leader here would look like a fool. She wondered what Falk would think of it, then decided that her steward would grumble and say there’d be no need for her to leave Haafingar and the safety of Solitude after all. Falk and Bolgeir were always concerned about her leaving the palace, even with Bolgeir’s steady protection. Their fears of a Stormcloak assassin striking out at her in the streets of Solitude crept into her heart, coiling there with biting surety. But for all her fears of being killed during the war, Elisif was afraid of surviving it. She was afraid of what would happen to her if Ulfric was elected High King, and she was there to see it. She was afraid of the aftermath.

She was afraid that the cost of a lasting peace would mean selling her hand in marriage to her husband’s killer.

Except, now, Elisif began to wonder if that was a transaction Ulfric would even entertain. Often, his eyes would flit to the Dragonborn, following her as she settled the terms of the treaty. The near-constant glare Elisif had kept directed at the Stormcloaks for the duration of the conference eased, and she wondered. If the Dragonborn could bend the wills of the war leaders to her own for a temporary and non-invasive truce, what else could she do?

“I believe we may have an agreement. General Tullius, Jarl Ulfric, these are the terms presently on the table: The Stormcloaks will forgive the compensation owed them by the Empire for the massacre at Dunstad Grove, and in return, the Empire will forgive the compensation owed for the losses at Karthwasten and Kolskggr Mine.” Master Arngeir gave them both a look as if challenging either of them to raise new objections. “You both agree to this?”

Leaning forward, Ulfric braced his arms against the table. “The sons of Skyrim will live up to their agreements.” His glare sought Tullius. “As long as the Imperials hold to theirs.”

Tullius worked his jaw. “The Empire can live with these terms, yes, for a temporary truce until the dragon menace is dealt with.” He stood, then, leaned forward as he added, “After that, there will be a reckoning, Ulfric. Count on it.”

Ulfric Stormcloak barred his teeth, a silent threat, and Elisif shuddered.

Then, her husband’s murderer’s attention fell on her. “You should be pleased, Elisif. You've done well for yourself as the Empire's pet Jarl. But beware! The Empire's loyalty is fickle. They will tire of this war, and then I will be the one dictating terms to you.” His punctuating smirk was as final as a period.

“I have nothing to say to that murderer,” hissed Elisif, turning up her nose.

“Jarl Ulfric, General Tullius, come ratify this treaty for me, please,” Leara said, cool voice cutting the heat.

Out from under the shadow of Ulfric’s storm clouds, Elisif breathed a sigh of relief.

As much as she wanted the Dragonborn to defeat Alduin the World-Eater and save all of those poor souls in Sovngarde, Elisif hoped that she would also be able to curtail any more warfare from Ulfric’s quarter. Skyrim needed Leara. They needed her desperately.

·•★•·

Rubbing her eyes, Leara fell back into one of the chairs in the Greybeards’ small library. The peace talks exhausted her. For a while, she’d worried things would devolve into aggressive negotiations. But thank Mara and her many mercies, she actually got through the ordeal unscathed! Or as unscathed as she could be after giving such a heartfelt speech and strong-arming Ulfric and Tullius into agreeing to a temporary peace without splintering Skyrim and destabilizing its peoples further. All while wearing the invisible corset of anxiety that Elenwen so effectively tied her in. Persuasion and perseverance under pressure were nothing new to her, but, gods, the carry-through was far more draining than she remembered.

Well, Bishop would be surprised, she decided. He didn’t think she could it off, but she had, and now there was peace. A temporary and fickle peace, but it was enough to satisfy Balgruuf. As they’d left the hall to return to their own parties, the Jarl of Whiterun pulled her aside and commended her for her efforts. “For a while there, I didn’t think we would make it through,” he said quietly.

“Neither did I,” Leara found herself admitting. “But I’m glad it worked it.”

“It won’t hold for long,” Balgruuf cautioned her. “This ceasefire of yours rests on you. The armies won’t march on Whiterun if the dragon becomes more than we can handle, but they won’t rest their heels long. They don’t have the incentive. If the World-Eater isn’t taken care of soon, their goodwill will run dry.”

“I know,” Leara said, watching the legionnaires trail after Jarl Elisif and her housecarl. “Tullius isn’t as submissive to Jarl Elisif’s will as Ulfric may believe.” She peered at Balgruuf from the corner of her eye. “He answers directly to the Emperor. If Titus Mede tells him to jump, Tullius will ask how high. If the Empire doesn’t think it needs Skyrim’s trust, they’ll settle for taming her through other means.”

Balgruuf looked surprised. “You sound bitter.”

“I prefer realistic.” She sighed and stopped walking. Balgruuf hung back, waving his guards forward. If Irileth were here, she’d have a guar. “This war is a sideshow to the politicians in the Imperial City,” Leara said quietly. “The Emperor is more concerned with holding the southern border against the Dominion.” She glanced over her shoulder, keenly aware that the Dominion was there in High Hrothgar. Balgruuf nodded, grave. “That is where the Legion’s strength is massed. But the Thalmor know this. If—when the next war comes, and it will come, they will use Skyrim as a staging ground. The civil war is just a means for clearing the way.”

“How do you know?” Balgruuf asked.

Because it made sense, she thought. While Skyrim wasn’t in their plans when she was a member of the Aldmeri Dominion, she knew how they worked. The Thalmor were more opportunistic than anyone in the Merchants Guild could ever dream of being, and the destabilization of the North was an opportunity if ever there was one. “They’re sharks,” she said at last. “Skyrim is full of blood, and when everyone is dead or dying, the Dominion will gorge. They will take the Empire from its weakest point, and that will be it.”

Balgruuf believed her, though she knew he was reluctant to. She painted a dark landscape. But twice upon a time, he asked her to join his court as a thane, and though Leara refused, she knew in part that he must value her perspective to a point.

She mulled over this as she sat in the library, a collection of venerations to Kyne cracked open and unread on her lap. Now that she’d thought about the Dominion taking a destabilized Skyrim, she couldn’t escape it.

But that was a concern for later. Her present worries needed to be concentrated on Alduin and the Dragonsreach plan.

And Elenwen.

“Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking for you!”

Starting, Leara breathed a sigh of mixed relief and exasperation when she saw it was just Esbern. Standing just inside the door, his attention roved the shelves and scroll boxes lining the walls. The room was a trove of knowledge dating back to the Battle of Red Mountain in the First Era. Many of the texts Leara couldn’t read as they were written in Old Nordic, but she had no doubt that Esbern could work his way through them as easily as any of the Greybeards. It was truly unfortunate that the Blades and the Greybeards couldn’t put aside their old strife and share in knowledge, though Leara had a sneaking suspicion that much of the information found in Sky Haven Temple would be of little use to the Greybeards. Some of it, she was sure, they would outright repudiate.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Esbern said.

“Not at all,” Leara half-lied, shutting the book in her lap. She didn’t bother marking the page. She wouldn’t be coming back. “Where’s Delphine?” she asked, noticing the woman’s absence for the first time.

It should’ve been obvious when the quiet atmosphere of the archive wasn’t disturbed by Delphine’s tension.

“She’s in the courtyard, practicing her katas.”

“I’m glad to know she at least learned something during training.”

“Elanor, please,” Esbern’s sigh was heavy. “Why must you and Delphine be so at odds? We only have the three of us. We cannot afford to fight each other.”

“Does she understand that?”

Esbern dragged a withered hand down his face. “Delphine’s will is strong.”

“I know.” And she wouldn’t accept any opinion but hers, either. “But so is mine.” Leara didn’t go through years of exposure to the Thalmor’s indoctrination and come through with her person intact for her to surrender to Delphine now.

A fond smile peaked through the old Blade’s tiredness. “That reminds me,” he said, a spark of his once-familiar excitement popping to life. “I wanted to ask about your katana.”

Her katana . . . “Didn’t you ask me about it before? In Sky Haven?”

“Yes, we discussed it briefly,” he said, taking a seat in one of the other chairs. “But I still have questions. I know you’re tired, but satisfy an old man’s curiosity, eh?”

“All right,” Leara resigned herself. It’s not that she never wanted to talk to Esbern. As a young Knight Sister, she was quite fond of the chronicler who kept the records and histories of the Blades. She recalled on occasion when he would instruct the younger apprentices and acolytes in their Order’s lore. It was from Esbern that Leara learned most of what she knew about Tiber Septim and the founding of the Third Empire. But that was a long time ago, and after today, her patience was wearing thin. Most Blades lorekeepers didn’t encourage apprentices to read something like The Arcturian Heresy. There would be time enough to entertain Esbern’s questions when she returned to Sky Haven Temple—if she survived Alduin.

Putting up with Delphine would be a real pain in the—

“The Altmeris runes on the blade, those aren’t the only mark your katana bears, are they?”

Leara blinked, then shifted. “Why?”

Esbern leaned forward, hands grasping the clawed arms of his chair. The intensity in his face made Leara want to squirm. “You said your great-grandmother was a Knight Sister during the Oblivion Crisis.”

“Yes.”

“Is there another glyph or symbol on her katana?”

Lips pinched, Leara nodded, short and to the point. “On the pommel,” she relented. “There is a rose, engraved and set with red enamel. It was a personal symbol, or so I was told.”

“I wonder what it meant.”

“I don’t know. It was important to my great-grandmother, but it was nothing I ever knew about.”

Esbern studied her. “What was her name?”

Her name? Why was he so fixated on her mother’s grandmother? She cast back into her memory, seeking a name amidst the dusty remembrances of the Breton countryside and her aunt’s kitchen, of magic lessons and whispering voices. Pastries and Spellcraft. There was a day, she recalled, before her mother left, when she never saw her again. She insisted she was being hunted, but Aunt didn’t believe her. Who or what was after Maman, Leara was never told. She didn’t even know if her aunt and uncle knew. But she remembered her grandmother, pale in her rocking chair, muttering that Marelen was just like her grandmother: She courted Death, and he drove her mad. “Avarin,” she said at length. “Her name was Avarin Racuvarla.”

“Starfall.”

“That’s the common translation, yes.”

Esbern sat back, his face aged and drawn. Something haunted him. Something besides Alduin and the years of ridicule he received for believing in prophecies that others condemned as fairytales. Whatever it was, it was serious. More serious than even the dragons, Leara realized. And that scared her. Horrified her to a level that before was reached only by Elenwen and the Thalmor.

“During the Oblivion Crisis,” Esbern began, oblivious to the tension and terror twisting Leara’s insides, “There were few active Altmer agents in Cyrodiil. None were named Avarin.”

“I never said she—”

“In the annals, the name Racuvarla was recorded once when she took the Blades’ Oath during Frostfall following Uriel Septim VII’s assassination in Last Seed.” Esbern’s grip on the chair arms was white, hard. An eager light shown in his face, but Leara couldn’t stand to look at it. She shrunk into her seat. “That Knight Sister was Avarenya. You have the Hero of Kvatch’s katana. Which means . . .”

Then he trailed off.

Bile bubbled up her throat. She swallowed once, twice. Her chest burned. “Esbern, stop.”

“Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?” Getting to his feet, Esbern began to pace the room. “It makes sense now. Everything about you, the prophecy, it all has clicked together to form a full mosaic. It’s extraordinary! It’s a miracle!”

Fisting her hands in her skirt, Leara felt the enchantment from the Black Band scorch her skin, searing her veins and boiling her blood. Please. Stop. Don’t continue where she feared to tread.

“It’s in your eyes, in your soul!” Still, Esbern rambled on. “The truth is plain as day now. It was no secret that she was devoted to him. Some theories even suggest they were in love. But the truth remains that if she hadn’t been an exile, it was more than likely the Elder Council would have encouraged the match! But we could never have known they were so close. Yet now it makes sense: Those were dark times, and the end of the world was at hand. Then, when it was saved, he was dead, and she left. She left, and now you are here.”

Disconnect resonated in her chest, pushing her soul beyond the confines of her anxiety and the nauseous acid within. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to control her breathing. Feim. Zii. But the course of the day had already abused her poor lungs nearly to collapse. It was all she could do to maintain her composure.

Feim. Zii. Fade. Spirit.

She sucked in a breath. Then another. “Speak plainly.”

“Your great-grandfather was Martin Septim.”

Martin Septim. The Dragonborn Emperor and last of the Septim bloodline.

Except apparently not.

“Was he?” Her voice was faint.

“I see it now in your eyes,” said Esbern. “They are the same Rumare blue as the Septim Emperors. There is no life without water, and Lake Rumare is the life of Cyrodiil. The Septims kept their throne on the Imperial Isle, and they were the life of the Empire. You are the life of the Empire.”

To her astonishment and mounting horror, the old Blade bowed before her. “Esbern!”

“You are the heir to the Septims,” he said. “If things were as they should be, you would be Empress of Tamriel.”

Leara pressed a hand to her mouth.

“But the world is full of peril now, and you can no more claim your birthright than the Blades can return to Cloud Ruler Temple.” His voice rang in mourning that Leara couldn’t help but echo, but surely for different reasons. Here, at this moment, she longed for the simplicity of her days as a Knight Sister more than she desired anything else in her life.

“What would you have me do?” Leara thought she sounded far away. No, she sounded like someone else entirely.

“Do?” echoed Esbern. “There is nothing you can do but continue toward your destiny. But this changes everything for the Blades! Once again, there is a Septim to protect, and when the dragon menace is taken care of, we must return to that mandate.”

Her soul teetered between astral flight and smothering under her flesh and bone. “Air, I need air.”

Esbern blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. Mara’s mercy. “I see that you had no prior knowledge of any of this.”

“No,” was her thin reply.

“Extraordinary,” he mumbled, teetering on the edge of a sea of lost thought. “This must be a great deal for you to take in.”

“A bit.”

“I’ll leave you to take it in, then,” he said. “The Greybeards have taught you meditation, yes? We may be at odds over certain issues, but we can still agree that meditation is good for the soul.” He made as if to pat her hand, then, thinking against it, bowed a second time. Leara was floating, anyway. Or she felt like it. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Elanor Septim,” he muttered this last to himself as he left the library, awe sparkling from him.

Leara doubled over, her arms wrapping around her, trying to hold herself together. The grip on her shoulders was so hard that her fingers ached. The frostbite burned anew as if it had never healed. She wasn’t just the Last Dragonborn, she was the heir to the Dragonborn Emperors. She was a Septim. Gasping, she drew her legs into her chair, loosening her hold just enough to readjust her arms around her knees. Then, they were pulled tightly into her chest. She wanted to be small, so small that she’d float away unnoticed like a dust mote in the air. But she couldn’t. Oh, she couldn’t!

She had a destiny to live up to. Not only was she to fulfill the prophecy of the Last Dragonborn, but now the mantle of the Septims fitted itself to her shoulders, weighing her down and making her more real and present than she’d ever been.

What did she do with this information? How did it serve anyone? What would she be expected to do now that she was not only heir to Tiber Septim’s calling as Dragonborn, but to his Empire?

If people knew, would she be assassinated?

Ariella, assassinated. Geldall, assassinated. Enman, assassinated. Ebel, assassinated. Calaxes, bastard that he was, was assassinated by the Imperial Guard for threatening rebellion! Their father, Uriel VII, was assassinated before the Blades’ very eyes. Beyond them, back throughout history, assassination and insurrection defined the Septim Emperors. For all that their Dragonblood kept the Princes of Oblivion at bay, politicians didn’t care. Seldom did they take religion seriously, and when they did, it often turned to heretical and cultish practices. Hadn’t she touched on this during the peace conference? Even if her Dragon Soul helped her guard the world against Alduin’s maw, as soon as she inconvenienced an important figure or got in the way of some upstart’s plans, she would fall as easily to the assassin’s blade as any of her ancestors.

She couldn’t stand for that. Martin, last and greatest of the Septims, he didn’t fall because he stood in the way of someone’s machinations. He faced the Daedric Prince of Destruction for the good of Tamriel and sacrificed himself to seal the liminal barrier once and for all. If it was from Martin Septim’s line that she sprouted, maybe she should fall in her battle with the World-Eater. Better than being taken by the Thalmor and killed by Elenwen for her defiance.

It sounded eerily like Kintyra II and the War of the Red Diamond.

All illusions of choice shattered like brittle fish scales from before her eyes. She was a Septim. She was going to die. She was destined to die.

She was a Septim.

When the first tear fell, she couldn’t stop the others that followed.

·•★•·

Her arms ached when he pried their death grip from around her knees.

“Stop, stop,” she choked, chest too full and heavy and tight and—

“No can do, sweetness. You’ve been hiding in here for over an hour,” said Bishop.

“I want to hide!”

“Hey, you’ve been crying,” his rough fingers brushed as the still-present tears gathered under her lashes. Leara jerked back, but his other hand on her shoulder held her in place. “I’d’ve thought you’d be as pleased as a queen since your little peace plan seems to have worked and all.”

A shudder rocked Leara’s body. “I am pleased, but I, I.”

“Is it because that Thalmor bitch spoke to you?”

A tremor ran through her limbs, whether from stiffness or fear, she wasn’t sure. It was likely both. Prickling along her skin sent the fine hairs on her arms and neck standing on end. The whiff of ozone stung her nose. “What are you talking about?” She was hoarse.

She needed water.

“You don’t have to hide from me, darling. I saw you together.” Bishop’s tone was almost gentle. “Is that the reason you keep refusing me? Do you want to be dominated? Because I promise you, sweetness, I can dominate you in ways she could only dream of. Unless . . .”

Leara could only shake her head, fresh tears and new terror swelling inside her. Pounding started up a long drone at her temple.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who think real pleasure can only come from another woman.” The gentleness was gone. His hands grasped hers, crushing. Fragile nerves trembled and threatened to shatter in his hold. “C’mon, let me show you what real pleasure is! One night with a man like me, and you’ll forget that Thalmor bitch and all the lies she’s whispered in your ear.” He leaned toward her, and the memory of Elenwen’s breath on her ear, her lips on her skin, constricted Leara’s throat. She couldn’t breathe. “I can touch you in ways she couldn’t hope to, I can reach places inside you that no one else could find.”

Jerking, Leara’s chair went falling back. She was stunned only a moment before she scrambled away across the floor, her skirt tangling around her legs. Bishop, not expecting the chair to fall, stumbled forward with a shout. Leara shot a frantic look over her shoulder to see him catch himself on the upturned chair legs before he could faceplant the shelf in front of him.

Good, at least the books were safe.

“Damn it to Oblivion, woman!” Bishop rounded, eyes a poisonous fire, but Leara was already at the door, her back to the wood and her hand on the knob. Her heart was thundering so loudly that it was as if a storm had sprung up around High Hrothgar, threatening to tear it from the mountain. “When will you stop playing hard to get?” He stalked forward, every inch the hunter he claimed to be.

She could only shake her head. Everything was swimming.

“Trust me, you’re going to want me, and when you see that, you’ll be all mine. That I can promise you!” He was almost upon her. “Never give a hunter a target, ladyship, and you’ve given me a pretty irresistible one.”

Shadows darkened Bishop’s eyes. Black spots fluttered across her vision. He was on top of her.

The knob twisted in her hand. The door disappeared, and she fell back into the hallway, scrambling away. But while Leara was faltering on her feet, Bishop was steady. Her heel caught on her skirt, and she went down.

White lightning, Bishop’s hands were on her arms, pulling her up and into his chest.

“Am I stirring something inside of you, princess?” His voice rumbled in her ear, heavy, cloying. Princess? “Desire? Passion? I’ll gladly stir it some more until you give into it.”

“I don’t want it,” she choked out.

“A hunter loves a challenge, sweetness.” Then his mouth was on her. “Hmm.” The moan in his chest was obscene. Leara’s knees buckled. Wind rushed in her ears.

Wind rushed against her. She caught herself, her wrist jarring from the force.

“The woman said no, you bastard!”

Blinking, Leara stared up from a pool of silk and chiffon to see Ulfric Stormcloak looming overhead, the thunderclouds in his eyes were baring down on Bishop. Bishop, in turn, was against the opposite wall, one arm braced against the stone while his offhand clutched his shoulder. His jaw was tight, and the glare—a dagger couldn’t cut any deeper. Did, did Ulfric throw Bishop into the wall?

“Oh, piss off,” he sneered.

But Ulfric did not “piss off.” He turned to Leara, crumpled on the ground. Akatosh, Mara, Kynareth, Divines. A red flush burned up her neck and across her cheeks. Mortification stirred every other ill feeling that accumulated in her bones since waking from her nightmare. Today was a nightmare.

To her eternal surprise and confusion, Ulfric didn’t walk away. He crouched before her, his eyes softening as he offered his hand to her. Stunned, Leara saw herself extend her left hand toward him. Her fingers curled around his. Ulfric’s hand was warm but not burning, not like the Black Band. At once, the ice lingering under her skin settled into a faint chill.

“What the Hell?” Bishop’s whine cut through. “Get off her!”

“So you can crawl back on her like a leech?” Ulfric growled back. Still, he cradled Leara’s hand in his. “She said no.”

“What do you know, old man?” Bishop sneered back. “Can you even get a woman off anymore? How’s your performance?”

Ulfric’s jaw was so tight, Leara was sure a vein would pop in his forehead. Yet she couldn’t speak. Her mouth moved, fishlike, and like a fish, she couldn’t breathe the air around her. No sound would come out. Bishop’s yammering was ringing in her eyes, but she no longer comprehended what he was saying. The tension was too much, the weight too heavy. Her lungs were so shriveled within the anxiety’s iron corset that she couldn’t draw air.

Something in Ulfric’s face shifted, pulling his features. She tried to latch on, desperation flooding her veins. She wanted out, she needed out. A soundless sob burst out, stealing away any strength she had left. The first tear fell, and then another.

Sound faded in and out as Ulfric took her other hand, cradling both her hands between his. She thought Bishop said something. Then Ulfric shot a half-heard, “Shut—” up? over his shoulder. Thunder raged in her chest, suffocating.

“Please,” she whispered, airless.

Ulfric was saying something, but she couldn’t really understand him. A broken “safe” and “breathe” made it through, but her mind was too sluggish to make sense of it.

Her veins began to burn.

“What is—on—”

Ulfric looked up in relief.

Then Master Arngeir was beside Ulfric, and one of Leara’s hands was passed to him. She thought she heard him ask Ulfric what was wrong, but whatever he said, Leara heard it as if from underwater. Her tears were drowning her, flooding her lungs.

She wanted out, she wanted away.

Take me away.

Feim. Zii.

“Paarthurnax,” she rasped. She thought she rasped. She thought.

A frown pinched Ulfric’s brows, but Master Arngeir simply nodded. “Jarl Ulfric—up.”

Ulfric’s arm slipped warm and heavy around her waist, and Leara found herself being drawn to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but Ulfric’s hold on her was steady.

“Let me see her,” Master Arngeir said, drawing her other arm around his shoulder. Elevated between the two, she felt air trickle into her lungs. Feim.

Leara gasped, and the sobbing began in earnest. Zii.

A cloth was pressed to her face.

“Hush, child,” Master Arngeir murmured, wiping at the tears. “We will take you.”

Beside her, supporting the brunt of her weight—though there wasn’t that much there these days—Ulfric remained silent. Leara could sense the storm brewing in his presence, but for the first time, she wasn’t afraid that it was directed at her.

It was for her.

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