Dardeh yawned and stretched luxuriously before it dawned on him that he was, in fact, alone in the bed. He pouted. He’d intended to roll over and make himself indispensable to a certain blonde Nord; but that very Nord had gotten up before him, it seemed. He maneuvered himself to the side of the bed and sat up, looking around the room and wondering what on earth had happened that he was able to have slept so very well.
It seemed as though it had been years, now, since he’d slept so soundly. The only other times he could remember anything like it had been a few of the first nights with Roggi, after they’d finally realized that they were meant to be together. Those had been special moments, when the warmth of knowing he had found his place in the world had soothed away any other care he might have had.
The sounds of a light baritone humming and the clinks of stone against stone had him smiling while he pulled on his clothing. Roggi had spent hour after hour at his alchemy table in the several days since they’d gotten home from their trial in Winterhold and their report to Ulfric about the Jarls – and about Edwyn Wickham. He’d rested, too; he’d soaked in the lake, steamed in the sauna, and spent many an hour just sitting quietly while the girls ran around in glee to have their two Papas back home again. But he’d spent more time than that making potions.
“It’s what I used to do to calm my nerves, Dar,” he’d said the first day home, when Dardeh had nagged him to rest. “Before I took up drinking too much. Busy my hands with something constructive and all of the bad thoughts just float away. And we end up with products at the end of it that…” He’d paused, and frowned a bit. “Well, given how many of them you had to use on me to get me rolling again, it seems the least I can do is replace them. And maybe we can sell the ones we don’t need.”
“Are you having bad thoughts, love?” Dardeh had asked, coming up behind him to give him a hug.
Roggi had paused, and turned to face him with a thoughtful look. “It’s like this, Dar,” he said slowly. “I don’t really know what I saw up there on that rooftop. What I thought I saw was a dragon, flying over Edwyn Wickham’s head. I thought you had called Odahviing. But it looked like a black dragon, not a red one, and I don’t remember hearing you Shout. I hit my head pretty hard when I fell down, you know?”
“I didn’t Shout for a dragon, no. In fact, the only two Shouts I used were Dragon Aspect and fire – the one that took him out. I wouldn’t worry about it, Roggi. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s had a concussion and seen things that weren’t really there.” He chuckled and pointed to himself, remembering the battle at Fort Greenwall when he’d had his bell rung by the flat of a sword and then saw an ethereal Dragonborn.
Still don’t know what that’s all about, and I’m positive I never want to worry about it again.
“But I swear to you, Dardeh; just before you killed Edwyn I looked up and saw you in Dragon Aspect. That part I’m used to now. But you also had wings. And horns. And a tail. I saw a dragon, Dar, and that dragon was you.”
Dardeh had watched Roggi’s eyes flicker with hurt when he’d been unable to keep himself from chuckling. Roggi was so very earnest about what he’d seen; just as he himself had been completely certain he’d seen a ghostly Dragonborn helping him.
“It’s ok, Roggi. Maybe you saw what’s supposed to be. It doesn’t matter. If it’s a bad thought, just let go of it. Do whatever you need to do. All I care about is that we’re both here.”
Roggi had smiled at him then, and turned back toward his mortar and pestle, glancing over his shoulder once more to say, “oh, it wasn’t a bad thought, Dar. I like having a dragon look out for me. You make a good one,” in a voice that had put every fiber of Dardeh’s being into a responsive mood.
And here Roggi was again, toiling away at his potions, humming a mindless tune, when Dardeh approached him from behind and kissed him on the neck.
“Good morning, husband!” he said, surprised at how very light his very deep voice sounded.
Roggi didn’t look up from his work, but one eyebrow lifted. “Good morning to you, Dar. You seem awfully chipper today. What’s going on?”
Dardeh stopped to consider. “I don’t actually know. But you’re right. I’ve felt … easier, somehow. Since before we got home, even. I wonder what it is.”
“Well, I’d feel better, too, if all of a sudden I didn’t have someone actively looking to part me from my blood.” Roggi shuddered. “Once was enough for that, truly. And they were after you for a long time, Dar.”
Something about this whole line of conversation had him thinking harder about it. “When was the last time I didn’t feel weighed down, I wonder?” he said quietly.
“Before you went to Solstheim?” Roggi answered, equally quietly.
Dardeh stared at him. “There’s something to that. Let me think.” His mind raced back through everything that had happened to him since Alduin had simultaneously saved his life and altered it forever. “Just before I went to Solstheim. You were hurt, and I stayed at the Bannered Mare and…”
“And?” Roggi straightened for a moment and turned to face him.
“And I had a dream about my father.”
Roggi’s eyes widened. “He told you that you had to kill them both, or something like that, didn’t he?”
Dardeh nodded. “Yes, it was obvious that Miraak was the first one. That was clear from the moment it was done. But ever since then I’ve either had him telling me I needed to finish it – in words – or that horrible feeling that something remained to be done.”
He shook his head as it became clear to him that things had changed. He felt a smile emerging, and watched an echoing smile appear on Roggi’s.
“I don’t feel that any more, Roggi. I haven’t felt it since we talked to Ulfric. In fact, I was actually pleased to see Ulfric and I can’t remember that ever happening before.”
“Miraak was the strongest one, then,” Roggi said, returning to the alchemy table. “Edwyn was the other one. And he’s gone now. Now you can have some peace.”
Dardeh felt himself tearing up, as he so often did, and nodded. “I think you’re right, Roggi. It feels like the worst is over. Maybe it’s all over.”
Roggi grinned. “Well we can only hope. Once we’ve got that crown on Ulfric’s head I’ll rest easier. Maybe it’ll mean I never have to use my other talents again.”
Dardeh sighed, his smile fading a bit. “I hope so, Roggi. But here’s what I hope even more – I want you not to feel bad about it any longer. People do hard things in wars, always have. We had to do hard things to win Solitude. I had to do hard things to get rid of Alduin, and I’ll never be rid of what I saw in Sovngarde.” He sighed; but then his smile returned as he realized that even after thinking about that, one of the most desperately sad moments of his life, he felt… free.
“I’m going to get some food,” he told Roggi. “Don’t spend too much time bent over like that. You need your back to be good and limber.”
Roggi’s head turned to the side, he winked at Dardeh, and he grinned. “Oho! Feeling feisty, Dragonboy?”
“Every day, love. Every day.”
It had been like that for the two of them ever since they’d gotten home: a little light banter, a few moments contemplating their lives – and then Roggi was back at it, making potions or planning how to plant or harvest or otherwise procure more ingredients. Dardeh hoped that he was doing so out of interest and not because he continually felt the need to banish dark thoughts, but he wasn’t convinced that was the case.
If he thought about it, he had to admit to himself that it was more likely than not that Roggi was still struggling a bit. He’d begun retreating to the alchemy table almost immediately. They’d been sitting around the fire on that first night home, catching Lydia up with everything that had happened and then listening to her reports on matters around the home.
The girls were growing up fast, she had told them. In fact, they’d started agitating to make trips to Falkreath or Whiterun when their fathers were away.
“Why?” Dardeh wondered aloud. “I mean, it is safer than it used to be, but there still isn’t all that much going on anywhere. What’s the attraction?”
Lydia looked at Roggi and grinned. He looked puzzled for a moment, and then his eyes widened.
“Oh! Really? Already?”
Lydia nodded. “Really. Already.”
“What are you two on about?” Dardeh asked, looking from one to the other, utterly confused.
“Boys, Dar,” Lydia said. “They’re beginning to notice boys. And you may not have noticed, but you two are the only boys here.”
Dardeh found himself flushing furiously. The idea of their girls wanting to explore that part of their lives was something he hadn’t pondered before. Lucia had been just a little girl when he’d met her, after all, and Sofie not much older. The fact that it had been a couple of years meant that they were, yes, approaching the stage where they would be beginning to be restless and looking to select mates and…
“By the Nine,” he murmured.
“You didn’t expect them to stay children forever, did you, Dar?” Roggi said quietly, patting Dardeh’s hand.
“Well, no, but that means that they’ll want to… you know…”
Roggi laughed. “It does go with the territory, love. They’re going to want families of their own eventually. And apparently ‘eventually’ is going to come sooner than we’d expected.”
Dardeh wanted to be annoyed with Roggi for laughing at him, but couldn’t manage it; instead, a mischievous thought occurred to him. He tried to keep his face in a neutral expression.
“So you’re looking forward to being Grandpa Roggi while Ulfric has a toddler, is that it?”
The color drained out of Roggi’s face. “Grandpa…?”
“It does go with the territory, love,” Dardeh had told him, grinning. They’d shared a good laugh, the three of them. Lydia had tried to be comforting, reminding Dardeh that they’d all found their places in life at a wide range of ages.
“Like you said, Dardeh. Ulfric’s what, in his fifties, like Balgruuf? That doesn’t seem to have stopped him from finding a mate.”
Dardeh had shot Roggi a quick glance, to make sure he wasn’t going to be distressed by that comment, but he was smiling.
“And Bryn and I are both in our forties,” Roggi said. “If either of our girls finds someone earlier than we did, well, that’s good.”
“More years together,” Dardeh had told him, squeezing his hand.
Roggi had held that hand tighter than he would have expected, smiling and gazing at him in a way that told him once again how happy he was to be with Dardeh. Dardeh was working hard to accept that and to bury the lingering disquiet he had about Roggi’s past.
“You do realize you’re at very least going to be ‘Uncle Roggi’ to a whole crop of youngsters, right?” he said, grinning.
“Uh…”
“Oh that’s right,” Lydia said. “Chip, and Qaralana, and Harald…”
Roggi frowned. “I’m not uncle to Ulfric’s child,” he said flatly.
“Sure you are, love,” Dardeh said, patting Roggi’s hand. “Not technically, of course but in spirit? Briinda’s sister is having a child.” The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. “Be an uncle to him, Roggi. You’re the closest thing he’ll ever have to family besides his parents, and you know Ulfric won’t be here forever.”
Roggi sighed, and frowned again, and then nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I was as close to an uncle to that thick-headed child of Kjeld’s as he ever had, too.”
“But you’re much closer to a real relative to the future heir apparent than that, Roggi,” Lydia said, stepping up beside them and surprising both Roggi and Dardeh by leaning over and planting a kiss on Roggi’s cheek. “Face it, you’ve got family you never expected to have, and it’s no less real for not being related to you by blood. I consider you as much of a brother as Brynjolf does.”
To Dardeh’s surprise, Roggi looked up at Lydia and seemed unable to form a word. He merely nodded, his eyes glistening. He looked down at the floor for a moment, closing his eyes, and finally cleared his throat.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, ‘Uncle Roggi’ needs to go practice some alchemy. I’ll be upstairs.”
And Dardeh had watched him go up, still trying to sort things out in his own mind. He was still sorting them on this morning as he got breakfast and went to eat it on his back porch, looking out over the lake in this place that he loved.
I’m right about one thing: the voice telling me to kill ‘the other one’ is gone now. I was happy to see Ulfric and tell him about the Jarls when we were there. That much is true. I still have a moment of doubt whenever I think about him. Maybe I’ll never get over that. But at least I’m not thinking about killing him anymore.
__
The sun was up by the time Brynjolf was approaching Half-Moon Mill again. He wasn’t hurrying; he’d had enough frantic activity for awhile. Killing five Dremora in the space of fifteen minutes or so had been quite enough. It felt good to just enjoy the day, even if he did need to keep his illusion spell up or risk alerting the whole world that he was a vampire by steaming and crackling in the sun. He was well-fed, and feeling as positive as he had in some time.
Then he heard them.
“Die, foul blood drinker!” He heard the clicking of a crossbow’s mechanism and dodged, the whizzing of a bolt past his ear telling him that he had barely missed coming to a quick but painful end.
He whirled to see three of them: Dawnguard vampire hunters in full regalia, all of them with the glint in their eyes that told him somehow, even with his illusion spell on, they knew who he was. Each one had a crossbow and all were loading them with the horrid silver-tipped bolts he and Vitus had hated so very much.
“Your time has come,” one of them called out, raising his crossbow and firing.
Brynjolf had seen that particular shot coming; therefore it was no trouble for him to simply step to the side. Even in the daylight his advanced skills as a Nightlord gave him movement speed far beyond that of the mortal Dawnguard. But he was more concerned when that same hunter put away his crossbow and raised his hands, gathering flames in them.
“Burn it!” the third hunter cried out. “Burn the vampire!”
Brynjolf hissed, and readied his daggers, circling around out of the flames’ range but close to the first of the three. He waited until the mage interrupted his spell to replenish his magicka a moment later and then attacked, leaping in to unleash a flurry of blows on the poor, unprepared man who fired his crossbow wildly, up into the air. He stood no chance at all. Brynjolf then rolled forward, beneath the angle of the mage’s hands, and popped up beside the second crossbow-wielder, slicing her to ribbons before she had a chance to attack. He turned to face the mage, who was shooting small bursts of flame at him.
“Just you and me, now,” he said, grinning. “No, I don’t like fire much. But I’ve made sure to protect myself from it as much as I can.”
“Die, fiend!” the Dawnguard shouted, stepping forward as if he’d not heard a single word Brynjolf had said. Brynjolf laughed and pivoted on one foot, circling with that movement behind the man just enough to be able to grab his arms and, baring his fangs, drain the foolish creature dry right there on the road. He dropped the corpse and wiped his mouth clean, shaking his head at them.
“Dawnguard idiots,” he muttered, admiring his own handiwork. “They just don’t listen.”
He left them there and continued on down the road, smirking. The hold’s guard would run across the bodies soon enough, but he wasn’t concerned about being associated with their deaths. There once had been a pair of vampires – a husband and wife – living in the mill, a fact that had been well-known, and a pair that had been carefully avoided because they also served the purpose of operating the sawmill. What most people did not know was that Sayma had rid the world of them, quite some time ago. Still, they had served as an excellent cover for him and Vitus; and they would so yet again.
Brynjolf approached Mammoth Manor from the side, hearing the sounds of the two children laughing at each other down near the lake. When he rounded the corner of the house he found Dardeh at the table, looking as relaxed as he’d ever seen him.
“Hello, lad,” he called out.
Dardeh turned to smile at him. “Brynjolf! It’s good to see you. What brings you here? I would have thought you’d be busy in Riften. Unless…” His smile faded. “Unless you decided to settle at the castle after all.”
Brynjolf laughed. “No, that’s not it; but I’m not surprised to hear you say so. It’s kind of a long story, what I’ve been up to; and I’d like to tell both of you, together, if I can. But first I’m going to borrow your lake. I need to remove a bit of – well, it’ll make more sense when you hear the whole story.”
Dardeh grinned. “I know that kind of story. Go. Borrow the lake. Borrow the sauna if you like. For once, we don’t have anything pulling at us or calling to us and we’re just enjoying being at home. We can talk when you’re ready.”
Brynjolf did just that, first warming himself in the sauna until he had sweat every particle of dust from Oblivion out of his pores and then leaping into the much-colder waters of Lake Ilinalta. He dragged most of his armor into the water after him; it would be wet and stiff for a little while, but at least he wouldn’t smell of sulphur and blood when he finally saw Sayma again.
I can’t wait to see her again. I hope I really will see her again.
At last he was feeling refreshed, and nearly human. He made certain his illusion spell was in place and then, still wringing the water out of his hair, returned to the deck where Roggi and Dardeh were waiting for him. Lydia stepped out of the house and offered him a tankard of water, which he accepted gratefully. She left them, then, to oversee some baking.
“That’s usually my job, Lydia,” Roggi said. “You don’t need to do it.”
“You are still recovering, my friend,” she told him with a smile. “Don’t worry. I need things to keep me busy and it’s no problem at all.”
Brynjolf waited until she had disappeared inside the house and then turned to the other two. “So, would you like to hear quite the story? I don’t know whether you’ll believe it. On the other hand, I guess we’ve all had some strange things happen to us in recent times.”
Roggi laughed. “That’s the truth. I spent ten years with nothing happening at all, and then the last few have been one thing after another.”
“Well, you’ll appreciate this, then. I’ve just been to Oblivion.”
They both stared at him, mouths open. He grinned, knowing that he would have reacted the same way – had, in fact, reacted the same way when Sayma told him about going to Coldharbour.
“Well it’s quite the story. It started a few days after I left you in Windhelm.”
He told them the whole story: how Agryn had put him on the track to Melka the hagraven; how Melka had set him on the hunt for an archaeologist searching for relics from the Oblivion crisis; his side trip to Dawnstar and then back to Falkreath. Finally he described his trip through the portal-book, the trip that had ended with killing five Dremora on a narrow stone bridge, with lava lapping up at him on either side.
“I don’t mind telling you, lads, that I have never been quite as scared as I was right then. I don’t like fire under most circumstances – nobody wants to be burned. But in my current condition?”
Dardeh nodded. “I can only imagine you’d end up like Andante did.”
“Or worse,” Brynjolf said, nodding. “That’s why I wanted to freshen up a bit. There’s nothing like being truly afraid to make you feel a bit foul.”
Roggi had been sitting quietly, nodding from time to time as Brynjolf spoke. He raised his head to meet Brynjolf’s gaze, now, and spoke quietly.
“So this Melka gave you the formula,” he said.
“Aye. That’s really the only reason I needed to go to Oblivion. That’s where the bloodgrass was. The rest of it is all easy enough to get…”
Roggi shook his head. “Even if you did have everything, that’s going to be a miracle to put together, Bryn.”
Brynjolf frowned. “I do have everything, lad. Everything except the dust of a vampire, that is. She said it needed to be someone stronger than me. The closest thing I can think of to that is Edwyn. Agryn Gernic said I was stronger than him but I suspect he was just trying to intimidate the man. So I’ll go get his dust, assuming that you two know what they did with him…”
He trailed off as he saw their faces fall, and watched them turn to each other and exchange a long, quiet look that held an entire conversation. Finally Roggi nodded at Dardeh, who turned back to face Brynjolf.
“Bryn. The wind was really strong up there. After you left it got worse – it was howling. Anything that wasn’t tied down went flying.”
Brynjolf felt as though he should understand what was being said, but he didn’t, quite. He looked back and forth between Dardeh and Roggi; and when he tried to make eye contact with Roggi, the man lowered his head to stare at the floor.
“What are you saying, lad?” he asked Dardeh.
“He’s saying, Bryn, that whatever was left of Edwyn Wickham is long gone. Scattered by the wind.”
Brynjolf felt as though he’d been shot by one of the Dawnguard’s silver bolts. The realization blossomed in his mind like one of the poison blooms he’d encountered in the forgotten vale, threatening to make him ill.
There wasn’t any vampire ash for him to use in making the potion.
He really didn’t have all of the ingredients.
He stared at the deck for a few minutes, unable to formulate a word, or make a sound. Dardeh cleared his throat.
“Are you alright, Brynjolf?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. I’m not. Not at all.”
___
They came from all parts of Skyrim. Small delegations, one from each of the Holds, made their way across the marshes and the plains and the tundra and up into the plateau, into the tiny town of Ivarstead, before turning up the long staircase known as the Seven Thousand Steps. Each delegation had at its center one person of supreme importance to the future of their shared province; and each of these Jarls had with them his housecarl and at least two other stout soldiers, to ensure their safe conduct across the territories that were, after all, still recovering from a long and bitter civil war.
Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Eastmarch had arrived first, and served as the host. Having once been a student here at High Hrothgar himself, he was able to speak to the monastery’s owners, the Greybeards; and at their request he took the reins of this most political of all meetings, allowing them to withdraw to the privacy and contemplation of their own quarters.
One by one, the Jarls filtered into the great room where other meetings of heavy import had taken place in days not so very far removed from the present. They left their housecarls and their soldiers in the vast entry hall, each of them with admonishments of dire consequences should any disagreements break out. They needn’t have worried, though. All of these men and women were in agreement. All of them ached with the memories of those who had died in order to allow them this chance to meet. And all but one delegation was firmly of the same mind.
That was, at least, what they all thought.
Finally, all of the nine Jarls were assembled. They had their refreshments, and shared their pleasantries; and finally, with the room hushed of its own accord, they turned to face Ulfric Stormcloak.
He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for coming, my fellow Jarls. You know why we are here. The time has long since passed when we have needed to unite under a single leader, to begin preparing for what we all know will be coming one day – the return of the Thalmor.”
“Don’t you mean the return of the Legion, coming in from Cyrodiil?” a raspy voice answered. That was Jarl Skald of the Pale, who turned and stared pointedly at Elisif of Solitude, sitting quietly at the opposite end of the table from Ulfric.
“No, Skald,” Ulfric said in as even a tone as he was able. “It is not the Legion that will be our next great adversary. They have been wounded and diminished, just as we have. I fear that they will be as vulnerable to Thalmor anger for having lost the conflict as we are for having won it.”
He looked around the table, and raised his voice in the stirring way he, better than almost any man alive, could do.
“We will need each and every one among us, able-bodied and able-minded; man, woman and child alike. We must repair, and rebuild; and we must restore not only our cities and our homes, but our hearts and our allegiances to one another.” He looked at each of them in turn as he spoke. “You know that I am ready and willing to shoulder the responsibility of being your High King. It is a role I have trained to undertake from the time I was a very young man and a burden I am well-equipped to carry. I now have at my side a young and vigorous wife who is not only an accomplished warrior in her own right and capable of both advising my actions and taking on the mantle of leadership should I falter, but who also carries within her a son, whom we shall call Harald after the great founder of Windhelm. He will be raised to be ready to lead if called upon to do so, and to understand this: we are one people in Skyrim, and we will stand, or fall, as one people.”
He looked down the length of the long, gray room to meet the gaze of Elisif of Solitude. He breathed a heavy sigh.
“But we also have here another who has claims – rightful claims – to the throne of Skyrim. Her late husband Torygg was High King, as you all know. And while I challenged him according to the old customs, and defeated him with my Voice and my sword; and while she agreed at the Battle of Solitude to bow to my victory and accept my rule, it would not be right for me to simply ignore the righteous claim she has.”
Korir snorted. “She’s not Torygg’s widow any longer, Ulfric. She’s remarried.”
Elisif sat silently, gazing at Ulfric with an expression that gave away nothing at all. At last she nodded, just slightly; and Ulfric smiled at her sadly.
“No, Korir,” he said. “You are wrong in this. The lady Elisif will always be Torygg’s widow, as she is now also the widow of the late Archmage, Lord Edwyn Wickham of High Rock.”
A gasp went up around the table.
“No, Ulfric,” Elisif said finally. “You are the one who is wrong in this, although you had no way to know otherwise. Edwyn Wickham is dead, this much is true. But my marriage to him should be annulled on the basis of his falseness.” Slowly and painfully, Elisif gave her peers an accounting of what had transpired; how Edwyn Wickham had lied to her about his love, his motives, and even his ability to create a child. She described, haltingly, how the unassuming man named Geor Mandel had been forced against his will to assume Edwyn Wickham’s face, and stay with her in the hopes that he would beget the child Edwyn was unable to father himself.
“I am sorry, Elisif,” Ulfric said softly once she was finished.
“Don’t be,” she said, lifting her head proudly and defiantly. “I am not. I am not proud that I was lonely enough to be fooled by that monster. But I was fortunate to have met Geor Mandel. He is a simple man, but he is as devoted to me as dear Torygg ever was. He will be no threat to you, Ulfric, nor to any one of the rest of you. All he wants is to be by my side. I will have him be there, with your blessings if you will give them; or without them if you will not.”
“And what have you to say to the matter at hand?” Vignar Gray-Mane asked. “What of Ulfric’s becoming High King?”
Elisif smiled. “My fellow Jarls, I have only this to say.” She paused for a moment and smiled at Ulfric. “I willingly support the nomination of Ulfric Stormcloak as High King of Skyrim. I will continue to rule as Jarl in Haafingar, as I have been, but…” She hesitated.
“But?” Ulfric asked gently.
“But I will be very busy with a personal matter of my own in the months to come, Ulfric,” she said, smiling, and placing a hand on her stomach. “Perhaps someday in the future, if all goes well, our children will play together in the Blue Palace or the Palace of the Kings.” She looked around at the astonished faces and nodded. “I am very happy. I hope you all will be happy for me as well. I find that the responsibilities of ruling all of Skyrim are burdens I would rather not bear.”
“In that case,” Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath cried, “I move that the Moot declare Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm, Jarl of Eastmarch, the true and worthy High King, and place the Jagged Crown on his head!”
Cries went up. “Aye!” “Hear, hear!” “About damn time!”
And so it was that on a cold day at the great table of High Hrothgar, Ulfric son of Hoag, known as Ulfric Stormcloak, the Bear of Markarth and Jarl of Windhelm, was at last crowned High King of Skyrim.
