Upon leaving Riften, it strikes me that I'm still no closer to finding Serana or the Favored than I was before. I don't know if the thieves will actually serve me in my cause, and I don't know if Fai'mar's had any luck following the Ironline.
But on my way down the Reach, I remember that I still carry a great deal of political influence with the Imperial leaders in Windhelm. I am, after all, solely responsible for their successful campaign in Skyrim. The paranoia I saw in Falkreath could be an anomaly--maybe those with bigger plans will look past my small flaws.
Assuming they're still alive.
Granted, dead Imperials outside Windhelm are nothing new. But I'd hoped the Legion would keep a tighter grip on the Stormcloaks' former seat of power. Its symbolic significance and all that. And, hey, maybe someone knows I'm from here. That ought to imbue it with some special importance.
But as I get across the bridge, toward the unusually quiet city, I see a soldier running toward me, breathless.
"Dragonborn! You're here!" he gasps. "The Stormcloaks have taken the city!"
I try to stop him but he brushes past, eyes wide. "How?" I demand as he runs past. He doesn't answer, but I'm already assuming the worst.
Two of the Ironline are waiting at the front gate, looking bored. Languid. Not exhausted like I'd expect from soldiers who'd just won a pitched battle. But the terror on that Imperial's face makes me think this wasn't exactly a fair fight.
"You don't look like Stormcloaks," I say. "I can see why the bear motif might fool people--"
"--but the fact that I'm of your kind should have dissuaded them? These northerners are more pliable than the captain had expected."
The other Ironline smirks. "It only took a few cries of 'Ulfric' and 'freedom' and it was over. Some of the locals helped us out but it was mostly the Favored's work."
I draw and level an arrow at the first one's throat. "The Favored. Where?"
They both laugh, and my quills bristle with irritation. "Inside. Waiting for you with the captain. He said you'd be coming this way."
I shove the Argonian out of my way and leave him, and his chuckling companion, behind.
Things are worse inside. Not all the residents joined in, it seems, and I'm unsurprised that a non-human is among the casualties. Far more disturbing is the idle chatter of the Ironline standing among the bodies. What happened here?
I find even more bodies outside the door to the main hall, piled high. Some of them are burned beyond recognition. I don't know if that's the work of the Favored, or the Ironline's pet mage.
"Dragonborn," she says, wiping ash and blood off her hands. "You're late again."
"I see the Favored has made you his janitors," I say. "Some warriors you are. But don't worry; after I kill the Favored, I'm coming for all of you."
"If Captain Zoya didn't believe herself capable of killing him, I very much doubt you, bereft of your wife and that putrid hairball, will be able."
I very nearly kill her on the spot, but I catch myself. I can't risk antagonizing my new enemies, at least not until I'm assured that Serana is safe.
Or dead.
I'd hoped to find her in the hall. Captive, yes, but at least here. There's no sign of her, and the hall is empty, save for Zoya and someone I can only assume is my infamous quarry.
"Dovahkiin," he says as I approach. His voice is crisp and strong, but not without some hoarse quality. Like how I'd imagine a sword would sound. His accent betrays him for an Imperial, not that that does me any good. "It is good that we can finally meet."
I cut him off, rounding on Zoya. "I didn't think I was knew what 'pathetic' was before now. You come here hell-bent on killing this man, and he buys you out with...what? Promises?"
"Hardly," she says. "With his support, we can take all of Skyrim, returning it to the Stormcloaks, and with us as its new leaders. The Emperor could never give us that."
"This has nothing to do with the Stormcloaks, or Skyrim," I say, "and you both know that."
"That was the case before your little challenge from the mountaintop," the Favored says, walking toward me and brushing Zoya out of the way. "Your declaration, heard by so many, has recast the passions and sentiments of these small people in such a way that they believe some great contest is at hand, greater than the small feud between you and I. If a woman in Nordic armor kills an Imperial, they call her Ulfric's redeemer and think no more of it, beyond its convenience for rallying their disparate, broken spirits."
"Suppose I tell them otherwise?" I say. "Suppose I tell them this little takeover of Windhelm is a sham, and you have anything but the people's best interests at heart."
Zoya laughs.
"Supposing," the Favored says, "such words were to come from the mouth of anyone but you, that might work. But too far gone are you in the eyes of Skyrim. Over are your days of heroism and ended are the times when you were respected more than you were feared. It is a small matter for the Ironline to turn that fear into hatred."
"It doesn't matter," I say. "Why do you care about any of this?"
"Because it is all conducive to my effort to see you destroyed. Not only in body and soul, but in memory as well. I have seen thousands of years, and they carry no memory of you. But that does not satisfy me, for as long as the Dovahkiin walks the world, very little is certain. The Elder Scrolls, including, yes, the one I took from your home, insist on a number of possible futures. All of them are true, but only one will come to pass. The fates of everyone are ordained, save yours, and that is a variable I cannot accept."
"Who are you, and where did you learn to love the sound of your voice?"
"I am the guardian of certainty and the destroyer of possibility. Unmarked as you are by the Scrolls, you are dangerous, and must be ended."
"Lovely. Where is Serana?"
"Hidden safely away until such time as she becomes useful to me. I would tell you of her death, so as to torment you, but her closeness to you has shrouded her future."
Zoya interrupts. "Enough of this. Let's kill him."
"You are welcome to try," the Favored says, "but all futures in which you and the Dovahkiin engage in single combat result in your death." Zoya gasps.
"Thanks," I growl. "So if you won't kill me now and you won't give me Serana, why did you want me to come here?"
"To better know you. Previously, I have only discerned your person from the warp you've left on what was certain, but now I can contemplate the shape behind the shadow. You are free to go," he says, waving me off. "I am neither fated to kill you nor die by your hand, but I can allow a later day its chance at ending you. Goodbye."
For a moment, I feel another surge of rage, bidding me to rip off the Favored's mask and put an arrow through the face behind it, but I still don't know where Serana is. I leave Windhelm, my thoughts loud and angry, but I manage to calm myself long enough to focus my Thu'um.
If I am the endless possibility the Favored claims, maybe it hasn't occurred to him that I might just kill him anyway. Maybe, to him, it's a possibility that Serana's fate doesn't matter to me at all.
Comments