Goodbye Skyrim: Chapter 5

• Posted by The Long-Chapper June 25, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Short Story - #Straag Rod  #Lissette  #Karver  #Teineeva  - 1,436 views

  

  

  Urag gro-Shub stretched in his seat as he drove the wagon closer to the lights that marked where the ‘stead branched off from the main road. It was going to be a warmer night than expected and he praised Malacath quietly that the trip had gone without incident. For all the artifacts he was carrying, he had been extremely nervous. Bandits were common along the route and so were soldiers. There was still a truce between the Empire and the Stormcloaks until Ronnie finished with Alduin, but it was an uneasy one, the incident at Winterhold only compounding the situation. A dragon decided that Winterhold was better off without half of its buildings, killing the Jarl and his heir in the process. No Jarl meant that troops from the Pale under Brina Merilis and Uflric’s Stormcloaks were now a constant presence at Winterhold’s borders, a standoff. None of them quite wanting to break the truce by invading or securing.

   

  It added to his stress as archmage. Rebuilding the college from Aren’s mistakes, the Thalmor, and now keeping an uneasy watch to maintain the College’s neutrality. He was practically the de facto Jarl at this point, helping to organize the repair of the damaged buildings, using the College’s resources to help feed the people. Urag should have remained behind, but at the same time, he trusted no one else with this task. Auri-El’s bow, the shield, most Dragon priest masks, Dawnbreaker… No, no one else would be able to improvise if something went wrong during this trip. And then there was Ronnie’s letter, written in code. The names he mentioned...

   

  Ahzidal, Zahkriisos, Dukaan, Vahlok, and finally, Miraak.  

   

  He would have taken the trip from Winterhold for Miraak’s relics alone, but five dragon priests! It was clear Ronnie needed help, both in selecting his weapons for Skuldafn and for advice on how to safeguard these potentially dangerous artifacts from Solstheim. And if Orcs were anything, they were loyal to those they deemed worthy to call friend. Ronnie was worthy, so Urag gro-Shub left the turmoil of Winterhold, for his friend.

   

  He cracked his neck and heard movement behind him, coming from the wagon, followed by an uncomfortable grunt and the runt’s gurgling.  

   

  “You alright back there?” he growled.

   

  “Shut up and keep driving,” came the equally grouchy response and he smiled. She already had a tone.

   

  “You keep giving me that attitude,” he warned, “and I’ll give you something else, female.”

   

  “Hmph, maybe that’s exactly what I want.”

   

  Urag chuckled, he could feel the sneer in her words, feel the glint of her golden eyes on his back. Ahead of him was the ‘stead and he definitely made out all the telltale signs of a party, smelled the roasting meat that signaled Tilma’s cooking.

   

  A party. So Athis had been right. Urag bumped into the Dunmer and Faralda at Nightgate Inn, while they were heading back to and he was heading away from Winterhold. He had allowed  the Companion see his Shield-Brothers to send Ronnie off, only to hear of this. Athis had been invited, but Urag had not been. They decided that Athis’ and Faralda’s place was back in the college while Urag would continue to Whiterun, only not for a party.

   

  Slighted. He snorted and shook his head, no, not by Ronnie. He’d never pull that, Urag thought as he steered the wagon closer, making the sure the horses could navigate the road, he called on magicks and brightened the lantern. They were close, too close for silly shit like that. When your friend is still your friend even when he knows you’ve damned yourself to Dagon, no, he wouldn’t pull that. 

   

  It was the runt, Grulmar. Had to be. Athis had told him that Serana and the runt had planned the thing, then, of course, Athis then tried to smooth things over.

   

  “I’m sure you received an invitation too, Teva.”

   

  Bullshit. He wasn’t invited. At least not by the little runt and certainly not to a party. But I got you, runt. See, I’m here anyway because Ronnie invited me and last time I checked, he's the dragon of his lair. The old Orc cracked his neck again. “Let’s crash this,” he murmured, pulling his horses to a full stop.

   

  “What in Malacath’s chipped tusk is this?” the Archmage of the College of Winterhold raised his voice in a charismatic bluster, straightening on the wagon and dropping the reins dramatically to extend his arms. He knew he cut an imposing figure, but he wasn’t wearing his archmage robes. Not for this trip. Didn’t want to attract attention with all the gear he was hauling. No, he almost looked like a cleric, sporting traveling robes and heavy boots and gauntlets, his balding head hidden under a wolfskin cloak. The artifacts were wrapped securely in burlap and potato sacks with actual potatoes, to mask them. And she rode in the back, her axe ready.  “A tusking party?” he continued, knowing he had everyone’s attention. “Where the blazes is my tankard?”

   

  Everyone exchanged looks and laughed out loud, Äelberon rose quickly from the stool near the goat pen to greet the old Orc. “Well, they sort of sprung this on me, old friend.” They clasped forearms while Urag still sat, the grip was still strong, but...Malacath’s tusk, Ronnie what happened to you? Urag saw the runes that covered the Altmer’s hands, his arm, part of his face. Mora’s mark was all over the bastard.

   

  “They surprised you?” the Orc snorted, raising his eyebrows, trying to mask his concern. “You getting soft, old Mer?”

   

  Äelberon tilted his head to the side. “I have been occupied.”

   

  Urag let out a hearty laugh, his tusks flashing. “Only you would call getting ready to ward off the end of the world ‘occupied’.” He put his hand on the Altmer’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship, not liking the lack of fat one damn bit. “You lost weight and you look like shit.” Then he looked around, seeing the other people gathered. “Nelecar, Jarl, Burley brothers,” he nodded. “Serana, Tilma, hmm no Nerussa?” The Orc noticed.

   

  “It is complicated. The attacks. Flagon was hit harder than most. I don’t blame her for not wanting to see. Rumarin almost died.”

   

  Ronnie's face had such a sudden cast of guilt that it made the Orc sigh and shake his head.

   

  “Wasn’t your fault, but I get it. Give her time.” Urag gave the Mer a sound slap on the shoulder, as if to tell him to stop thinking about it. Ronnie didn’t budge from the blow and Urag smiled. Hmm, can still take an Orc slap, so you’re not so far gone yet. “Well, seems most are here at any rate. Even people I don't know. Good. Yeah, glad the old captain and your woman had the sense to slow you down.”

   

  “It is a coincidence, no? Apparently they were planning this while I had sent for you. Were you invited? Any others from the College? Lecar is here.”

   

  No, Ronnie didn’t know. He thinks you were invited like all the others. Another chuckle, though the sarcasm in it was heavy. “Athis and Faralda send their regards, they saw you at Jorrvaskr, so we decided that I will see you here. Yeah, I was invited,” Urag lied, his eyes briefly scanning the runt, before returning to his friend. He checked his anger, he wasn’t going to put Ronnie through the runt’s shit, the Mer was going through enough already.  “But, good. If they hadn’t stopped you soon, I would have, with a sound Orc smack to that thick skull of yours.”

   

  “I have already been smacked behind the head today,” Ronnie smirked though Urag could sense an undercurrent of the Mer’s stubbornness. Whatever he got, he didn’t like.

   

  “Who?”

   

  “A friend who wanted me to respect Nord culture.” Urag saw Äelberon’s red orange eyes dart to a young, mustached Nord with brown eyes in the uniform of a Whiterun Guardsmen laughing with Vilkas. “Smacked some sense into me, or so he believes.” Oh yeah, he didn’t like it one bit. The eyes then shifted to behind the Orc, towards the wagon, as if checking. Fucking obsessive Altmer. “You brought what I requested?”

   

  Back to business. Aye, Athis said the old fart was brooding all during Jorrvaskr’s celebrations too, unable to think on anything else but Alduin.

   

  Urag sneered. “No, I brought you the sacred warhammer of Jarl Farts-Under-Cloak, of course I tuskin’ brought them! I feel like I’ve got half of Winterhold’s collection in this tuskin’ wagon. Hope you like potatoes.”

   

  “Potatoes? I like them fine.”  

   

  So tusking literal sometimes. “Had to hide all this shit under something! I got my magicks, aye, but potatoes work too.” The Orc’s silver brow furrowed. “You really going to need all of this, Ronnie?”

   

  “I do not know what I will need.” The Mer’s tone grew pensive and his face darkened at his rather uncertain words. “I would  appreciate your assi-”

   

  “Ah, tusk, Ronnie, it’s a party. I’m not going to sort through this shit now. I need my brain completely focused if you really have what you say you have.”

   

  “I do,” the Altmer lowered his voice. “The mask, the sword, the staff…” he leaned in closer, his voice barely audible. “And the books...”

   

  “Shit, mothertuskiing fuck shit, shh.” Urag cursed under his breath. Tusk, he has black books.  He locked eyes with Ronnie and the two old friends decided then and there without a word spoken between them that now was not the time for this. They both grinned and laughed, breaking the tension with more pats and smacks and Urag resumed his lighter banter with the old Elf. “And I’m certainly not going to leave this shit here while I drink myself stupid.”

   

  “The cellar?” the Altmer nodded, a funny half-smile on his face. Aye, Ronnie’s cellar, otherwise known as College of Winterhold, Whiterun Branch. “Tomorrow then? Early?”

   

  “Tusk, Ronnie, if I’m even sober.” The Orc laughed.

   

  “Tomorrow.” Äelberon insisted and Urag was disturbed by the Mer’s sudden dark tone.   

   

  “Sure, old friend, easy, easy.” The Mer’s features changed, softening, but Urag knew something was definitely being planned. “Just make sure you have strong coffee. And I’ll need your woman’s help too.” Urag snorted again, deciding to lighten the mood as he started climbing down from the wagon. “Just how much shit have we stored in that thing?”

   

  Äelberon released a knowing chuckle, finally relaxing a little. “Seems that cellar has seen everything, hasn’t it? But the worst were the scrolls. The humming was incessant. Kept Ana and I up for days.”

   

  “Damn Elder Scrolls.” The Orc was at the same level as the Altmer now and he turned to the crowd. “Alright bitches, if you want to continue this party, we are loading all this shit into this old fart’s cellar. The more people that help, the faster you can get back to feasting.”

   

  They just stared at the Archmage and he stared back, raising his shoulders. “What? You think I talk to hear myself talk? Get moving!” He growled. “And don’t break anything, or this is going to become a party for atronachs!” The Orc then leaned closer to the Altmer, his eyes returning to the wagon, while party guests were, actually doing what the Orc had requested. Urag whispered. “Well, I brought the shit you asked for. I’d like something in return.”

   

  “Of course, friend.”

   

  “I need you to do an exam and I don’t trust anyone but you.”

   

  “Are you ill?”

   

  Urag shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” He could feel his features soften. “Actually, more than fine, old friend.”

   

  “I do not understand you, Urag, you say you are fine, yet you want an exam? Now?” The Altmer raised his eyebrows.

   

  “Tusk no, party first, then tomorrow if you feel like it, or whenever you’re sober if that tusker in you decides to drink.” The larger Orc then sharply turned  towards the wagon, flashing his tusks. “Malacath’s armpit, what’s taking you? Hurry, female! I can smell Tilma’s boar from here and I want a piece before they eat it all.”

   

  She started to climb down from the wagon, baby Yamarz in her strong arms, hidden in the back among all of the piles of artifacts and potatoes, until now. His Steel-Heart and Urag couldn’t suppress the smile that found his features. Still stubbornly in her orichalcum, but for how much longer, the old Orc wasn’t certain. Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the runt lean closer to a Ginger Nord and whisper before he stormed out. You’re lucky I don’t skin you alive, runt, but it’s a party and I’ll be sociable, so go have your tantrum, I’ll deal with you later.

   

  “Borgakh?” Äelberon asked. “Uh, here, let me help you dow-”

   

  “No male helps me,” she snapped, flashing her tusks, while she climbed down unassisted. “I am not a weak female. I can get down on my own.”

   

  “Very well, Steel-Heart.” Äelberon smirked.

   

  “That’s my female,” Urag grinned, nudging Äelberon’s shoulder with his elbow to drive home the point.

   

  The Altmer’s eyes widened. “Xarxes’ Arse! I was gone longer than I thought. When?”

   

  “While you were at Solstheim.” Urag flashed his tusks again. “And it was earned.”

   

  “I see.” Äelberon nodded knowingly. Aye, old mer, you know what that means, you earned your female too. Urag would never forget that day. The second dragon to cross Winterhold. That tusking purple and black Jarl-killer. He remembered being all bloody and broken, but victorious, his magicks triumphing, every shot and every swing true. The dragon lay defeated and Borgahk was at his side, looking very much the same, just as broken, just as bruised. Over two hundred years separated them and yet at that moment, both were Orcs. “You would have made a worthy chief”, she said to him at the snowy lair they had chased the dragon to, whispered the words the way only a She-Orc can whisper, and that was all it took.

   

  “Shut up, both of you, but especially the Orc.” she snarled and Urag growled a warning, making her growl too, their eyes locking. The older Orc’s grin then broadened when he saw the color wash over Borgakh’s cheeks.

   

  

  Grulmar’s knees nearly gave when he noticed the baby in Borgakh’s arms and in that moment, her eyes found him, her yellow eyes, boring into him with an intensity he remembered very well. He quickly averted his gaze and leaned closer to Erik, relieved that guests were busying themselves with Broody’s request rather than noticing him. “Continue the story instead of me,” he said with a hoarse voice.

   

  The Nord’s eyes widened. “What? Why? I was going to help? Looks like half of Winter--”

   

  “Need some fresh air.” Grulmar interupted.

   

  “Grulmar, we’re outside-”

   

  “Fresh air!” the Orc growled as he walked away from the table, heading to the other side of the homestead. There was an angry rhythm to his steps as he headed towards the hills, kicking stones in front of his path, hearing the sounds of people heading towards the wagon.

   

  Some of them maybe knew what this was about, because not everyone showed up to the feast. Not everyone… But Grulmar did send the invitations to everyone, even though he was inclined not to. But this was Äelberon’s party, not his, he had no right to decide who should come or not. So he did send the invitations to everyone. He did.

   

  And to Grulmar’s relief, one particular person didn’t show. But now…

   

  Urag.

   

  “Damn it,” he whispered into the night, stopping. His breath was quicker, his heart pounding as if it was racing somewhere and his facial muscles were tightly stretched. “Damn it,” he repeated, this time growling. “Shit!” Now he almost screamed, not giving a single damn about who could hear him. “Tusk it!” he bared his tusks, grabbing a stone from the ground and throwing it into the night with all his strength. “Mothertuskin’ piece of shit!!” he continued cursing, throwing one stone after another in anger, until he just dropped on the ground, trying to catch his breath.

   

  He sat there, in the dark, his elbows resting on his knees, his head hanging low. Borgakh… The baby she was carrying, grown so much since he was born. A healthy baby by the looks of him. Grulmar shook his head… It just hurt so much. A reminder of what he had tossed away, and no matter how much he was trying to prepare himself for that, it still hurt like damn bloody Oblivion itself was burning through his chest.

   

  In a way, he knew he never could have it, the life he kept imagining with Borgakh, but knowing and feeling were two completely different things. All he wanted to do was go there and talk to her, tell her how sorry he was, but he couldn’t look into her eyes. When he looked there, all he could see was his own twisted reflection, grinning at him with despicable spite.

   

  How can ya say sorry for somethin’ like the denial of love? For what else can ya call what ya did to Borgakh than denial of love and happiness? She came to ya, she cared about ya and ya just went and turned her down, like a coward, usin’ the pursuit of greater things as an excuse for what ya did.  Ya broke her steel heart, ya damn idiot… She has all the reason to hate ya and she’s right for it.

   

  Because it wasn’t about his reasons, of why he did it, but about how he did it. Addicted to magicka potions, power-hungry, the moment she told him she was with child, he snapped. All the memories of Yamarz, the fear he would be the same father as Yamarz was, that made him snap and walk away. Without hesitation.

   

  Coward. And when ya realized ya tusked up and tried to fix it? Too late, tuskin’ idiot, too late. The Archmage of Winterhold had already taken yer place.

   

  He heard footsteps on the rocks and the night suddenly lit up with a cold blue light. Grulmar narrowed his eyes, looking back the way back he came.  He saw the big Orc in College robes coming towards him, heard the heavy footfalls, saw the magelight hovering above his head.

   

  “Tusk off!” Grulmar growled in Urag’s direction, but the bigger Orsimer didn’t react to that, still walking towards Grulmar. “I said tusk off, Broody!”

   

  The Archmage stopped two steps away from him, narrowing his grey eyes. “Do we have a problem, runt?”

   

  The younger Orc grimaced after the word ‘runt’, tilting his head to the side. “No, it’s all sunshine and butterflies,” he murmured, then baring his tusks. “What do ya tuskin’ think?”

   

  “Äelberon wrote me from Solstheim asking for some artifacts from the College’s collections and that he had others to show me. I’m glad he did, because I’m thinking I was not invited to this party. I’ve known that old Mer for nearly five of your lifetimes, runt.” Urag snorted in contempt. “Shouldn’t surprise me that your personal feelings would dominate over Äelberon’s feelings. This party is for him-”

   

  “Shove that shit up yer ass, Broody!” Grulmar hissed, jumping to his feet like a spring. “We sent ya the invitation, if ya didn’t get it in time, it’s not my fault. Now I’ll repeat it one more time. Tusk off! Leave me alone.”

   

  “No, I tusking won’t leave you alone.” He pointed towards the homestead. “Because the female there, she loved you and you tusked that up-”

   

  “Shut up!”

   

  “Grulmar, you left her with a damn child-”

   

  “SHUT. UP!”

   

  “-and the worst thing-”

   

  Grulmar growled and his fist landed on Urag’s jaw. The Archmage barely flinched and Grulmar let out a howl of pain, recoiling away from the bigger Orc, holding his fist. “Tusk!” he cursed, shaking his hand. It was like hitting a damn wall. What the tusk is it with these tuskin’ third era tuskers?!

   

  “You feel better now?” the Archmage raised an eyebrow, lazily moving his lower jaw.

   

  “No! Let’s do it again, several times, and I might!”

   

  “As I was saying: The worst thing is she’s not even mad at you for all this.”

   

  Grulmar frowned, glancing at Urag. “She’s not mad?” he asked, literally taken by surprise by the statement. He didn’t understand. He would hate himself for what he did - he did hate himself for that as a matter of fact. But Borgakh…

   

  “No,” Urag shook his head, snorting. “She says I don’t understand and frankly I don’t even want to.” He then sighed, rubbing his eyes, his expression growing as tender as an Orc’s could possibly become. “But she does understand and she doesn’t even blame you for it, Malacath knows why. She’s a lot like Ronnie in that way.” He shrugged. “If it were up to me, I would rip your guts out for that and the shit you pulled at the College.”

   

  “Oh for tusk’s sake, just get over that already,” the younger Orsimer snorted. “Or maybe ya can’t because ya failed as a teacher, eh? What I did could have been prevented, by kickin’ me out right away, gettin’ myself killed on my own. Would have solved plenty of problems, wouldn’t-”

   

  “Don’t play the victim here, nobody’s buying that,” Urag growled, waving his hand in disgust. “You’re a reckless piece of shit, Grulmar, but for reasons beyond me that female still cares for you. She tusking named the runt after your damn father!” Grulmar opened his mouth, but Urag continued. “No, shut up, and listen, idiot! For once. I don’t give a flying tusk about whether you hate me or not, but I won’t stand idle while my female is hurting because you’re a colossal dick.”

   

  “What do ya want from me, Broody?” Grulmar bared his tusks. “Want me to leave? Fine, I can do that. Will grab my things and get out of yer sight-”

   

  “No, you tusking fool, running is for runts. I want you to speak with her,” the Archmage bared his tusks, again surprising Grulmar. “She needs a damn resolution, and you’re going to give it to her, otherwise I’ll tear you limb from limb with my tusking bare hands, which are worse than my atronachs.” The old Orc’s face was still angry, but at the same time there was a depth to it that almost made Grulmar look away. “She wants you to hold your son, Grulmar, to look into his eyes, to know that he takes after you, and to know that you’re not your bloody father, dammit, that you can be better! So pull your self-important head out of your stuck-up arse and at least give her that!”

   

  To hold my son. To know what I tusked up, what I lost, Grulmar thought, his anger now slowly fading, just as his strength was, forcing him to sit again. Broody is right about one thin’, matey. She deserves a resolution. And so do ya. But why does it have to hurt so much?

   

  He sighed and looked at Urag - at the Orc who replaced him at Borgakh’s side. It was all kinds of weird, having this chat with Urag specifically, and it hurt. Oh, how it hurt, knowing he left both Borgakh and his child, that they will now be cared for by someone else. By Urag. “One condition,” he muttered, staring into the night.

   

  “I don’t give a tusk about your conditio-”

   

  “Shut up!” Grulmar barked, rising to his feet. “Now ya tuskin’ listen, ya old tuskhead! I’ll do it, I’ll give her bloody resolution, I’ll get over the fact that she wants to spend the rest of her life with ya, and even that y’are goin’ to raise up…” Grulmar’s words caught in this throat and he found himself struggling to even speak. He bit his lower lip, noticing how Urag stared at him with raised eyebrows, and he took another deep breath. “That y’are goin’ to raise up my child. My son,” he continued, the words alone burning in his chest. “Just under one condition.”

   

  “Spit it out then.”

   

  Grulmar grimaced, wondering if he was really sure about the next words, if he really wanted to say them. But in his mind they made sense, because no one deserved the same fucked up life as he had. “Ya will never tell him I’m his father,” he murmured, his gaze burying into Urag’s eyes. “Ya will be his father, period. He will never hear about me, never hear the truth.”

   

  Urag crossed his arms over his chest. “This isn’t just my decision, Grulmar. It’s hers too.”

   

  “Then convince her,” Grulmar growled.

   

  A dry chuckle from the much older Orc. “Not an easy task.”

   

  “She’s as stubborn as a Bull Netch, I know,” the younger Orc said and the comparison made Urag raise his eyebrows. “What? If ya don’t know what a Bull-”

   

  “I know what’s a Bull Netch, smartass,” Urag snarled. “I can try to convince her, that’s all I can promise.”

   

  “That will have to do,” Grulmar shrugged and turned around. “Now tusk off finally.” He could hear Urag’s grunt of acknowledgement and then the steps on the stones as the Archmage walked away. The young Orc sighed, giving the old shit some time and then he walked after him, back to the porch. He could hear Erik’s voice as he continued the story, the only interruption being the cracking of fire, the tapping of tankards on the table.

   

  He then walked around the corner, heading towards the table and he noticed how everyone gave him a look. His eyes went towards Borgakh sitting on the other side of the table, exchanging whispered words with Urag before she looked in his direction. He averted his gaze and sat down, trying to focus on the story again, trying to figure out where Erik was right now. He heard Erik say “three massive columns” and Grulmar remembered.

  
  
  

  

   

  We just entered another room and I remember how at the moment we entered, I felt a shiver going down my spine. The chamber was huge, three massive columns with faces carved into the stone supported the ceiling and right in the middle of them was a throne, with what seemed like a Draugr sitting on it. Two stone sarcophagi were standing on each side of the throne and when I glanced around, I noticed more of the stone coffins along the walls.

   

  “Alright, this is it,” Galmar rumbled, his eyes darting over the room. “Look around.”

   

  “And what are we looking for, general?” Ralof asked and I was wondering the same thing. What was so valuable that both the Legion and the Stormcloaks were looking for it? Technically, even me and Grulmar were looking for it.

   

  Galmar hesistated for a second and then grunted for himself. “Fine. What are we looking for? The Jagged Crown.” He must of imagined our faces through our helmets because Galmar quickly whispered. “Yes, you heard me right, lad.”

   

  “The Jagged…” I gasped, not even capable of finishing. The legendary crown of the kings of old, one that was mostly just a myth. Now I understood why both the Legion and the Stormcloaks wanted it. If either Elisif or Ulfric bore the Crown, the Moot would most definitely support the contender who had the legendary crown in their possession. This could have possibly ended the war, without any more bloodshed.

   

  And I realized that Grulmar was here for it too.

   

  How could he even think about taking it? Why would he let a war rage on when he could stop it? For profit? It was making me sick to my very bones and at that moment, I considered betraying Grulmar, telling Stone-Fist everything.

   

  This could have ended the war after all.

   

  We all suddenly turned around when we heard the shuffling of many feet behind us, in the hallway we just came through. Galmar threw a look at his men and then motioned with his hands, ordering us to make a line. Men with shields pushed to the front, making a shield wall, just when the Imperials came pouring from the hallway.

   

  Reinforcements.

   

  “Galmar!” a woman in heavy Legion armor hissed, raising her shield and I narrowed my eyes. She carried the marks of a Legate.

   

  “Rikke,” Stone-Fist growled in kind, as the Imperials made a shield wall just few steps away from the Stormcloaks, their crossbows now pointing in our direction.

   

  Just looking at the weapons aimed at me made me extremely uncomfortable, an unscratchable itch in my stomach, knowing that any second they could rain death on us. Only gods knew what crossbows could do at such a short distance to our round wooden shields - or even to our armors and bodies.

   

  “Any of you move and we will open fire,” Legate Rikke barked, now locked in a staring contest with Galmar.

   

  “Do you really expect we’ll just stand here while you put that puppet on the throne, Rikke?”

   

  “I’m doing what is best for Skyrim, Galmar. You and Ulfric just don’t want to see that,” she responded and then suddenly her eyes went behind Galmar, widening in surprise. “Stop!” she yelled and I whirled around.

   

  Right behind the throne stood a lone Stormcloak soldier, reaching for something on the Draugr’s head. Reaching for the Jagged Crown.

   

  Grulmar!

   

  The moment he lifted the thing from the Draugr’s head, its eyes snapped open, a cold blue glow emanating from the empty sockets. The lids of the sarcophagi around us pushed open with great force and more skeletal hands appeared.

   

  “You fucking idiot!” Galmar shouted and everyone else started shouting at the same time. The crossbows released their bolts with loud snaps and they rained against the shield wall. Men and women were screaming in pain, Imperials were screaming as they charged and I saw Draugr clawing out of their coffins.

   

  And Grulmar? Well, Grulmar was running, of course. With the Crown.

   

  There was chaos all around me as Legionnaires fought Stormcloaks, Stormcloaks fought Draugr, Draugr fought Legionnaires. It was a damn mess.

   

  I blocked an attack from an Imperial only to be pushed towards an undead with its sword raised. I ducked under the blow, getting behind the Draugr and cut off its legs from underneath it.

   

  I had no idea what was I supposed to do. Was I supposed to fight alongside the Stormcloaks? Or was I supposed to run with Grulmar?

   

  As I looked around, all I could see was an hopeless fight. Draugr were being hacked to pieces and yet they still kept moving, arms, legs, even fingers! No one wielded silver like I always hear Ronnie saying you need when fighting undead. The rebels were fighting the Legion, even though in my mind, at that moment, we all had a common enemy. It was supposed to be the living against the dead, but the grudges burned too strongly between the  Legion and the Stormcloaks to cooperate even if their lives depended on it.

   

  So I was a coward. I ran.

   

  I avoided the Draugr, running up the stairs behind the throne and all I could hear were the sounds of battle, the sounds of people dying, in pain, screaming in terror and anger. They were sounds that never stopped haunting me, because I was the one who turned his back to it and ran. Like Grulmar. A coward.

   

  

  Grulmar snorted after those last words. “It wasn’t our fight, so why die for it, Ginger?” he asked, looking straight at Erik. The mood around the table had changed by then, clearly affected by what was said, because with this story...neither Grulmar or Erik were holding back. They were telling it with all their past faults and thoughts being brought up so that everyone could see them.

   

  Legate Fasendil turned his head slowly at Grulmar’s words, a hard scowl on his elven face. “Good men and women died there.” It was growled with the slow anger that came from a mer who had more than likely seen more than his share of death. Grulmar very well understood the anger in his voice. “The war could have ended back then, over two years ago, if you two cowards didn’t snatch it. All the blood that came from this war after is on your hands.”

   

  “Legate,” Balruuf said softly. “That is harsh. These two lads just told us an untold story, not hiding anything from us, even if it means our perception of them has shifted.”

   

  “Harsh? Ya callin’ me harsh? Not meanin’ any disrespect, my Jarl, but I’m the bloody Old Mary here and I feel more for the men and women that fell than all of you who are supposed to be proper Nords do?” The Legate’s bushy blond brows furrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He quickly looked at his cousin, like he was asking for support, but the Dragonborn was only listening, his face surprisingly distant. The Legate shook his head and snorted in disgust.

   

  “Well, it certainly makes me sick,” Irileth murmured, her gaze buried into the Orc. And Grulmar didn’t blame her, the lines were certainly blurry and he tried to warn them at the beginning of this story. Everyone had a bit of a villain in them.

   

  “Bloody Oblivion, see, even the Dunmer agrees with me.” Fasendil raised his arms in exasperation.

   

  “Come now, little darlings,” Seif rose from her chair, elegantly waving her arm. “It is a story, one told by…” she tilted her head to the side and Grulmar could see that she was thinking of the best thing to say. “uh... unexpectedly honest storytellers, portraying the events of the past. Are we angry because they have told a truth which we don’t like or don’t agree with? We are all individuals, and can any of us say with clarity what we would do if we were in their shoes?”

   

  Legate Fasendil hit the hard table with his fist, leaving a dent. “Events of the past!? This wasn’t a story about ancient kings and shit! What they did affected both the present and the future, only prolonging this damn war. I’m the one in the camp, I’m the one that’s got ta answer to me men who have been freezin’, hungry, dyin’ while ya sit in yer homes comfortable. Ya say it as if these two cowards were facing an impossible difficult choice, but they weren’t. They only cared about profit and their own damn hides, not about the right thing! Mark my words, ya continue like this, and ya won’t be far from the Aldmeri Dominion.” The Legate’s eyes found his cousin, whose face was still unreadable, as was Nelecar’s. “And there are those in this very table who already know well what they’ve done.”  

   

  The last words were dripping with venom, with pain and Grulmar somewhat expected that from Legate Fasendil. He didn’t blame him for that opinion, because after all, Fasendil was a Legionnaire, he was biased in this question of allegiance. Grulmar wasn’t, but that also didn’t mean he had no regrets. The Orc sighed and got up, exchanging sad glances with Erik, before motioning for him to sit down.

   

  “And what is the right thing, Legate?” Jon Battle-Born said with a calm voice, attracting everyone’s attention. “If it was up to you, you would give the Crown to Tullius, and I understand your choice. But please, ask anyone at this table and you would get a myriad of different answers. The war has torn this land apart only because we can’t agree, our arguments becoming swords and fire instead of simply the words they should be. We are lucky, the Dragonborn came and now we have a truce.”

   

  “Hmph, an uneasy one.” The Legate grumbled.

   

  “But we have one.” Jon smiled. “He made it happen, because he sees a picture we don’t sometimes see. The big one. This story… It offered me another perspective, just like it offered it to all of you here, because this story isn’t about extremes, about black and white, but about the grey in between. About the people caught in the middle of the greater conflict.”

   

  “White for one can be black for someone else,” Farkas offered his opinion, earning a few raised eyebrows in his direction. “What? It’s true. What is the right thing for one man doesn’t necessarily have to be the right thing for another.”

   

  “You’ve had too much mead, brother,” Vilkas chuckled. “You’re getting all broody.”

   

  Urag snorted at that, probably catching that last word as the nickname Grulmar gave him. He pointed at Grulmar, narrowing his eyes. “We all know that this Orc is a little piece of shit, so what surprises all of you all so much? But let me be clear about one thing. If I had the Jagged Crown in my hands, the very crown of King Borgas, it would end up locked in College away from all of you. I don’t trust either the Legion or the Stormcloaks. Troops from both sides have been camped near Winterhold for months, just waiting, like the city was a juicy cut of meat or something. Could we have had their help with repairs after the dragon? Would’ve been nice, but no, they just camp there and wait. So no, I wouldn’t want any of them having it. You don’t like it? That is your problem, but this is my stance, the choice of my own free will.”

   

  Spoken like a damn Orc for sure, Grulmar thought, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and raised his hands. “Alright, fine, fine. Ya hate this story, I’m makin’ ya sick, and all that. Very lovely.” He looked at Fasendil and raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I understand yer stance, Watch, I do. Not denyin’ I’m a little piece of shit as Broody pointed out, but this war… This war is somethin’ I never could decide my stance on.” He then pointed at Erik, raising his eyebrows. “Ginger here could, and he sure talked a hole into my head about it as we left the barrow with the Crown in our hands.”

   

  “That stance has changed though,” Erik stepped in, looking straight at Fasendil, not avoiding his gaze. He raised his crippled hand, showing everyone his perpetually immobile fingers locked in a convulsive grasp. “This was a wake up call for me. I got this helping to save that Ulfric’s city and all he wanted to do was use me. And for Äelberon, who got a bounty for saving that man’s city.”

   

  “Things change, opinions change,” Grulmar added to that with a shrug. “Mine have changed too, though not really on the war. No, my opinions on Shiny have changed and this story is ultimately told for him. And we’re slowly gettin’ to the ‘why’ of that.” Äelberon was still at the stool near the goat pen. The mountain dog puppy was resting on his lap, playfully chewing on the Mer’s hand, already in love with the tusker. The Altmer’s eyes were like two points of fire and Grulmar saw the faintest wisps of smoke emerge from his nostrils. Someone else was definitely listening to this story too.

   

  “So where is the Crown then?” Fasendil grumbled. “Who did you sell it to? Who offered the most for it, hmm?”

   

  “Ah,” the Orc flashed his teeth and tusks in a grin. “The story is actually not over yet. But seein’ how it got yer underbreeches in a twist, I’ll try to give ya all a more...concise version.”

   

  He looked at Erik, then at everyone at the table, his eyes staying for a second on Borgakh and little Yamarz in her arms. He sighed, focusing on the words, on the last part.

   

  “We never saw our employer, but we were told to meet at Nightgate Inn after we acquired the Crown. So we travelled there, and all that we got for freezin’ our arses off in the cold of Pale was a tuskin’ note left at the inn. The note described a dead drop where we had to dump the Crown and also where our payment was waiting for us. Now mind ya, in our line of work, this wasn’t anythin’ out of the ordinary, certain people just didn’t want to be seen dealin’ with us and such.”

   

  “Still reeked of trouble,” Erik added. “People very rarely make a dead drop in the middle of  nowhere, especially in a frozen cave in the middle of the Pale. It was a half day’s travel from Nightgate Inn, but it was just too far from everywhere else. Mostly, people just picked something closer to cities, or even hideouts directly in the city or a village. But not in a frozen cave.”

   

  “Yeah, not in a damn cave,” Grulmar nodded. “I mean, Ginger here was quite mad at me for not tellin’ him what we were after, and even considered ditchin’ me.”

   

  Erik snorted. “Well, more like strangling you and taking the Crown to Ulfric.”

   

  “Lovely, thanks for yer honesty, matey.

   

  “We are all about honesty, right?”

   

  “Right.” Grulmar nodded. “But it only made me realise how high the stakes were with the Crown. Both the Stormcloaks and the Legion were at the barrow for it and it made me wonder if there wasn’t a third party.”

   

  “The Thalmor!” Fasendil growled and then spit, just like Decimus did whenever the word was spoken and Nelecar looked like he just had a pole shoved up his arse. Funny that the hate was the most strongly felt by the Old Marys at the table. Made Grulmar think Skyrim hadn’t seen anything the Thalmor were capable of yet. Äelberon was still quiet, intently listening. The Legate, in mock desperation,  turned to the Jarl. “More mead, my Jarl?”

   

  “Coming.” Balgruuf laughed in understanding, refilling the tankard. “You’re going to regret it in the morning, Legate.”

   

  “No, I won’t,” the Mer managed a angry chuckle.

   

  “Spot on, Watch.. So when we came to the cave, what did we find?” the Orc shook his head, chuckling. “A bloody Justiciar and two of his lackeys. The only payment we were supposed to get was death - now that should tell ya somethin’ about the Thalmor. They do shitty business. I mean, yes, I’m a piece of shit, and maybe, just maybe, if they really payed me, I would have sold the Crown to them. But we’ll never know answer for that, since they tried to kill us.”

   

  “It made sense,” Erik added. “Who would gain from the Crown never to be found again? The damn elves want this war to continue, they want both sides to bleed each other dry. It’s part of their game, right? Divide and conquer, was it?”

   

  “Worse.” Nelecar whispered, his face looking very tired suddenly.  

   

  “Yes. And since both me and Erik are standing here right now, the Thalmor didn’t get us. Ha, probably should have given the job of getting the crown from us to someone better, but we didn’t kill them, mind ya. All we did was just take all their clothes and armor, throw it into Lake Yorgrim, and leave them in that cave with nothing but cold and snow all around. We didn’t kill them, we gave them at least a chance, but I sure hope they didn’t make it.”

   

  “Well, I like this part of the story,” Fasendil chuckled, his laugh lines creasing. “But the Crown?” He then asked.

   

  Grulmar looked at Erik and smirked. “Well, we figured out that the ‘merchandise’ was now too hot to sell. Every buyer could potentially sell it to the Thalmor, and that was an option I didn’t like - since they tried to kill me, right? And tryin’ to sell the Crown to either Farts-Under-Cloak or the Legion could end up with us gettin’ executed. What we pulled off made us pretty much  war criminals. So we hid it - well, I did. Not even Erik knew where.” He then extended his hand towards Erik, smiling. “At least until I told him where.”

   

  The Nord reached under the table for his backpack and pulled out a wooden box, not bigger than simple jewelry box. Grulmar took it from him and set it down on the table, opening it.

   

  And he pulled out the Crown.

   

  Everyone stared at the Crown as if it were a miracle, he could hear their gasps, see their widened eyes upon seeing the crown that was forged of ebony and dragon teeth. Serana had narrowed hers and she looked at Grulmar, the question on her face. He gave her a small smile, answering her question, and continued. “Maybe ya all have yer own opinion about who should get this crown or why the other guy shouldn’t get it, but I’m goin’ to tell ya my own opinion. Back then, I didn’t know it, so maybe it was fate or providence or some kind of that bullshit that I hid it until now, but this crown doesn’t belong to any of you, but it belongs to someone.” The Orc narrowed his eyes at Äelberon, smirking, as he walked to where the High Elf sat.

   

  “The Jagged Crown.” He continued. “Made from the teeth of an ancient, powerful dragon. This dragon,” he pointed at the Altmer, he could see the smoke from the Mer’s nostrils intensifying. “Zahnirbildaar. Wuth Tu, The Old Hammer.” Grullmar continued. “His teeth, taken from his corpse, made into a trinket for the lir to feel important, as old Tipsy would put it.”

   

  The Orc sighed, closing his eyes for a second, only to open them with a smile. “I was always selfish, you know, thinkin’ only about money and constantly makin’ bad decisions, which is why I never could make the choice who should own the crown. Only the rightful owner can do that. And… I’m glad it’s Shiny, because… none of us would be here if we didn’t trust his judgment.” Just that sentence made his throat soar, as if there was something stuck in there, his eyes watering a bit. Saying it out loud was so hard. But he had to say it, he wanted Äelberon to know it, to give him at least something back. “Heh, to a certain degree at least. Right?” He looked at the people at the table, his hand making a wide circle around him, pointing out this party wasn’t exactly Äelberon’s idea.

   

  The Elf gently pushed the puppy’s mouth from his hands and took the crown from Grulmar, holding it, studying it. One hand supported the great ebony and dragon tooth crown at its base while the other traced the lines of the teeth, like he was remembering them again. The hand lingered on one particular tooth, a cracked one, bearing its own ‘crown’ of finely-crafted ebony to hold it together. Gasps traveled in the breezes of the porch when the Mer suddenly cut the palm of his hand on the tooth and Grulmar clearly saw the smoke coming from the nostrils as the Elf noticed the blood.  

   

  They gasped, but the Mer only chuckled, the low rumbling chuckle that let the Orc know exactly who he was speaking too. “Sos? Blood? You gasp at blood? Foolish lir. It is just blood. But I am pleased. Lig.  So many years have passed, and they have lost none of their sharpness. Dii rax. They are still sharp and I am still sharp.” He said with pride. He pointed to the ebony crowned tooth, the satisfaction on his face and Grulmar could picture the grey dragon, his nose ring in the fire light. “See, this one?” The Dov practically purred. “I cracked it upon a great beast, long gone to you.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded, a smirk playing on his features. “But very real to me. The last of his kind, little would I understand the irony that came with his final passing. That the Dov would know a similar fate. But I was a younger thing then, as was the world. Lusty with life.  He was… a giant crab. Like a mountain. In the land they now call Vvardenfel, though I knew it as Resdayn.”

   

  “Wait.” Irileth interrupted him, making the red-orange eyes find the Dunmer. “Ruhn? Ald’Ruhn? That crab?” She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “You killed him.”

   

  The Dov let out a hearty laugh and set the crown upon his lap, next to the fussing puppy. He rubbed the animal’s belly, deep in thought before speaking again. “Ah, old Skar. Ald’Ruhn is a fitting name for him. I remember him well. Stubborn beast, with a carapace like ebony.” He winked. “But I was just as stubborn. No, I did not kill him. I bit him, there’s a difference. He would not move and I needed him to.”

   

  “Why?”

   

  “The blasted crab was lying in my favorite foyada! They had not cooled yet, and it was - is - bah, whatever, good for the scales, keeps them supple. So I bit, too hard, at first, chipping this old tooth and then dragged him from the foyada so I could have my bath.”

   

  Irileth spit out her mead and started coughing.

   

  “Some things never change, eh Ronnie?” Farkas laughed. “You’d do anything for a bath.”

   

  “Funny.” The Dovah replied, his eyes going faraway. “Alduin laughed and said the very same thing when he heard what I had done.” He then rose, carefully placing the puppy on the ground and then setting the crown upon the stump. He acknowledged Grulmar with a nod. “Thank you, Orcling, for your gift. I understand its meaning.”  The eyes then lingered on Serana for a moment. “I understand.” He repeated, before turning away.

   

  “Where are you going?” cried Fasendil.

   

  “Ruth! The Dov have no need for mothers!” the Dovah cursed. “To take a piss, old Mer! Why? Want to watch? I’m sure your wife would love that new development in your personality.”  

   

  “No, and my wife is very happy with me just as I am, cuz. But the crown?”

   

  “I don’t think anyone will take it again and I certainly don’t need to take it with me to piss.” He laughed and dismissed Watch with a wave of his hand. “I will not be gone long, I am hungry for food and I can smell the mead.”

   

  “Still waiting for that arm wrestle.”

   

  “Do not fret, you will be destroyed.”

   

  “Sure, sure…” Fasendil nodded. “Not this time, old Fart…”

   

  It became eerily silent when the Dragonborn left, taking a narrow path towards a small outcropping near the ‘stead, opposite to the path that led to the road and the White River. Grulmar then understood. Piss, my arse. Ya want to be alone and process everythin’ and I can understand that. Dragons, after all, were essentially brothers. Äelberon - or Zahnibildaar - had known Alduin in a very different way than they did, and now he was going to slay him.  He was going to kill his own brother and while the brother didn’t hesitate to kill him, to rip his wings off and tear his heart from his chest, it seemed Zahnirbildaar was a different sort of dragon, that other things besides cruelty, pride, or ambition perhaps drove him. He saw the look the dragon gave Fangs and Grulmar nodded, but then shook his head. It was time to move forward.

   

  “This is gettin’ too touchin’ for my own likin’,” Grulmar stepped in, raising his tankard again. “It’s a feast, damn it! We’ve got food, we’ve got drinks, we’ve even got throwin’ knives over there,” he pointed towards the target, “with Decimus’ Mamma and everythin’. We’ve got arrows and tomatoes - who doesn’t love tomatoes. We’ve got Rhyme,” he pointed at Jon Battle-Born, who promptly bowed, “to keep ya entertained with songs and such. We’ve got bloody everythin’! So have some fun!”

   

  “Here, here!” sounded as tankards were being raised, the true party starting now. He will come around, Grulmar thought, taking his seat. He saw the look the Dragon gave her.