Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a turning out to be a very strange day. Upon receiving reports of an odd magical incident in Kolskeggr Mine, Jarl of Markarth, Igmund, sent his housecarl Faleen along with a small detachment to investigate. The court wizard, Calcelmo, sent along his nephew Aicantar as a consultant and observer. Another observer sent along was Queyan, an agent of the Thalmor working under Ondolemar. The party massed at the gates and began the march through the Reach.

The sun was high in the sky when they crossed the bridge that led to the mine. Aicantar made sure to inform Faleen that he could feel the magicka in the air at that time. Everyone was starting to feel on edge, the mer of the group especially. This was no ordinary magic, neither had ever felt anything of the sort before. The air around the mine was buzzing with it, a shimmer visible to even the least magically capable of the party.

It was at this point that Aicantar and Queyan joined the redguard woman at the front of the pack. Both mer had spells ready in their hands, and Queyan had drawn her short sword. The mine itself was eerily devoid of the usual bustle one expects of the most profitable gold mind in the Reach. No clatter of metal to stone and ore, no footsteps, no chattering of miners. Their own feet made echos that reverberated down the tunnels and back, a dripping of distant water, the occasional loose stone clattering to the ground, dust settling on abandoned equipment. The home guards shifted uneasily, weapons drawn.

The tunnel twisted deeper into the mountain, and the scent of magicka grew thicker. Ozone mingled with stale air and metallic dust, becoming more and more choking as they went. The buzzing in the air turned into audible humming, like that of a charged conjuration spell. Like something big was about to be summoned. Faleen’s face twisted into a grimace when Aicantar told her as much. Queyan rolled her shoulders back and insisted that they continue with the lure of a favorable review when she wrote her report later. Neither man nor mer cared much for what she had to say.

Around the bend, they could see the light burning in a large cavern. Violet magicka swirled in the center of the floor, pulsing like a heart beat. Aicantar was voicing a proposal to study the phenomena when the tempo increased. Less than a minute later, the magicka condensed, then shattered. The cave system trembled, then it went dark and silent. A couple of candlelight spells and some lit torches later and they approached the epicenter of the magic event, where an organic looking lump sat. Then it lifted its head.

Before them sat a small human woman, likely of breton origin, wearing fabric across the lower half of her face. She had a wild mass of curls that puffed off of her head and came to rest at her shoulders. She seemed to scowl at them, squinting with surprising intensity. She was on the fatter side of human commoners, and dressed very oddly. A thin shirt clung tight to her skin, the neckline cut low enough to give ample view of her cleavage. Definitely a grown woman, despite her stature, no mere girl would be so… Endowed. She wore a skirt that began at the narrowest part of her generous waist and fell to the middle of wide thighs. Her footwear was a simple sandal, with two leather thongs that connected the side of the sole to between her first two toes and a third to connect the two behind her ankle. The woman frowned even deeper, blinking slowly in the torchlight.

“Have you seen my glasses?” She asked, muffled ever so slightly by her cloth mask. The cave was quiet, except for the crackling of the torches. “You know, glasses?” She lifted her hands and made circles with her fingers, which she then held in front of her eyes. “Unless y’all don’t speak English, in which I’m fucked.”

“Do you mean… Spectacles?” Aicantar hedged, obviously boggled by her manner of speech.

“Yeah sure,” the woman said, beginning to pat around the cold stone floor. Then she stopped, put her hand into a pocket in the folds of her skirt, and withdrew thick black framed spectacles. She unfolded them, settled them on her mask covered nose and turned to look back at the group from her seat on the rocks. Then she just stared.

“I am Faleen,” Faleen started, likely eager to end the awkwardness of the introductions sooner rather than later, “Housecarl of Jarl Igmund of Markarth.” The woman blinked at her several times. Then she inhaled deeply and exhaled. Inhaled, then exhaled. Then pinched her arm.

“Ouch!” She hissed, rubbing the spot on her arm. The eclectic group behind Faleen exchanged confused glances, and one twirled a finger near their helmeted temple. The woman looked up at everyone and sighed. “Well this is definitely not a dream.” She stated as though it was in question.

“It is considered polite to exchange names when one first meets another,” Queyan said, feeling her temper growing short. The woman turned to her and adjusted her spectacles with wide eyes. “I am Queyan, I serve the Thalmor and Aldmeri Dominion. And you are?”

“Oh!” The woman said, “Sorry, I’m Gisela. Hello.” And she waved from where she sat on the floor.

“Pleasure, my name is Aicantar, assistant and nephew to the Jarl’s court wizard.” The altmer lifted his hand to wave back, if slowly and clumsily, to mimic her greeting. “If I might ask, is there a reason you’re still sitting on the dirt floor?” Gisela looked down at the grimy stone and her brows furrowed again.

“Well,” She began, looking rather long suffering for a woman who appeared out of thin air in a summoner-free conjuration spell, “I would love to stand up, but I’m a bit light headed and if I try I will definitely fall down again.” She blinked a couple times and rubbed the back of her head, “Where am I, by the way?” Faleen offered Gisela a waterskin and began to explain the events as she was aware of it. Gisela tugged down her mask and poured water into her mouth without letting the vessel touch her lips, looking more uncomfortable as the story continued.

“Do you have any idea what may have brought you here?” One of the assorted nord men asked, “Some kind of ritual maybe?”

Gisela shook her head, swayed in her seat with a crease between her brows and blinked again. Then she tugged her mask up and handed the waterskin back to Faleen, “No. I was getting ready to go see my friends at the park, then I felt dizzy. I must have blacked out because the next thing I know-” She made a popping noise with her lips, “I’ve been isekai’d.” It answered none of their questions and only made everything more confusing, strange words aside.

“Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?” Aicantar asked hopefully, “Or is there really no explanation.”

Gisela shrugged, “I’d give my left tit to know more than I do now,” someone choked and coughed, “But I’m going to assume divine fuckery until proved otherwise. Or I’m hallucinating, maybe I’ve cracked and I’m in a nuthouse somewhere lost in delusions.” The bizarre breton glanced at Queyan, then at Aicantar, “But somehow that seems less likely.” Once again, more questions raised than answers given.

“Divine fuckery?” an imperial hedged, Queyan didn’t care for frontline guards much. Fodder for Reachmen, no sense learning their names. Gisela nodded, then swayed again.

“Well yeah,” She said, “Loki’s pranks are legendary, and even Odin All-Daddy gets up to his own shenanigans.” This woman wasn’t just incredibly foreign apparently, she believed in a completely different pantheon. The group from Markarth watched as she began to use her hands to reposition her legs, rubbing feeling back into her practically bare feet. She huffed and looked back up, “I’m going to need help to stand up and someone may need to catch me.”

Faleen grasped Gisela’s forearm and hauled her to her feet, only for Gisela to wobble on her legs like a newborn foal. She squeaked when a nord woman wrapped her arms around her for stability, then what was visible of her face turned red. “Ah, thanks. Sorry.”

Aicantar watched in poorly disguised intrigue as Gisela’s feet and legs began to turn deep red and the skin swelled slightly. “Is this something that normally happens to you?” He asked. The woman blinked up at him, tiny thing she was. Shorter than the average breton.

“Oh yeah,” She said casually, as though she wasn’t being held upright for risk of collapse, “All the time. Every time I stand up, blood goes from my head to my feet. ‘S why I’m so dizzy. By the way, if you want me to go anywhere I’m going to need a good walking stick and a lot of time to get there or someone needs to carry me.” It barely took a few minutes for the most pack horse like of the lot to be decided upon and Gisela was helped to his back. She clung to him, muttering apologies for the inconvenience.

“Don’t worry about it,” the nord said, “Easier than fighting mages or forsworn. Gods know we thought we’d find daedra worshipers, not a strange lass.” Gisela balled her hands in his cloak.

“Just you wait,” She teased, a smile in her eyes, “I’m more trouble than I’m worth by far.” The man laughed. Queyan made sure to follow the pair as closely as she could without being overtly obvious, gathering information that she would need when she reported to Ondolemar later.

The march back was much more lighthearted, Gisela was curious about Markarth and the Reach. She asked questions about Skyrim, and about Tamriel as a whole. She asked about politics and religion and social relations. Questions that implied she was somewhere far far away from Tamriel. When asked about her home, on the other hand, she clammed up. When she wasn’t dodging questions, her answers were vague, and she had to pause and consider her words with care. It was suspicious, and Queyan didn’t like it at all.

“May I ask why you cover your face?” Queyan asked, something the altmeri woman felt should have been brought up earlier.

“I don’t want to catch the plague,” Gisela said casually. Of course at the mention of a rampaging disease, everyone grew tense, but the woman didn’t lose a moment “There’s a big global panini going on, and I’m vulnerable enough as it is. Shit’s dangerous if you’re healthy, worse if you’re as fucked up as I am. Fuck.” She shrugged her shoulders and huffed. The steam of her breath fogged the glass of her oddly thick rimmed spectacles.

“That is… very concerning,” the nord carrying her said slowly, “What do you mean you’re fucked up?” Queyan was already reassessing her first impression of the strange breton. Not only was she ridiculously foreign, foreign in a way the Dominion had never seen before, but she was likely touched in the head as well. Gisela was too nonchalant about her situation, about her homeland’s current problems, and her own claim to lameness. ‘Disabled’ she said. It was downright bizarre.

When they approached the gates of Markarth, Gisela went quiet and wide-eyed. “Impressive, yeah?” the nord whose back she was carried on asked her. She nodded and looked about with a tension in her body that had Queyan questioning whether or not the woman had ever been in a city before. The way her eyes darted around and took in her surroundings with something akin to fear was reminiscent of a cornered beast.

The climb up to Understone Keep was no more troublesome than it usually was, though made more amusing by the irate mutterings of Gisela. The breton seemed to have decided sometime long ago that stairs and slopes were among the worst inventions in existence. A claim that Queyan was rather entertained by. Useless as the woman seemed to be physically, she had a talent for being funny in her own strange way.

Gisela cowered ever so slightly as the door guards let the group into the Keep. Her prior bluster gave way to a more situationally appropriate fear under the watchful eyes of the guards patrolling the stone halls. The Jarl was seated in his throne, his court, with the addition of Ondolemar, waiting for their arrival.

“Faleen,” Igmund said, his back straighter in his seriousness, “That didn’t take nearly as long as we feared. Report.” It wasn’t a question. As Faleen explained what they’d found in the mine, Gisela was gently lowered to the floor where she proceeded to balance herself carefully with a hand on her pack mule of a nord’s arm. At the mention of the mysterious summoning, all eyes turned to the breton.

“Uh, hello.” She waved awkwardly, “I’m Gisela. I, uhm, I’m not from around here.” There was a round of huffed chuckles. Igmund quirked a smile of his own.

“I think we’ve gathered that, girl. What can you tell us about this… Incident?” He prompted her. Gisela swayed ever so slightly, her legs a dark red that contrasted dramatically against the pale color of her sandals.

“Uhm,” She said, eyes big and wet, “Your people know more about this than I do I think,” there was some murmuring amongst the thanes and between Aicantar and his uncle Calcelmo. “Teleportation is scientifically impossible as far as I know.”

Calcelmo spoke up, “Not exactly,” All eyes turned to the old altmer, “Portals exist, though they take a vast amount of magicka to sustain. Without them, the Champion of Cyrodil would not have been able to kill Mankar Camoran. In the old days before the eruption of the Red Mountain, the Mages’ Guild had specialists who could connect their guild houses through portals.”

“The cake is a lie,” Gisela muttered, far too quietly for the court to hear, though a few of the people nearby raised eyebrows at the statement. Then she spoke up, “We don’t have anything like that in America.” That set the thanes tittering.

“And where is this… America that you’re from?” Ondolemar asked then, “I have never heard of such a place. Is it across the sea from Tamriel?”

Gisela stiffened, “Well, funny story,” she began, “The United States of America is the-” she counted her fingers, “One of the biggest nations in the world. And most of the world has been discovered. I’ve never heard of this place in the little bit of geography included in social studies. So as far as I can guess, none of the-” she stopped to count again, “seven continents on my planet includes a Tamriel.” Several people roared in outrage.

“The girl must be mad!” shouted Thongvor Silver-Blood, representative from the Silver-Blood family “How is such a thing possible?”

“Calcelmo, what do you make of her claims?” asked Raerek, Igmund’s steward. The wizard inhaled deeply, then sighed.

“It is rather outlandish and improbable,” he said, “But it is possible. We know for a fact that there are other planes of reality. Oblivion, Aetherius, the Void. Perhaps there is more we have yet to discover. Madness or not, we mustn’t discount her. Not now.” Calcelmo then turned to the Jarl, “I would study her, but I am already overworked as it is. I have precious little downtime that I can devote to researching this possibility. I cannot take her on full time.”

Jarl Igmund’s posture relaxed and he settled into his usual feline lounge, “It is indeed a mystery, one that I find myself fascinated by. Gisela,” The woman was swaying on her feet, despite the arm she held for support, “I offer you a place to stay here in Understone Keep as a guest. In return, I will assign a minder, as you are likely unfamiliar with our customs and frail of body. In return, I want Calcelmo to study you, try to understand what brought you here and what the effects of this summoning are or will be.”

“Works for me,” Gisela said weakly, “I’m honestly looking forward to sitting down. Any longer and I’ll just sit where I’m at.” Igmund laughed at that.

“Then I shan't keep you much longer, as for who will act as your guardian...” His eyes wandered those assembled, “Ah, yes. You’ve been awfully idle of late, Ondolemar. Perhaps this, ah, pet project, will keep you from getting too bored here. The Thalmor headquarters still have plenty of space for more guests after all.” The Justiciar grit his teeth, but forced a smile at the nord.

“Of course, if that is what you wish. I too, find myself rather intrigued as well.” He turned to stare at the aforementioned breton, who shrank under his eyes. “I will take very good care of her.”

Chapter Text

The woman was clearly touched in the head. Ondolemar inwardly cursed his misfortune, to be saddled with such a strange and useless human. As though he wasn’t already busy enough, he had been forced to take care of this new burden as though she was a pet in need of minding. Granted, the possibility of planes beyond the void would be incredibly interesting to his superiors, he was the one stuck with the madwoman.

Said madwoman had declared her intent to explore not long after Ondolemar had her brought to his office for observation. She had fidgeted for a bit as he dealt with the overwhelming amount of paperwork before making her proclamation, then tottered off on unstable legs. Ondolemar wasn’t very concerned about her, to be truthful. He had most of the information he needed from his agent, the rest he could collect from Calcelmo over time.

It was not at all surprising when she was escorted back to his headquarters roughly an hour later, looking very tired. She muttered something about needing a new cane before she dozed off slumped on the stone table. The guard who brought her had found her sitting outside the kitchens, sipping salted broth from a cup. Ondolemar made a note regarding her preferences, Gisela’s file was starting small but he was sure it would grow bigger with time. It would contain whatever important information he would need to include in his reports, but if there was something important know about humans from this ‘America’, every last detail could establish a pattern.

Gisela was unconscious for several hours, which was beneficial in regards to the stack of paperwork and reports Ondolemar had waiting for him. When she stirred at last, Ondolemar quietly glanced her way. The wild mess of mouse brown curls on her head was mussed and her eyes bleary with sleep. She looked around the room, blinking and furrowing her brows before she turned to him.

“Oh,” She said, slowly pushing herself to sitting upright, “It’s still happening.” Gisela shifted, tilting her head to one side and then the other. There was a sickening crunch of bone as she seemed to put herself quite literally back together.

“What is still happening?” Ondolemar humored her, curious as to whether or not her sleep addled state might loosen her tongue. Gisela blinked again, rubbing at her eyes and adjusting her strange spectacles.

“I’m not dreaming,” she yawned, “am I?” The altmer wondered about her mental state, and then about how different her home must be if she was so quick to recall her circumstances so soon after waking. “It’s just like the fanfics.” And then Ondolemar questioned her sanity again. Agent Queyan had reported that she used strange words that made no sense despite the context, a report that was clearly true.

“What is a fanfic?” Ondolemar asked, hoping to gain at least a little insight. Gisela yawned again and arched her back, releasing another series of popping noises.

“Fanfiction,” She grumbled, “Fiction of an already existing fiction written by fans.” That was an interesting term, Ondolemar thought to himself, for a word that he didn’t realized needed a unique name of its own.

“Fascinating,” he remarked, though his tone was a touch drier than he’d intended. The look Gisela leveled him with was impressive, considering how little of her face he could see. “Still with the mask? Whatever plague your homeland is dealing with doesn’t exist here.” A change of topic might be in order.

“Depends,” the breton said, helping herself to water from a pitcher Ondolemar kept in the office, “Have you ever heard of germ theory?” Ondolemar waited patiently for her to continue, watching her take a moment to replace the mask after her drink, “Disease is caused by life-forms smaller than the eye can see, and is usually caused by bacteria, viruses which are like tiny machines that try to destroy you from the inside out, and occasionally fungus.” That was… Unexpected. Swiping a piece of scrap parchment, he made a quick note about this “germ theory” that Gisela proposed.

“That is something that ought to be looked into,” he remarked, to which the breton crossed her arms and radiated some combination of contentment and smugness. Then she went rigid as a board.

“On that note,” she began, nervousness laced into each word, “How’s healthcare in Markarth?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What happens when someone gets sick?” She tried again.

“If they can afford it, they seek out either a priest or an alchemist for diagnosis and treatment. Why do you ask?” Ondolemar was quite curious as to her intentions with such information.

“Oh,” Gisela said dumbly, “I don’t have any money.” Ah.

“As your minder, your well-being is my responsibility.” Ondolemar assured her, though the thought of being in charge of keeping a human of all things in good health was degrading.

“That’s some shit luck, dude,” Gisela said, and Ondolemar promptly lost his train of thought. “I’m probably going to die soon.” Ondolemar pressed his fingers to his forehead to stave off an impending headache.

“And what brought you to that conclusion?” he asked with a long-suffering sigh.

“I have a lot of damage, and I take medicine several times a day every day to be able to function at the minimum level,” Gisela told him, picking at her fingernails, “Stopping one without a taper is bad. Stopping all of them is going to be hell. The withdrawal could kill me.” Ondolemar prayed to Auriel for strength, this human was going to be more trouble than he could have ever imagined.

“Fine, fine, I will alert the Jarl to your impending demise,” he waved towards the world in general with his free hand.

“I’m glad you understand,” Gisela said, as though it was that simple, “Maybe a priest or an alchemist will help with the pain a bit...” She trailed off, whatever mutterings she spoke muffled by the cloth mask still on her face. Ondolemar sent an agent to inform Jarl Igmund of Gisela’s revelation.

To say that Jarl Igmund was displeased to discover that his newest and most intriguing young guest might die mysteriously so soon would be a massive understatement. Ondolemar soon found the Jarl, Calcelmo, and the breton alchemist Bothela crowding his now comically undersized office.

“What sort of potions do you take?” The old hag asked. The list that Gisela gave, just describing her conditions and how many kinds of medicines she takes for them, it was beyond what anyone could have guessed from her overall demeanor, nor from how easily she spoke of it.

“That is...” Calcelmo trailed off, unsure of what to say to such a pitiful young woman. Said young woman seemed irritated by it.

“C’est la vie,” she said, her tone growing short, “That’s how it is on this bitch of an earth.” Bothela cackled at the girl’s sharp wit.

“I think I like you,” the old breton said with ease, “I can mix up something that will take the edge off of your pain and help you sleep while your old medicine clears your system. Igmund, you should talk to that priest of yours in the Halls of the Dead. Or a priestess from the temple of Dibella. The old medicine will be poison in the girl’s veins until she is clean of it. They may be able to assist her recovery.” Bothela was interrupted by a sniffle. Gisela sat in the middle of everything, wiping at red rimmed eyes.

Ondolemar took the pause in the alchemist’s directions as an opportunity to write down everything that was wrong with this breton woman from another plane. And what she implied that the “healthcare” of said plane was like. It was a fascinating concept, he’d ask about it more after the humans finished their emotional outburst. Ondolemar retracted his prior thought when he saw even the curmudgeonly Calcelmo was participating. He didn’t think the old altmer was capable of softness with anyone except that redguard housecarl, shameful a puppy love as it was.

Gisela, blessedly, seemed to share his level of tolerance towards this sort of display and was quick to usher everyone out of the office. She sniffled and wiped her nose on her too-tight shirtsleeve before replacing the mask.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she said, voice thick with feelings, “Still not used to people being so...” she gestured with a hand, “like that.” Ondolemar could hardly care less. Bothela, bedside manner aside, was more interested in the payment, while Calcelmo and Igmund were worried about their novel little guest dying before they could make her useful or study her. Ondolemar had more important things to think about than one complex little breton.

“If you’re truly sorry,” he decided aloud, “You would let me get back to my job.”

Chapter Text

Gisela had been in Skyrim for a week, and she had spent almost all of it wracked with withdrawals. Magic was wonderful, between sessions of restoration magic with Aicantar and Bothela’s potions she wasn’t feeling any worse than she would have felt during a very bad flare. Which was to say she felt like shit and she almost wished she were dead just so she wouldn’t have to deal with being corporeal anymore. The Thalmor were exactly what she’d have expected, Calcelmo was a softy at heart, and she didn’t trust any of the politician types who would come to ask questions about her home. Part of her wondered if the Thalmor hated her more for bringing them wandering in whenever the mood struck.

She hated the beds, she loved the linen clothing she wore while bedridden, and she absolutely loathed how little there was to do. Books were wonderful, she had a few on the side table (none of the lewd stories she'd read samples of in game), but her hands ached too much to turn the pages and her arms too weak to even support the weight of a single thin storybook. People watching was highly limited by the people who came to the Thalmor’s makeshift headquarters, and despite Ondolemar’s apparent need to keep an eye on her, he was about as entertaining as watching paint dry.

The altmer always had some microaggression (or macroaggresssion) on hand to wield if Gisela tried to engage him in conversation, and his note taking habit whenever someone talked to her was beyond irksome. Of course, she wasn’t up to crawling out to a busier place like the throne room, she could barely deal with the chamber pots. Weren’t dwemer supposed to be this highly advanced race with their amenities lasting literal ages after their disappearance? She wished they had invented toilets.

Of all the isekai tropes, she got to keep her original body when she was yanked through to a video game world. Her own awful, beautiful, and broken body and still had to complete almost a full month of withdrawals. Luckily, she’d been coherent enough in her shock to ask questions whose answers she knew or suspected, and that they wrote off her surprise at putting faces to names as general nervousness. Her brain fog was a blessing in disguise in this situation, despite prior knowledge of this world and the political situation in Markarth she was on the slower side of recall which made the Thalmor across the room think she was either dumb or distracted. Which was fair.

Speaking of, Gisela now wanted throttle the fans who thirsted for some of these people when they were just numbers in a machine. The real deal, the kind that wasn’t scripted or programmed to act a certain way toward the main character, were so much harder to figure out. Gisela’s fist clenched the wool blankets and fur that was piled on her to help her sweat out the drugs. It was too hot, she was fidgety, and the skin of her fingers already had a few too many scabs on it to keep picking at if she could help it. She had to do something.

“What do you think you are doing?” Ondolemar’s smooth voice broke the silence after she tossed the blankets back to let her body cool. Gisela leveled him with the most withering glare over her dampened mask that she could manage.

“It’s hot,” she said curtly, “If I sweat much more I’m going to dehydrate myself.” She’d done it before, it sucked.

“Then drink more water,” the infuriating man said, as though that wasn't also part of the problem.

“The cup is too heavy to lift that often,” Gisela pointed out, already having been in this situation enough times to have multiple rebuttals handy, “and the more I drink the more I piss and the more you have to sit there and listen to me piss.” Ondolemar’s quill stopped moving.

“Must you be so vulgar all the time?” he asked, turning to level her a look only to freeze and start turning an odd shade of blood orange (it’s fucking red), “Cover yourself up, woman, have you no shame?” Ondolemar closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose like he always did when she was getting to him. A glance down to see what had him so flustered revealed that excessive sweating and thin light colored clothing made for a very transparent combo. Especially when one was prone to swamp boob.

“Yes,” she decided firmly, “I am contractually obligated to be vulgar at least five times a day. And no, shame is for you ableds who don’t have to keep getting naked for doctors and med students.” Ondolemar flushed deeper, whether it was frustration or embarrassment Gisela didn’t know. But she knew how to find out and even the horrid ache in her bones wasn’t going to stop her now. She didn’t need to move to talk. “Besides, you’re a big boy. Haven’t you ever seen a nipple before?” The altmer choked. Point for Gisela.

“Why you-” Ondolemar sputtered, “That is none of your business!” Ah, getting angry at someone who is actively looking for buttons to push. A rookie mistake.

“You keep using words but all I’m hearing is ‘no’,” Gisela told him frankly, "Because that definitely wasn't a 'yes'." She wondered if he was going to blow a gasket if she kept this up. Ondolemar was opening his mouth to say something else that probably wasn’t going to be a hard yes or no when there was aknocking of metal on stone. That agent Gisela had met that first day stood there, gauntleted knuckles to the wall, face smooth and blank but eyes full of mirth. Queyan. Who was definitely trying not to laugh at her superior’s predicament.

Gisela gave her the most innocent of smiles, knowing the crease of her eyes would show what the mask hid, and let up on poor Ondolemar as Queyan delivered her paperwork for review. She listened to the elves talk, already bored again, something something suspected Stormcloak sympathizers. Poor fuckers, nothing like classic red vs blue politics where both options are shit. Damn Todd, was this supposed to be a caricature of American politics? It feels like a caricature of American Politics. Fuck.

Oh, more guests. Gisela jerked herself out of the roller coaster of ADHD as well as she could at the moment, which wasn’t much but she was at least paying attention. Mostly. This time it was two big nord men. She could tell they were nords because they were very tall, almost as tall as an altmer. Ouch, now who’s being kinda racist? The men approached her bed under the watchful eyes of her keeper, and she self-consciously pulled the blankets back up.

The shorter of the two men was dressed in quilted looking finery, while the taller was one that she had definitely seen in the Jarl’s court. The one that thought she was a nutcase. Then it clicked. Silver-Bloods. She pressed her hand on the side of her jaw, relishing the loud pop and the wince from everyone in hearing range, and thanked the gods that they would now mistake her clenched teeth for some kind of cripple bone thing.

“Well met,” the fancy pants man said, “My name is Thonar Silver-Blood, this is my elder brother and family patriarch Thongvor. I had some questions about the country you come from that I hoped I could ask.” Gisela noted both Thalmor quiet down dramatically, and Ondolemar slid her file closer to himself. Thongvor must have noticed too, because he shot the elves a look that would kill if such a thing were possible.

“Shoot,” Gisela said. When the men gave her a confused look, she sighed dramatically and said, “That means go ahead.”

“What are your country’s main exports?” Thonar asked. Gisela laughed. He was right to the point for sure.

“Fuck if I know, dude,” she said, “It doesn’t concern the little free-loaders like myself. I think my state does coal, but it’s been coal since at least the 1800's.” The Silver-Bloods exchanged looks.

“...Could you explain that a little more please?” Poor man needed a bone thrown to him.

“My country is fifty-two tinier countries in a trench coat pretending to be a giant,” Gisela said, relishing the look of alarm on the bastard’s face. “Not counting a few territories that conservatives will still argue as being foreign despite what the passports say. Each tiny country is called a state, and a state is like a very very big hold. We have the big head honcho and his people who rule over the states and the big laws, and smaller governments who manage the littler things with their own taxes and laws. Governors and senators and representatives of the people, shit like that. All of them were elected. No! Most of them.”

“Sounds complicated,” Thongvor chimed in. Of course, he was the family politician. This was his language she was speaking now.

“It’s called a democracy,” Gisela continued, sensing the opportunity to rant. She always loved a good rant, “but it’s honestly more of an oligarchy with the illusion of choice. The people in charge pretend to care about the common folk, but do the bare minimum to appease the majority and the rest is tax breaks for their rich buddies or wars for oil. It’s such bullshit.” Thonar looked like he wanted to intervene, but Gisela didn’t give him an inch, “And the corporate leaders like to think they’re better than us because they have money, as if money saved the last of the French monarchy from the guillotine. Fucking let them eat cake. We’re starting to remember how effective mobs are for dealing with their types. Unions exist because the miners and factory workers used to just drag their bosses out of their homes in the middle of the night to lynch ‘em in front of their whole familys. This is the peaceful option. I’m a democratic socialist myself, you know. The government should be for the people, by the people. What good is a society if it doesn’t serve the participants? That’s what a society fucking is!”

“That is a very interesting situation,” Thongvor said, “Can I ask you about-"

“Anyway!” Gisela interrupted, winded from the rant, “Eat the rich is our rally chant. Super catchy, we put it on shirts and shit. My head is killing me and I'm very tired.” The nords went silent. “What did you want to ask me about again?”

“You look rather peaked,” Thonar said cautiously, “Perhaps we should continue another time.” Gisela stared them down with a triumphant glint in her eyes the entire time they walked towards the exit. The moment they were out of hearing range, Queyan cracked.

“That was… Certainly thrilling,” she gasped between muffled laughing into her hand. Ondolemar even seemed amused, probably grateful to not be on the receiving end of Gisela’s rambling for once. Gisela sagged into the straw mattress, exhausted by the effort of talking so much. Worth it though.

“I’m gonna pass out now,” she told them frankly, and then she did.

Chapter Text

Ondolemar was cursing his misfortune once again. He’d been babysitting this mad breton woman for a good two weeks at this point, and she had been bed bound the entire time. His superiors were intrigued by the initial report he had sent after her arrival had turned Understone Keep on its head, and they wanted him to take advantage of her proximity to learn more about this new plane. Ondolemar was upset, yes, but he was resigned to it at this point.

The human was bored often. Her illness meant that her options for keeping herself entertained were minimum, and she’d been alternating between humming and mumbling incomprehensible music lyrics, staring at nothing and everything at once, and making people uncomfortable. Ondolemar had learned rather early on that Gisela was a petty woman. She derived a rather sadistic amount of glee from making her unfortunate audience squirm. She’d debate politics and religion with anyone who brought the topics up, and described a body’s inner processes in excessive detail. He had gotten used to her lack of modesty because she seemed to scent weakness like a hunting hound. Now that she was dealing with her monthlies, she had gone straight past annoying and into insufferable.

Gisela was currently writhing around on top of the bed and blankets. Her arms wrapped around her middle, holding a hearth warmed stone to her belly. After a few days after her “eat the rich” rant, she’d decided to forego her mask when there was no one within several meters of her person, so now Ondolemar could see her full range of facial expressions. She been doing little besides moaning and whining and complaining about the pains lately and Ondolemar had mostly tuned her out. Though, he had noted that she had very complex words to describe what was happening to her body.

“Dysmenorrhea” was one such word, which he learned from overhearing a conversation with Bothela. It apparently was the name of the pain a woman felt during her monthlies. Gisela had described it as being “comorbid”, or amplifying and being amplified by, other conditions. She’d mentioned a dysfunction of the pelvic floor muscles, the spasming of which, when combined with the dysmenorrhea, could pinch nerves in parts of the body that would cause her to crumple like a puppet with cut strings. It was apparent that her homeland was ahead of them in science and medicine by leaps and bounds, considering her knowledge. Gisela even confessed that what she knew was minuscule, and she’d only learned it to better explain her own conditions to the healers.

His only relief from the near constant stream of noise from the woman was when she was asleep, or when one of his agents helped her outside for fresh air. The agent named Queyan had taken a liking to the strange girl, and Gisela apparently liked her back well enough to chatter nonsense at her. Queyan’s reports of such outings were lacking greatly in important information, but full of context for some of the breton’s odd manner of speech. He now at least had a definition for the word "meme", which the woman was very fond of.

“Ondolemar.” The mer was yanked rudely from his thoughts, and he turned to look at the object of his aggravation.

“Yes?” Ondolemar asked, pouring as much vitriol into the word as he could manage.

“I miss music,” the woman said, her face smooth minus the pained crease between her brows, “At home I could have all the music in the world at the tip of my finger.” Ondolemar scrambled for his notes. “Now I’m here and everything is so quiet and I can’t drown out the noise in my head.” Now this was an interesting line of conversation.

“How could such a thing be possible?” he asked, “All the music in the world?” Gisela grimaced and her spine jerked into an uncomfortable looking arch.

“Grk-” she choked out, muffling her pain as she seemed wont to do. She hissed and swore under her breath before continuing, desperate for any kind of interaction it seemed. Or a distraction from the ache. “Yeah, the internet. I miss that shit. I could see what people were doing and thinking across the globe. People would put music out there, just recording it and uploading it for everyone to hear. I could listen for hours and hours.” Gisela’s eyes turned distant and fond. She seemed to have a passion for it.

“That is...” Ondolemar was unsure of what to think about this “internet”. The name was suggestive of the purpose. A network of some kind.

“I don’t know how it works,” Gisela admitted tightly, breathing herself through another cramp, “Machines running on weakened lightning, turning ones and zeros into words and sound and images. Instant connections to anyone else with access. Sharing art and writing and memes and shit. Fuck, I miss videos!” Ondolemar’s quill paused. There were too many new concepts to process. She’d talked about “videos” in the past. Like moving paintings, memories of people and places and animals. Theatrical performances taken to levels beyond anything he could imagine, she’d told him. Ondolemar was rather offended that she thought so little of his ability to understand such ideas, but at the same time, it was rather fantastical. Like memory crystals but so much more.

“I see you thinking,” Gisela said, forcing a teasing lilt, “Don’t think too hard or you’ll hurt that pretty head of yours. Or maybe your face will get stuck like that.” Ondolemar scowled at her. Pretty face? Him? She grinned at him cheekily. “Yes, like that! Total Kodak moment!” And she was back to her incomprehensible self. She rolled on her back and proceeded to choke on another swear of pain.

“Rather vexing creature, aren’t you?” Ondolemar muttered, doing his best to transcribe the concepts she’d brought up. Something like this “internet” would be incredibly useful to the Thalmor, if they could create such a thing. He scratched away for a while, making his way through reports and giving orders to agents who filtered in slowly. Business as usual, peace and quiet. Gisela, as always, loathed it.

“I have an idea,” she piped up when she could no longer contain her need to shatter his focus again.

“What?” he said more than asked.

“Yeah,” Gisela said, “I should meet a local musician.” Ondolemar let his head drop to the desk, ignoring Gisela’s victorious whoop. She delighted in making him so fed up that he broke his composure. Were it not for her unique origins, he’d have throttled her miserable neck long ago. “Seriously, Ondolemar! I haven’t sung in ages and I'm out of practice and even though everything hurts I have so many songs in my head that I neeeeeed to get them out! I teach some songs to a bard and they help me not sound so out of practice that I make your ears bleed! I see it as an absolute win!”

Ondolemar stared her down. Gisela met his eyes without fear.

“I can totally keep bitching at you if you prefer. I’ve got Jewish blood, kvetching is in my veins. You know I can go all day.” They glared needles at each other for several heartbeats. Ondolemar sent for Queyan. He needed her to find a bard.

Chapter Text

Yngvar was not sure what to expect when he was approached by a Thalmor agent in the Silver-Blood Inn. He’d watched with bemused interest as the high elf tried first to speak to the bard, Ogmund, only to be rebuffed before she could get her words out. He’d been hoping to see some action, but was quite surprised with the Thalmor instead approached him.

“I’m here on behalf of the… guest of Understone Keep,” she said, all prim and noble. Yngvar wrinkled his nose, both at the mention of the breton that had his employers in a tizzy and at the high elf in general. He had no love for the Thalmor, nor for the empire, but muscle wasn’t paid to talk.

“What about her?” he asked, taking a good long drink.

“She had requested,” there was a hint of mirth in the otherwise stoic woman’s eyes, “a bard. She is interested in the music of Skyrim and wishes to share some of her own.” That was an interesting proposition. Thongvor had been agitated about a breton claiming to be from another plane, one their scholars knew nothing about. Then Thonar returned to the Treasury House looking pretty damn out of it. He’d asked about exports and got a political tirade.

“Tempting,” Yngvar said, putting all the years spent in the Bard’s College to good use, “but what’s in it for me?” Working for free was off the table despite how interested he was in seeing this apparently vexing woman.

“We’ll pay you in coin of course,” the Thalmor dog assured him, “Or we can negotiate another appropriate payment if that does not interest you.” Yngvar feigned a mild air of disinterest, finishing off his mead. Black-briar of course.

“I’ll talk to the lass,” he agreed after he’d held the elf in a sufficient amount of suspense, “but I won’t promise anything.” The smile the woman gave him was almost unnerving. She had a glint of anticipation in her eye that almost made Yngvar regret accepting. But he was a true nord, and a man of his word. He’d go speak to this outsider, and see what she was made of.

Gisela, as he was introduced, was even more bewildering in person. She was on a bed in a room with a desk shoved into it, Thalmor Justiciar doing paperwork on it, and wearing a cloth mask over the lower half of her face. She pushed herself carefully to sitting on trembling arms, which were surprisingly thin.

“Merry meet!” she said cheerfully giving him a wave, “I’m achy as balls right now or I’d be meeting you somewhere else. My name is Gisela, yes the rumors are probably true.” Her cheery facade may have been fooling some, but Yngvar could hear through it. The woman was miserable.

“I’m Yngvar the Singer,” he said, “My pleasure.” She blinked at him, a glint of something in her eyes that was rather curious.

“You don’t look much like a bard,” she said, mask flexing as her eyes crinkled. Smiling no doubt. “Where I’m from, the word bard calls to mind brightly colored clothes and a feathered cap.” Yngvar laughed at the thought.

“I get more gold swinging an axe than I do by singing songs,” he told her, “But that doesn’t mean I’m out of practice. I am curious about how music sounds in your homeland.” Gisela looked up thoughtfully.

“Hm,” she hummed, “So many options to choose from. I was hoping to hear some local favorites so I can get a sense of what people here like. I can’t parrot instrumentals, so there’s only so much I can share. Lyrics that might need context too. It’s so complicated, but when in doubt I can always go with a working song.” Yngvar was looking forward to his time with the breton, despite the looming of the elves behind him.

“I didn’t bring an instrument,” he said, “but I don’t need one to sing. You?”

“A capella, nice,” she said, “I can roll with that.”

Yngvar started off simple, with a rendition of Ragnar the Red. Gisela listened, with a giggle at the ending. He sang Age of Aggression, and he sang more ancient songs such as Sway as We Kiss, and some popular drinking songs. Gisela clapped to each one, delighted by the performance.

“What sort of songs were popular in your country?” he asked, drinking water to sooth his voice.

“That’s a loaded question,” she said rather bluntly, “It depends on genre and location and personal preference. There’s such a thing as too many options and we had it. If you asked me my favorite style I’d freeze up.”

“What songs would you recommend to me?” he asked instead. He watched Gisela pause for a moment.

“I’d suggest the folk genre, though I couldn’t say whose folk music you’d like more. It’s just the closest to what you’ve sung. Russian folk tunes are very different than Irish after all, even if you ignore the language barrier.” He’d never heard of those countries, he was intrigued. “I know a few translated versions. There is that one...” she trailed off.

She shifted in her bed, carefully but not carefully enough going by her wincing. “I can’t stand up so this is the best I can manage for breathing. There’s a song written by a man from Ireland, but I learned of it listening to musicians from Finland. It’s called ‘Over the Hills and Far Away’.” Then she took a deep breath and sang.

They came for him one winter’s night

Arrested, he was bound

They said there’d been a robbery

His pistol had been found

They marched him to the station house

He waited for the dawn

And as they led him to the dock

He knew that he’d been wronged

“You stand accused of robbery”

He heard the bailiff say

He knew without an alibi

Tomorrow’s light would mourn his freedom

Over the hills and far away

For ten long years he’ll count the days

Over the mountains and the seas

A prisoner’s life for him there’ll be

She wasn’t the best singer, but she was expressive in her face and her voice carried the emotions of the story. In spite of what he assumed was missing the mark on several notes, she had potential. He wondered if she’d ever had a teacher.

He knew that it would cost him dear

But yet he dare not say

Where he had been that fateful night

A secret it must stay

He had to fight back tears of rage

His heart beat like a drum

For with the wife of his best friend

He’d spent his final night of freedom

Over the hills and far away

He swears he will return one day

Far from the mountains and the sea

Back in her arms is where he’ll be

Adultery? This was a very interesting song that she’d chosen to sing. Yngvar regretted not having paper with which to write it down.

Over the hills and

Over the hills and

Over the hills and far away

Each night within his prison cell

He looks out through the bars

He reads the letters that she wrote

One day he’ll know the taste of freedom

Over the hills and far away

She prays he will return one day

As sure as the rivers meet the seas

Back in his arms again she’ll be

Over the hills and far away

He swears he will return one day

As sure as the rivers reach the seas

Back in his arms is where she’ll be

Over the hills and far away

She prays he will return one day

As sure as the rivers meet the seas

Back in her arms is where he’ll be

Over the hills

Her voice softened and slowed as she brought the ballad to a gentle close.

Over the hills and far away

Over the hills

Over the hills and far away

Gisela pulled her mask below her chin to drink, looking surprisingly pretty in a youthful way. She was somehow both older and younger than he’d expected. Younger looking, but there were lines in that face that told of more experiences than a newly of age lass would have had.

The Thalmor woman that had invited him clapped, a genuinely delighted smile on her face. Yngvar hadn’t known the stuck up elves were capable of such things. Gisela grinned back, yet to replace the cloth on her face. He didn’t know why she wore it, but she was a foreigner and they were always trouble. This one, despite barely being able to walk, was more than anyone seemed to have expected. He hadn’t come to see her to do more than satisfy his curiosity, but if this was just one tidbit of songwriting in her mind from what she implied was a library of otherworldly genius, he wanted to know more.

“D’ya want me to write that down?” she asked him, tugging the mask back up, then paused and corrected herself, “I’d get someone else to do that, my wrist is jacked and my handwriting is illegible on good hand days.” Yngvar understood maybe half of that. The Justiciar at the desk sighed as if this sort of behavior was constant. He then plucked up a roll of paper and a charcoal stick that the agent from before accepted. She sat at a smaller table and transcribed as Gisela went through the lyrics again.

“What is a pistol?” The Justiciar interrupted.

“Like a tiny crossbow that you can hide on your person really easily,” Gisela said, not even having to think about it, “Loud as fuck though.” Yngvar found himself feeling almost fond for the breton and her casually filthy mouth.

“How does that work?”

“Do I look like a fucking engineer to you?” was the snappy reply. The nord bard turned merc faked a cough to hide a laugh. The girl was fearless it seemed.

“Not really,” Yngvar said, “What do you think you look like?”

“An art school drop out,” Gisela told him, eyes crinkling in a smile, “I was getting too powerful so the gods had to nerf me.” Someone in the room choked, one of the elves most likely. Her smile dropped. She adjusted her odd spectacles and brushed some of her wild brown hair behind her ear.

“You’re a funny one, I’ll give you that,” Yngvar said slowly, a bit caught on the wrong foot by the sudden change in mood.

“I try,” she said, “I’d sing for you more but I’m very out of practice. Oh, thanks Queyan.” The agent from before brought over the paper, the song written out in a neat and precise hand. Yngvar grunted a thanks, accepting the paper, which he then folded and stashed safely in a pocket.

“I’m looking forward to more.” he said honestly. As he left the keep, giving a nod of acknowledgment to Thongvar, he found the odd woman’s song was stuck in his head. He hummed the melody, making his way down the slope back to the inn. Gisela may not have the voice of a nightingale but she had a way of making herself memorable, that was for sure.

Chapter Text

There were pros and cons to the introduction between Gisela and Yngvar the Singer. She’d made a new friend to talk to, which was all well and good, but the important part was that Ondolemar was discovering how many secrets and cultural relevance could be hidden in a song. Asking her to elaborate on a line’s context produced a wealth of information, much of it useless to the Thalmor, but helpful in making sense of other details. The major downside was that she was fixated on music. Attempting to write down whatever songs came to mind took up much of her time, time that she wasn’t using to harass him anyway, but she tended to mumble while she did it. And in the breaks she took to rest her hand and massage her wrist, Ondolemar had discovered that she had the unfortunate habit of murmuring a few lines from one song before switching to another. Mumbling aloud thoughts between. And that was the cause of his current headache.

“Low-key fuck twenty twenty,” she sang under her breath, just loud enough to be annoying, “Still sad, still ain’t got no money.”

“The grammar is atrocious,” Ondolemar knew that engaging her was at his own peril, “And what does that even mean?” Gisela tilted her head at him wonderingly.

“Grammar is stupid and doesn’t believe in dialects nor the natural evolution of language,” she pointed out, “You people have a calendar yeah? I heard someone mention it once, portioned off into months based on the lunar cycle?” Ondolemar narrowed his eyes. That was an exceptional level of detail for such a distracted creature. “Same with my people, the majority religion reset the year back to 0 in regards to the birth their god’s mortal avatar slash son. Well, the pandemic hit my country early in the year two-thousand and twenty. Write it out and you get twenty twenty.”

“You said they reset the year?” Ondolemar asked curiously, having asked her about religion prior and gotten a long winded ramble for it, “What was it before they reset?”

“Fuck if I know, I’m a peasant,” That was a shame. “We do number the years prior to that backwards.” And now it’s nonsense. Ondolemar raised a brow at her but she was making a face at her wrist.

“And what purpose does that serve?” Gisela looked at him like he was stupid.

“My current calendar says the year is two thousand and twenty-one AD. If I told you something happened in the year two thousand BC, that would mean it happened roughly four thousand years ago.” Ondolemar hummed, making a note. It did make sense when one put it that way.

“For a self proclaimed peasant, you are highly educated.” It was meant to be complimentary, but the woman guffawed. The gall.

“The education system in my country has socialist roots,” she said with a grin, “I got nearby schooling from the age of five to eighteen for free.” Ondolemar paused. An education system that was funded by taxes, free to all children? That would make for an overall more powerful country, would it not? It would certainly benefit Auridon. Ondolemar found another piece of paper and began to brainstorm, a term Gisela had used once and, while ridiculous, was a good word nonetheless.

“I think Yngvar will like this one,” Gisela mused after a while, “Work songs for the working class after all, appropriate for the location, shouldn’t be any mystery words in here that I’d need to change in case he decides to sing it in the tavern. Oh. Fucknuggets! I forgot that bit.” The apparent need for creative swearwords that Gisela’s homeland had was rather silly, Ondolemar thought almost fondly.

“By the eight,” he groaned, regardless, “What is the problem now?”

“How faux pas is it to sing a song about unity when you’re in a foreign country that’s engaging in civil war?” Ondolemar put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Foe pah?” he asked, already exhausted of putting up with the woman.

“A big social blunder. Don’t ask me to spell it, French is full of unnecessary letters.”

“Then it would probably be a very large social blunder,” Ondolemar said, ignoring the mention of France. Gisela groaned aloud.

“Argh! I’ll put this one to the side then,” she folded the paper and set it further away from her on the tiny wooden table next to her bed that she was sitting at. Her legs crossed and knees to the side, because her feet swell if they hang over the side of the bed. Because she could do so many things one takes for granted poorly. Pulling forward a clean sheet, she scratched an itch on her face the smeared charcoal across her cheek and nose. Ondolemar decided not to mention it. Aicantar would visit later to check on her recovery, and she would probably be mortified, but it would be nice if she was the one embarrassed for once.

“I’m a bitch, I’m a boss, and my shine like gloss,” Gisela mumbled again, tapping a finger on the stone, deep in thought thinking up a new song to share. Noise aside, Ondolemar went back to work, only to be interrupted again by a loud snort. He gave her the most withering glare he could muster.

“Sorry,” she said softly, unnecessary since he’d already been distracted again, “How prudish are people here and would a song about masturbation be appreciated?” Ondolemar schooled his features and took deep breaths. His ears felt hot and he felt incredibly annoyed.

“Nords are uncivilized folk,” he ignored her mutter of ‘seems civilized to me’, “They will like delight in it, disgusting as they are.” He leveled her with a glower, “I was under the impression that bretons are supposed to be of a higher stock, but it seems I was wrong.”

“Blood purity is bullshit and inbreeding is what made the Hapsburg jaw possible,” she paused, “A dramatic but non-lethal physical deformity caused by a royal family refusing to lower themselves enough to marry anyone of a lower social standing. Don’t marry cousins. Unless they’re like third cousins, but I think that’s still risky.”

“Rambling,” Ondolemar reminded pointedly.

“And sex jokes have been around since people were civilized enough to invent prostitution, which is the oldest profession in the world according to scholars!” she was really getting started, “We have translations of crude jokes dating to well over six thousand years ago, at least on my world. Times change, technology changes, people never change. And I think that’s true of your people too.” Ondolemar scowled.

“And what would a foreigner know of my people?” he asked, baiting her.

“Enough,” she said, “Enough to know that no matter where you are in the multiverse, there will always be war and cruelty and bigots. Enough to know that people will always find a reason to justify oppression. Modern humans on my world are the only advanced species, we don’t have elves or orcs or khajiit or argonians, but we didn’t need them to be like this. Instead, we made it about skin color. We made it about religion. There’s always going to be some backwards, fucked-up, and blinders wearing asshats who believe themselves superior because something they made says so.”

Ondolemar was rather speechless. She let loose a rather large amount of information regarding her world. A world where there was only humans? She had been dodging questions so often that he never realized it. Humans who behaved superior to other humans for the same kinds of reasons the Dominion had begun their crusades in the first place.

“Thor hold me back,” the woman muttered, eyes closed, “Because I am about to smack a bitch.”

“Humans, wielding the same divine right as the altmer?” Ondolemar thought aloud.

“They thought they were justified because their God made them better than others,” Gisela added, “Because the holy book written by a human from their country and culture said so. That book has been edited hundreds of times over thousands of years and people still wield it as a weapon of superiority. We've had our bloody crusades, we just call it something else now.” She scribbled aggressively at the paper. Ondolemar glanced over and saw a very odd tree, cradling circles in its branches and along its trunk.

“This is the World Tree, Yggdrasil. Tree of the Cosmos. My religion is one that is being found again, slowly, after the Christians converted the old worshipers and rewrote the texts. We’re struggling though, we have too many backgrounds and differing opinions to agree on practice,” Gisela sounded wistful, tired, “Yggdrasil holds all the nine realms in its branches, and is also called the Tree of Knowledge.” She pointed at the circles, “Ásgarð, where the Aesir gods reside. Vanaheim, of the Vanir gods. Álfheim, home to the elves of light. Miðgarð, my realm, made from the body of a dead giant named Ymir. Jötunheim, where the giants reside now, primal gods of nature. Múspellsheim, the realm of fire. Svartálfaheim, where the dusk elves live. Niflheim, a realm of the dead, where those who die of old age or sickness go, sometimes called Helheim. And Niðavellir, sometimes Myrkheim, where the dwarves live.” Ondolemar drew a sharp breath. Dwemer? But in a realm of their own? And Ymir sounded a lot like Ysmir, though their roles in mythology seemed very different. Ymir was more like Lorkhan, names aside.

“Ondolemar,” Gisela broke him from his stunned reverie, tone lighter, voice weaker, “You’re thinking too hard again, hun.”

“Perhaps you will tell me of your gods some time. I am curious of… potential overlaps,” Ondolemar hoped he did not sound too shaken. Gisela gazed at him serenely, too much so. There was a knowing look in her eye that he did not like, and then she smiled warmly. Like she was humoring him. Like she could see though him.

“Of course. You have a report to write after all, and I wore myself out. Aicantar will wake me up if I’m still sleeping when he gets here.” She wiped her hands on her blankets, charcoal still smudged on her nose, then curled up facing away from him. Ondolemar picked up his quill and dipped it in ink only to stop before he touched it to the parchment. Gisela was blissfully silent, as though she didn’t just give him an overwhelming amount of world changing information. If humans in a plane so separate from his own had carried out the same mission as the Aldmeri Dominion, numerous times, and failed, what did it mean for his own people? If humans from another plane believed there was a world where there was only dwarves, did it mean that could be where the dwemer vanished to?

Ondolemar looked at the breton again. No, not breton, he told himself. There was no High Rock, no mingling with ancient elves where she was from. Just a human. Only a human. Ondolemar stared at the now sleeping woman and stood, walking over to her drawing. It was surprisingly detailed, but she had previously claimed to have been a student of art.

A monstrous beast was nested in the roots, eating them. A smaller bird sat on the head of a larger one in the highest branches, and four deer were eating leaves from the tree. A squirrel clung to the trunk. Gisela had turned the charcoal flat and filled the space around the tree and its planes black. Like a void. The fine hairs on the back of Ondolemar’s neck stood on end. Could there be more connections between her Earth and Mundus than he first thought? And what did that mean for her appearance here? Now?

Chapter Text

Aicantar enjoyed his visits with the otherworldly young woman. His skill in restoration magic was improving by leaps and bounds over the past several weeks, and she way always polite and friendly towards him. She had no hangups over sharing information she had in regards to how medicine and science differed in her homeland, and though her jokes made little sense, her honesty was a breath of fresh air in politics of Markath.

He’d begun to examine and carefully undo what appeared to be years of internal scarring, asking questions about the interesting way she was pieced together. Evidence of old injuries repaired. When healing a slightly slipped mandible, he discovered gaps where four teeth should be. Her reaction to being told was highly informative and incredibly fantastical.

“We call them wisdom teeth, they’re mostly vestigial at this point. Useless. Left over from when my species’ ancestors had smaller brains and larger jaws. They’re prone to coming in kinda crooked and can mess up the rest of our teeth if they do so if they get impacted, we remove them,” Gisela said, enjoying the opportunity to ‘sound smart’ as she put it. When asked if she didn’t think she was smart other times, she simply said that she has approximate knowledge of many things and barely anything she can easily apply to life.

Gisela was hissing through her teeth as he fussed at her wrist. It was horribly inflamed internally. She called it carpal tunnel syndrome with a repetitive motion injury. Or “I used my hand too much and it got mad at me”. She had the silliest manner of describing things, a scientific way and a humorous way.

“Ondolemar!” she called to the Thalmor Justiciar looming in the background of what was both Gisela’s bedroom and a public space combined, “Remember what I taught you about desk yoga!” she squeaked as Aicantar worked gently to reduce the irritation around the nerves in her wrist, “Do not repeat my mistakes!”

“And what mistakes would that be?” Aicantar’s uncle, an expert on the ancient dwemer and falmer cultures, walked in, carrying several scrolls of varying colors and ages.

“Neglecting taking care of oneself,” Aicantar said, testing the woman’s range of motion.

“Why would you say something so true but so hurtful?” Gisela asked him earnestly but lightly, making him laugh. Then she grinned beneath her mask and huffed a small laugh of her own.

Ondolemar stood and spoke to Calcelmo in hushed voices. Aicantar saw the Thalmor produce a charcoal drawing to show his uncle. When he turned to his patient, he saw Gisela staring with deep crease between her brow and a breathing a soft "oh no".

“It won’t help to worry,” he told her gently, “It’s bad for the healing process.”

“My mind is about sixty percent worries on a good day,” was Gisela’s quick retort, “Besides, I have a feeling I know what this is about and I don’t like where this is going.” Aicantar lifted a curious eyebrow, but was interrupted by Calcelmo’s approach.

“This is fascinating stuff, my dear,” the old mer said, looking at the drawing. Aicantar saw it was a tree, with beasts and circles, surrounded by black, “You told Ondolemar that one of these ‘realms’ was inhabited by dwemer?” Aicantar’s brows shot up.

“Dwemer?”, Gisela asked.

“Some people call them the Dwarves.” Calcelmo tried again.

“Oh! Yes, though to be honest we’re still not completely sure which one. Some think that they live in Svartalfheim, and are the same as the dusky elves, others say they’re in Niðavellir. Either way, they live in the dark, have skin as black as the void, and are renowned across the realms as the greatest smiths and craftsmen.” Gisela stopped, then tilted her head with a curious look at Calcelmo, “Does that help?”

Calcelmo was had spread his papers across the nearest surface and was writing frantically, “Indeed! This could be revolutionary! Perhaps the dwemer went to your cosmos when they vanished from Tamriel, it would support several theories as to their disappearance.” Gisela’s face went pale, then flushed vivid red.

“My religion and its mythology is just one of hundreds,” she protested weakly, “It’s a minority religion, really-”

“Thank you! Thank you for agreeing to speak with me about this,” Calcelmo continued.

“Actually-” Gisela tried again. Only to watch rather helplessly as the scholarly mer bundled his papers into his arms and took off at a brisk pace. She looked at Aicantar and Ondolemar helplessly, “I think I just broke the prime directive or something. If I claim fairy circles, maybe it won’t apply to me..?”

Gisela was rather quiet for the rest of the healing, though it was mostly calming whatever internal irritation was making her pain worse, their sessions were usually rather short. Now she was having an episode with her abnormally rapid heart that had Aicantar fumbling to calm. She seemed quite deep in thought, only broken by a soft humming and watering eyes.

“Far over the misty mountains cold,” she sang, low and with a tight voice, “To dungeons deep, and caverns old. We must away, ere break of day, to seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, while hammers fell like ringing bells. In places deep, where dark things sleep. In hollow halls, beneath the fels...”

“It’s beautiful,” Aicantar said, reverently.

“It’s part of a great story, an epic,” Gisela murmured, barely loud enough for Ondolemar to hear from his desk, “Of dragons and lost homes, dwarves and wizards and small folk and adventure. War and peace and magic. It means a lot to me, a lot to many people.” She wiped away a tear just before it fell. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to go home.” Gisela’s voice broke with a muted whimper and she sniffled.

Aicantar froze up, unsure how to comfort a teary-eyed human woman. He awkwardly put his hand on the least sore of her shoulders, and she forced a huff of laughter.

“I’ll deal with it, I’ll need to cry sometimes but that’s okay. As long as I don’t give up,” the flex of her mask implied a big smile, though the mer didn’t believe it for a second, “Irregularly scheduled breakdowns are normal and good for you.”

“Well, it could be worse,” Aicantar admitted thoughtfully, before realizing that might not be the best way to be supportive. To his surprise though, Gisela just laughed.

“That is true,” she giggled, rubbing her thumb over a picked short fingernail, “I could have ended up somewhere more remote, died of exposure or killed by beasts. I could have been completely alone here.”

Aicantar breathed a sigh of relief that he’d been more helpful than harmful and she laughed again, sounding lighter.

“I do like the grim humor, by the way,” she teased him, her eyes smiling a little more over the now ratty looking cloth. Then she leaned back into her pillows, groaning as her spine popped loudly. “Maybe I’ll retell the story from before. The Hobbit. It wouldn’t be as good as the original, I’m not a skald, but it would be new to everyone here and comforting to me.”

“I would like to hear it,” Aicantar told her honestly.

“Hey,” Gisela said, “If I got help to write down stories from Earth, d’you think I could get rich?”

“Blatant plagiarism aside?” the Justiciar asked over his paperwork, “There is a chance of it. But I question your morals.”

“Oh no!” she said, feigning distress, “I’ve been tossed into another world and I have no money! How will I ever survive?” Gisela snorted, “I may not be the brightest bitch on the block but I have an avenue I can take. Besides, how many bards do you know that write down and perform nothing but their own original shit? Even musicians back home will sing their takes of other people’s songs. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” She shrugged and Aicantar was almost mesmerized by the feedback the crunching of a loose shoulder sent back through the restoration spell.

“If you insist,” Ondolemar said, “tell me about Rome.”

Chapter Text

Sounds like the plot’s started, Gisela mused to herself. She’d been clinging to Queyan’s arm (gal had some muscle like damn) with one hand and leaning on a wooden cane near the throne room when she first heard. The Keep was abuzz with the news. Tulius had had Ulfric Stormcloak in Helgen, then Helgen was destroyed by a dragon, and now the war was still on. The Thalmor had gotten antsier, but Gisela had felt so much tension leave her body knowing for sure that she wasn’t some anime protagonist, she was pretty sure her minders were suspecting her of being a rebel sympathizer. A reiteration of her previous political speeches (she felt like an old timey communist preaching to factory workers... Almost) nipped that line of thought in the bud.

The more scholarly of the many altmer in Understone were still looking at her like she was some kind of key to a complicated code. Like the solution to the puzzle of the ages. Calcelmo visited more often, performing some kind of odd magic tests. Perhaps seeing how a being from across the void reacts to the powers of Aetherius? Aicantar already discovered that her body reacted well to restoration magic, she wasn’t resistant like some transmigrants in stories. Neither was she overly sensitive.

Gisela did learn that her body had started to accumulate magicka. The look on Calcelmo’s face when he asked if she’d been born under the sign of the Atronach only to be told she was a Pisces still gave her the giggles. Aicantar had taken to talking with her as his uncle worked his literal magic, listening to her rambling stories, and doing his best to accommodate her questions about Tamriel.

“I can’t believe that dragons really exist here,” she gushed at him, “I used to be obsessed with them as a kid, I loved reading about them.”

“The stories are incredible,” Aicantar agreed, “Though it is a shame they’re so dangerous. And now that they’re back...”

“I wonder what else here is real that my world thinks are myths. Like actual myths and not just extinct.” Gisela said, “Unicorns?”

“Real, but very rare.”

“That’s sick, what about mermaids?”

“A woman with a fish tail? I’ve heard stories, but I think they’re myths,” Aicantar shrugged.

“Well that was an easy one to be honest, every continent on my world has several countries with myths about fish-human hybrids. What about shapeshifters?” Gisela made an undignified squeal as her entire left leg was overwhelmed with a pins and needles sensation.

“Apologies, m’dear,” Calcelmo said, and the feeling faded out quickly, “There are indeed men who change their skins to that of beasts. Wolves and bears mainly. It is a curse from Hircine.”

“Hircine is… one of the big demon lords, yeah? Daedra?” Gisela asked, as though this was new information to her and not a previous hyperfixation.

“Correct!” Aicantar smiled, “You learn quickly.”

“Immersion learning is a hell of a motivator,” she waved off the compliment. Internally she preened over the praise. “Yngvar has been telling me legends and stories. Now that the dragons are back, I won’t be surprised if there’s going to be a theme with the next few. Oh, everything alright Calcelmo?” Gisela watched as he dragged a wooden stool over to sit on.

“By now you should have stockpiled enough magicka to try and learn a simple spell. It would be helpful for you to learn the most basic restoration, so that you can care for yourself as needed. Over the course of the last two months, you should’ve gotten a good feel of a healing spell. What did it feel like to you?” Gisela froze, gaping at the mer.

Ondolemar’s ever-watching gaze came down on the small gathering hard, but he didn’t say anything. Perhaps curious to see what happened? If she learned healing magic, she could be more independent, even just a little. She might be able to walk without needing a person to hold her up, just her and her custom stick. No being in constant terror of getting stuck after a fall. To just, patch herself up and keep going.

“It-” she croaked, then paused to sniffle and clear her throat, “It feels like mint oil, cool without cold, and tingly. It’s soothing, like putting your hands in a cool stream on a hot day.”

“Good,” Calcelmo smiled in a grandfatherly way, “It feels a little different to everyone. Now think about how that feeling, focus it into your hands.” Gisela almost wanted to laugh. She’d grown up neo-pagan, Wiccan, before she found calling in more Heathen practices. This reminded her of being young being taught how to ground herself and her energies. Was modern witchcraft and fantasy land magic really so close? Was being able to visualize the movement of energy in her mind and body all there was to it?

Focus. She closed her eyes, best to start without the visual noise. Inhale 1, 2, 3, exhale 1, 2, 3, repeat. She imagined herself, a crude map of everything she could sense. The tremble in her chest as she controlled her breath, the sound of bone creaking where her vertebra connected to her skull, the slow and regular slipping in her hip that came with gravity pulling her down, the tingle of neuropathy in her feet.

Healing magic was cool and soothing, aloe on a sunburn or an ice pack on an inflamed joint. It was stepping into an air conditioned building in the summer, without the coughing of temperature sensitive lungs. In the game it was golden light and the chime of bells, like some kind of holy miracle. Being actually in Skyrim, it was light still, but the skin itself was what seemed to glow. But Gisela had breathed the belief in magic with her first breath, was raised to know that her magic was her own will.

In her mind's eye, she looked at her core, the pit of her chest where her diaphragm and lungs were. Next to and below her heart. Where she ached or swelled in emotion. She imagined a soft haze, like the mist of morning dew dissolving in the waking light. She visualized the mist condensing in her veins, running through her body, down her arms and into her hands. Focus on the coolness, focus on the balm.

“That’s it,” Calcelmo said encouragingly, “Incredible, on the first try too...”

“As I will it, so mote it be,” Gisela murmured, muffled by the mask, a secret smile on her lips. It was cheesy, a piece of Wiccan “tradition” that was stolen from the Freemasons, but it felt appropriate. When she opened her eyes, she saw a soft glow around her tingling palms. It faded as she lost her grip on the feeling. “Woah...”

“Amazing, you’re a natural,” Calcelmo praised, “You grasped the concept with such efficiency-” he was cut off when Ondolemar swept in to stare Gisela down.

“How interesting,” the Justiciar almost drawled, “that someone who claims to be from a world without magic could be such a prodigy.” Gisela’s pride turned sour.

“I never said my world didn’t have magic,” she pointed out, “Just that we didn’t have anything like the magical feats here. We have the concept, but it’s different.” Ondolemar stood up straight, looking down his nose at her. “Magic is ritual and intent and incantations. If you want something, you strengthen yourself to take it or you bargain with the universe to give you the opportunity. It’s not lights and flashy fire or instantly fixing a cut. It’s finding harmony in what’s around you and within you, tapping into it for guidance and luck, to nudge the fates to help or harm. It’s the lifeblood of the universe.”

“Any yet you managed with the magic of Aetherius just fine,” Ondolemar pointed out, and Gisela wondered if he just wanted her to spell it out for him to hear her say it or if he actually missed her point. He usually picked up on things very quickly.

“I was a practitioner back home,” she leaned back against the pillows propping her up, “Moving internal energies is used for a lot of things in neo-witchcraft. I’ve been doing it as ‘grounding’ since I was old enough to sit still for long enough. Call it cheating, but I was moving Aetherial magicka long before I had any!” Gisela glared, huffing through her mask. Ondolemar held the stare, but didn’t say anything to rile her up further.

It occurred to Gisela at that moment that she tended to info dump when she was angry or frustrated. Ondolemar purposefully irritating her in order to make her rant was definitely in character for him, and he got more out of it than she did. Even if she got to take his silences after as a victory. Calcelmo and Aicantar just happened to be caught in the middle of the spat this time.

“Sorry about that,” she apologized to them. They waved it off politely, quick to cover up their discomfort. “Does that visualization trick help with learning other spells?”

“If I said ‘no’, would you try anyway?” Calcelmo asked. Gisela nodded, and he sighed. “It does, a little. But it is incredibly unwise to practice without a more practiced mage around in case of problems.”

“I’m childish, not a child,” Gisela teased with a smile in her eyes, silently thanking Tyra Banks for the smize, “I actually was thinking about practicing more after I calm down. Is it safe for me to keep casting Heal?” Calcelmo glanced over at the Thalmor, who had returned to his desk.

“...It should be alright, as long as you are not alone. But do not attempt anything new with an instructor such as myself or even my nephew.” Aicantar almost pouted at being acknowledged as barely qualifying, but seemed to think better of it.

“Thank you,” Gisela said with utmost sincerity, “You don’t know how much this means to me.” It could help her survive all the shit Skyrim was looking forward to after all. The mainland didn’t just have dragons, but there would be vampires brazen enough to make the Dawnguard form. If she could heal… Maybe she would stand a chance in this world.

Chapter Text

Swapping stories and songs with Yngvar was always a highlight of Gisela’s day on those days he came. She was exhausted afterwards, dozing for at least an hour before some ache or pain woke her, but she was lighter for the routine. The stories she told him of heroes and greatness always had some underlying current of the consistency of human nature, she spoke of the folly of gods and the hubris of men. She sang of love and pain, of anger and longing.

Ondolemar would always find himself thinking about what he heard for hours, sometimes days. It was painful, the feelings of doubt Gisela seemed to stir in him. How such a frivolous and excitable human could stir such feelings in him, Ondolemar did not know, but he found it infuriating. One moment, she would be rambling about some inane curiosity, the next she would say something so deeply profound that it made his head spin.

Gisela, of course, was already aware that she was prone to such a behavior. “It’s how people with ADHD think,” she’d said, and the implications of its normality was alarming, “We make connections in our minds so quickly that other people think we’re changing topics but in reality, we’ve been reminded of a dozen related things all stemming from a single thought.”

And now, she was sitting here, telling the nord mercenary and bard about some “bog man’s” lyrical poetry. “It’s so intense and passionate, but he’ll be singing of something so normal and silly.” It reminded Ondolemar of Gisela.

“You’ve got my attention,” Yngvar said, “Maybe you could give me an example?” Gisela was grinning, eyes crinkled and worn out mask pulled up over her nose. Ondolemar fished out a fresh piece of paper and quill.

Honey, this club here is stuck up

Dinner and diatribes

I knew well from the first look of

The look of mischief in your eyes

Your friends are a fate that befell me

Hell is the talking type

I’d suffer hell if you’d tell me

What you’d do to me tonight

Tell me

Tell me

Tell me, ah

There was a gleam of roguishness in her eyes and she sang. Her time with Yngvar had improved her vocal control and the pain relief from repeated restoration magic gave her better breathing, making her performances all the better.

That’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of!

She went from singing with a teasing tone, delivering the lyrics almost casually to crying out for the world to hear. The sounds carried enough for the stone walls and ceiling to reflect the words, reverberating in the room and halls.

That’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of!

Honey, I laugh when it sinks in

A pillar I am, upright

Scarcely can speak for my thinking

What you’d do to me tonight

Now that the evening is slowing

Now that the end’s in sight

Honey, it’s easier knowing-

What you’d do to me tonight

Tell me

Tell me

Tell your man

That’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of!

That’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of!

As Gisela crooned, Ondolemar questioned what silliness she’d claimed was hidden in the song, somewhere within the discomfort of what was such subtly erotic lyrics. She was naturally coarse in nature, but to hear her sing such intelligent lasciviousness was leaving him... Discomfited.

Ooh!

Let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised

And that kind of love

Ooh

Let there be damage ensued and tabloid news

And that kind of love

Mmmm...

That’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of

Ah

Oooh!

Ah, that’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of!

And that’s the kind of love

I’ve been dreaming of!

Picking up her cup for a drink of water signaled the end of the song, and Ondolemar sat back and looked at his paper. There wasn’t much written on it, distracted by his thoughts like he was.

“It’s sexy,” Gisela said, only a tiny bit hoarse in the throat, “It’s romantic too, yes?” Yngvar agreed with that review. “What is silly about the song is that the man who wrote it, the bog man part is a joke by the way, the man who wrote it said that it’s about the relief one feels when leaving a social gathering that they didn’t want to attend in the first place!”

Yngvar laughed wholeheartedly, a deep belly laugh. “It makes sense,” he agreed, “It’s poetic and beautifully written, you sang it well.” Gisela pulled up the mask and blushed a fair amount.

“You helped with that part,” she waved him off. Ondolemar noticed how despite her appreciation for praise, she often seemed wont to try and convince herself and others that it was not entirely deserved. It was another one of her irksome habits.

“You can only sharpen a blunt sword so much before it’s gone completely,” Yngvar was fond of weapon analogies, “You had it in you, I just helped you hone the skill.” Gisela looked ready to object, but wisely held her tongue.

“A very pleasant song. It suits your voice,” Ondolemar added, uncertain as to why he felt left out nor why he was annoyed by it. “I would be interesting in hearing more that this ‘bog man’ wrote. Or perhaps something of a similar level of poetic.” Yngvar was nodding, oh how it must pain him to agree with an elf, but Gisela gave an anxious flap of her hands.

“You would?” she looked ridiculous, even with half her face covered, gobsmacked by the comment. How such a small utterance could affect her so was quite amusing. “I mean- sure I guess. I can pick something else he wrote or something like that. N-not today but next time? I need time to think.” It was a little cute, Ondolemar thought, seeing her flustered and tripping over her words. It brought a paltry sense of satisfaction to turn the tables on her, to make her squirm, but what satisfaction there was was so very sweet. Ondolemar found that he could understand why Gisela enjoyed causing others to fluster so often. What fun!

Eventually, as with all things, Yngvar’s responsibilities sought him out and he bid Gisela farewell. Ondolemar returned to his duties, and Gisela rested. Rather than sleep, she had recently begun to spend more time in meditation. Much like priests and monks. Only Gisela was learning to make restoring her body more instinctive. They'd heard talk of the Greybeards, men discussing how they could shout like dragons. Of course, it took years of careful meditation, which was where Gisela had gotten the idea. Th whispering had picked up after all of Skyrim seemed to shake one day, with a crack of distant thunder the cry of “Do-vah-kiin”.

With word spreading about the appearance of a Dragonborn, so too did talk of Talos and Ysmir. Of course, the mortal man who allegedly ascended was a dragonborn himself. It was getting more difficult to suppress Talos worship when his name and variations henceforth was on everyone’s lips. Ondolemar was duty-bound to deal with any cases of non-compliance towards the Concordat, but he found himself hesitating more often.

“Most of the popular religions have legends of mortals gaining divinity,” Gisela had told him once, “Apothesis is present on almost all the continents in some form. Why do the Thalmor hate it so much? If a Dragonborn is made by Auri-El or Akatosh with the soul of a dragon, of his children, then are they not his child? Talos isn’t just mortal, but part god. Why can’t a demigod achieve true godhood?”

Ondolemar had been unable to form a rebuttal, but he could not keep himself from returning to it. The question was so innocent, so simple, but it made him wonder. The mer had been forcefully removed from the immortal Aetherius, spirits given form, but they were not handcrafted by Aedra like the dragons were. The dragons, theoretically, were still immortal. Their souls could not be forever sundered, no true death existed for them, not without a dragonborn to devour them. Perhaps mer were superior to men, but if all dragonborn had been human, were they favored by Auri-El more than the mer?

His stomach turned and his head ached at the thought. Ondolemar put his quill down with an inward groan, and glared at the source of his stress. Gisela was reclined peacefully on the bed, eyes closed and mask up. There was no tension on her face, no crease between her brows. How dare she make his life so difficult and act like nothing was wrong! Ondolemar stood up and made his way towards the halls, intent on trying to clear his head.

“Enjoy your walk,” Gisela said, apparently still awake and meditating. Ondolemar scowled at the woman, and stalked out. The nerve of her.

Chapter Text

Jarl Igmund had a lot on his mind on a good day. With Jarl Stormcloak holed up in Windhelm again, the war was back on in full force. The man knew in his heart that Ulfric was still furious about the Markarth incident, and reports from scouts and captains indicating that his city would be next once Whiterun was handled. Igmund had no doubts that he and his entire court would be targeted especially in retaliation for the man’s imprisonment. It was his and his father’s fault, after all, that the Bear of Markarth was responsible for most of the blood that still stained the city’s stone walkways. The rest was on his father’s, Jarl Hrolfdir’s, hands.

Echoing in the stone halls, he heard the warbling of his otherworldly guest. The Thalmor had been displeased about being strong-armed into sharing what they learned from Gisela, and Calcelmo had all but thrown himself back into his research on the dwemer. She had apparently all but confirmed a potential theory on the disappearance of the dwarves. Igmund rubbed his temples to stave off an impending head ache.

He had forsworn attacks on his people, rebels eyeing his city, a mysterious girl from another plane of existence, and now dragons on top of everything. At least stone cities didn’t burn like poor Helgen. The world was going mad and Igmund had a hold to protect. The Dragonborn was called to High Hrothgar, accounts on said hero’s identity was sparse and conflicting. Igmund was fairly certain that no one in Markarth would be able to recognize them if they came to visit. Considering how evenly matched the rebellion was to what resources the Empire could spare, and the all too obvious way the Silver-Blood thane was looking at his throne. It was overwhelming.

“I’m going for a walk,” he told Raerek, “I need to clear my head. Faleen, come.” His steward and housecarl nodded their heads immediately without objection, and Faleen walked a few steps behind as he began to wander the halls of his Keep. As he approached the guest quarters, he paused.

“My Jarl?” Faleen asked.

“You’ve been with my family for a long time,” Igmund said in a softer tone, “You don’t need to be so formal if it is just us two.” The woman smiled sadly at him, and Igmund wondered if this was what it was like to have an elder sister. Especially one who is fond of nagging.

“If you insist, my Jarl,” she replied lightly, taking on a teasing tone. Always with the titles, but she had been like that since they first met. After the murder of his father at the hands of forsworn, she had become intensely protective of him, as had his uncle. It was touching, but he was a grown man for Divines’ sakes.

“I hope we’ll hear good news soon,” he groused under his breath after a moment’s pause. Then he continued his meandering walk. As he passed by the guest quarters, Gisela, that strange girl, began to sing again. Knowing Faleen’s soft spot for poetry, he gestured with a tilt of his head at a bench.

Feel the ocean as it breathes

Shivering teeth

See the mountains where they meet

Smothering me

As the wind fends off the waves

I count down the days

Heavy stones

Fear no weather

Faleen’s eyes seemed to soften, and she looked distant. Lost in the song, he thought.

I find comfort in the sound

And the shape of the heart

How it echos through the chest

From under the ground

As the hills turn into holes

I fill them with gold

Heavy stones

Fear no weather

And from the rain

Comes a river running

Wild that will create

An empire for you

Illuminate!

There’s a river running

Wild that will create

An empire for you

An empire for two

An empire for you

An empire for two

Empire. That word. Gisela was made aware of Skyrim’s ongoing political turmoil. From what Igmund knew of the girl, and granted most of it was reports and gossip, she likely knew exactly what she was doing when she sang certain songs. He wasn’t sure who her audience was at this time, she couldn’t know he was listening.

And I paint your body black

I hide in your hair

And you’re staring back at me

Like I wasn’t there

As our bodies become stills

We welcome the fear

Heavy stones

Fear no weather

Faleen’s head turned, and Igmund saw his wizard Calcelmo at the end of the hall looking rather surprised. The elf was slightly flushed, arms full of scrolls and books. He must have been in a hurry to come see Gisela about something.

And from the rain

Comes a river running

Wild that will create

An empire for you

Illuminate!

There’s a river running

Wild that will create

An empire for you

An empire for two

An empire for you

An empire for two

Then Gisela lowered her voice, her tone becoming gentle.

And from the rain

Comes a river running

Wild that will create

An empire for you

Illuminate!

There’s a river running

Wild that will create

An empire for you

An empire for two

An empire for you

An empire for two

Ooh, oh oh!

Oh, oh, oh

Ooh, oh oh!

Oh, oh, oh….

As her sudden burst of wordless vocalizations came to a softer close, Igmund listened with a smile on his face as someone clapped for her. Then the Thalmor he’d given her to, maybe not the wisest decision, but it had the effect of distracting them from his own business, asked her what the song meant.

“It’s a metaphor for seeking stability,” Gisela told the elf, still entirely unaware of her extended audience, “And the chaos of the world. The treasure that is our relationships with other people and how fear can break us. But heavy stones don’t need to be afraid, not of the wind or the ocean, and they have the river that carves valleys and empires. This empire is the concept of safety.”

That the empire is stability and safety, Igmund almost wanted to laugh. The Empire was responsible for the chaos in Markarth, for leaving them to the reachmen and then for creating the Stormcloaks when they decided to disapprove of Hrolfdir’s and his method of handling the situation. The Silver-Bloods were blunt in declaring their faith in Ulfric, they benefited financially from his actions. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, not even the Dominion could easily vanish the family.

Calcelmo greeted him, then Faleen, before he hustled into the Thalmor’s temporary quarters. He complimented Gisela on how much her singing was improving, and she thanked him for teaching her a healing spell. Igmund had been impressed when he learned how quickly the human from a world without magicka learned to manipulate it. Between her strong political opinions and her interesting way of applying concepts from her home to situations in Skyrim, he almost wanted to approach her to ask her his own questions. However, he would need to order Justiciar Ondolemar to leave the room, and he wasn’t sure whether or not Gisela would tell the elf anyway. Or, he could request her presence in the throne room, speak to her with his court present. Thongvor would be furious, of course, but it would be amusing at least.

Had it really been several months since the woman arrived in the Reach? Her appearance had been late in the month of Midyear, now it was early Hearthfire. Two whole months, and she was adapting quickly. Igmund stood slowly and began to walk again, Faleen at his heels. He would bring Gisela before the court soon enough, though the court would be displeased. He was the Jarl after all, and they could not stop him.

Chapter Text

“The Jarl’s court waits for no womb,” Gisela griped, clinging to Queyan’s arm with one arm and clutching the handle of her cane with white knuckles. The altmeri woman chuckled, shaking her head slightly at the pre-menstrual antics of her favorite human.

“I’m sure a lecture on biology would change their minds,” she suggested, teasing, “Even Justiciar Ondolemar is more lenient now when it comes to… Certain things.” Gisela laughed, then winced. Don’t engage the abs too much, right.

Gisela sighed, “But sadly, I do not think I have it in me for one at the moment. Besides, I’m curious about what they want with me. Jarl Igmund could have come to speak with me in a more private setting but he wants me out here for a reason. I want to know why.”

“Your curiosity seems unshakable,” Queyan remarked with a tilt of her head, “It could get you in trouble one of these days.” Gisela grinned.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, “But satisfaction brought it back.”

“Odd turn of phrase.”

“It means that curiosity is a benefit as long as it pays off in the end. I think.” Gisela pursed her lips, then tripped over a slightly raised stone in the hall. Queyan and her glorious arms were right there to keep her from meeting the floor nose first, thank the Norns. “I will forever thank the gods for your biceps.” A patrolling guard couldn’t muffle his snort of laughter in time, and Gisela smiled to herself. Nailing a funny remark was something to be proud of, and she was certainly proud of her wit.

The two women stood off to the side of the throne room’s entryway. Gisela swallowed nervously, her pulse pounding in her chest and fingertips, the strength of it making her tremble. Queyan reached over with her free hand and patted Gisela on the shoulder. The chatter and debate was spilling out through the doorless door frame, filled with voices that she could recognize and some that she couldn’t. She identified Thongvor’s furious booming with ease, though the background noise was keeping her mind from processing any words she was hearing.

“Sooner I’m in there, the sooner it’s over...” Gisela muttered through clenched teeth, then stepped into the chamber with Queyan as her lead and support. The voices of the attendees died off as they spotted her, and Raerek beckoned her to an empty seat. Gisela settled in with a groan of relief, knees creaking as the pressure eased. She looked up and scanned the room, recognizing the Silver-Bloods and Yngvar, Faleen, and Ondolemar. Several others were present as well, some looked kind of familiar, but she couldn’t put names to faces, even if they’d been shown as NPCs in the game.

“What is this girl doing here?” asked one of the unnamed men, an older man with deep wrinkles through his face.

“Gisela is my honored guest, as many of you will recall,” Jarl Igmund said, lounging on his throne. It did not look comfortable in the least. “She has some knowledge of foreign governments and territorial management. I’ve summoned her here as a consultant, simply to get her opinion on how we may be able to improve things here.”

“You’re going to regret that,” Thongvor growled, “I’ve heard her opinions before, they’re not going to help here.” Igmund simply smiled, not a happy smile but a predator’s grin, as he looked down at his court. Then he nodded to his uncle slash Steward to continue. Raerek cleared his throat.

“In regards to the ongoing hostilities,” the older nord reiterated, “We have reports of dragon sightings in the mountains, Forsworn attacks in many villages and mines, and Stormcloaks continuing to test our boarders for weaknesses.” A murmur of agreement went around the room. “Our resources are limited, and we will need to prioritize which issues are dealt with first.”

“Stone cities do not burn,” Jarl Igmund said, “Markarth has nothing to fear from dragons.”

“Stone may not burn,” said an older woman, breton maybe? Gisella couldn’t really tell. “But our markets are built of wood. Our farmhouses have roofs of thatch. Our people will burn as tinder in a dragon attack.” Echos of agreement sounded and Igmund frowned.

“If Whiterun could slay a dragon,” Ignmund said, “So too can we.”

“The Forsworn are the most immediate threat,” Thongvor Silver-Blood spoke up, “They attack every caravan and traveler on the road. They’re getting clever, striking the mines.”

“And what do you propose?” Gisela didn’t know this man’s name, “We need the guards in the cities, protecting our people from Stormcloaks and dragons! We can’t afford to patrol every road in the Reach!”

Jarl Igmund’s eyes found Gisela’s from across the room. He had an odd look on his face, a smug smile, for some reason it pissed her off. She channeled healing magic to her belly to soothe the cramping and spoke up.

“Has anyone considered diplomacy?” she asked, bringing the angry voices to a sudden hush, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the reachmen have been fighting the nords Skyrim over the Reach for centuries. And! From what I’ve gathered, they were here first, no?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Thonvor sneered.

“If someone walked into your house, stabbed a family member, and said that it was their house now, you’d be pissed off.” Gisela pointed out, “It’s been long enough now that both the people of Skyrim and the Reach natives, and please remember what the word native means, have very strong roots. No one is willing to leave.” She met Igmund’s stare and cocked her head to the side, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Are you so caught up in an endless cycle of revenge that no one has considered trying to find an actually peaceful solution?”

“And what you know of our struggles?” The wrinkly nord from before demanded, scowling, “You’re not even from Skyrim!”

“Where I’m from,” Gisela snapped, “My people are known as ‘colonizers’ to a large number of nationalities. My global history is filled with conquest and genocide, every colonized nation with a native population treats them poorly, and it’s been a long political battle against the government for legitimate rights and protection as true citizens. I don’t have the right to speak for them, not here, not ever, but I can say that I see much of my country’s history happening here.” That set off a domino chain of angry yelling and snide bickering among the court. Igmund was frowning now, a thoughtful glaze over his eyes. Ondolemar had sat back in his seat, arms crossed, looking pleased.

“I’ve been told that the last king of the Reachmen actually did try to solve things peacefully, before the Markarth incident.” Gisela continued over the shouting, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you waited until after the slaughter to try and make a treaty. Of course shit would go badly!” Jarl Igmund’s face was went from concerned to a furious tomato red. From what Gisela remembered of the lore, his father was murdered during that attempt and ancestral shield stolen. According to Skyrim conspiracy theorists, the Silver-Bloods may have been pulling the strings there and used the chance to capture Madanach. Of course, Gisela couldn't possibly know that, so she bulldozed on. “Who actually thought it would be a good idea to beat the Reachmen bloody and offer a friendly hand immediately after?”

“Watch your tongue, girl,” the old woman across the way snarled, “That is the late Jarl Hrolfdir you speak of. Show some respect for the dead!”

“Fine!” Gisela said, “It’s been how many years now? Twenty five-ish? Might be worth your while extending the olive branch again.” She talked over the mouths starting to open, “It means to offer peace. I doubt the Forsworn want Ulfric’s troops in the Reach any more than you lot do, with some notable exceptions.” Several eyes glanced in the Silver-Bloods’ direction. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say back home. A truce could be arranged, even temporarily. Might be enough to ease the bad blood between your factions. You don’t have to rule the Reachmen, just accommodate them. Negotiate. Be willing to compromise. The tree that doesn't bend in the storm will break.”

Gisela noticed one of the old men had been quiet and contemplative the whole time she ranted, currently sitting near the Silver-Bloods. Bald with a white beard and very fancy clothing. She realized with a sudden sense of dread that he was most likely Nepos the Nose, the man who delivered Madanach’s orders to Forsworn. Which meant that the Forsworn king would hear about her and her revolutionary ideas. Fuck. Almost everyone in the room was caught between anger at her disrespect and considering her proposal, Igmund looked significantly agitated, and the present Thalmor were entertained by the chaos Gisela always brought with her.

“Gisela,” Igmund said, “You have given us much to think about.” He was very angry, Gisela was starting to regret being so antagonistic. But she wasn’t going to back down. Swallowing her anxiety, she nodded her head respectfully.

“My Jarl,” she began carefully, “I apologize for my disrespect. However, I will not apologize for what I said. I’ve been raised in a country where the government is filled with people who seek only to serve themselves and tell the populace and each other little but pretty lies.”

“And who do you serve?” Raerek asked.

“Myself, obviously,” Gisela said bluntly, “But I won’t tell you what I think you want to hear. It would only cause problems for everyone later on, including me. Truth hurts, my Jarl, and it is often ugly.” Gisela locked eyes with Igmund. “Everyone has an agenda, I recommend that you keep that in mind. Look underneath the underneath and ask yourself why.” Gisela gave one last look around the room, challenging anyone who dared to speak up. The man that was probably Nepos had a small smile on his face, which was worrying, but she could panic about that later. Queyan, sensing that Gisela was ready to go, offered an arm and Gisela accepted as regally as she could.

“I am weary,” She said to the room, “May your meeting be productive.” Cane in hand, she channeled Charlize Theron’s murder walk and exited the room with her escort. Rounding the bend, the court remained quiet, which was surprising and pleasing. Now, she wondered, what will change?

Chapter Text

The Jarl’s court was silent, something which rarely, if ever happened. Ondolemar was enjoying the sea of gaping faces and mistrust Gisela left behind her. He had easily guessed that Jarl Igmund likely wanted to turn the court on its head, something guaranteed to happen when Gisela was involved according to some of the rumors that had floated through the Keep. Igmund’s ire was likely due to his failing to realize that no one is safe when the woman went on a tirade, not even a Jarl. And what a tirade it was. Ondolemar was once again thankful that he’d managed to stay out of her way this time.

“I told you,” Thongvor Silver-Blood sneered after a minute of shocked calm, “I told you that you would regret bringing that bitch here, my Jarl.” Everyone shifted uneasily at the level of disrespect the man spoke with. Ondolemar watched him closely, entertaining the thought of his superiors taking the Silver-Blood family out of the game once and for all. It was a shame, really, that the beneficial discord the family sowed in the Reach meant that he had to pretend that the Thalmor didn’t want to risk the destabilization of creating a void in the hierarchy.

“Silence, Thongvor,” Raerek said, “Have some respect for your Jarl!” Silver-Blood’s lip curled in a snarl, but he didn’t talk back. Ondolemar looked carefully at the man seated nearby Thongvor. He’d noticed Gisela glance there more than once during her speech, looking more shaken than he’d seen her in a while. It may not have been as obvious to the men in the room, but a mer with vision naturally superior to men, especially a Thalmor trained mer, could notice minute changes in faces and posture. And he knew Gisela well, he knew she didn’t fear the Silver-Bloods.

The breton man sitting near Thongvor Silver-Blood was a familiar face, Nepos the Nose was noted in his agents’ investigations as an information dealer of sorts. He worked for the Silver-Blood family, and acted as liaison between Thonar and the Forsworn associated clans of the Reach. Nepos wasn’t an overtly sleazy man, he gave off, dare he say, a grandfatherly sort of “vibe”. Gisela’s unease towards the breton was concerning for many reasons. The only hints towards his Forsworn connections that she could have picked up on was the ease at which he listened to her argument and the pleased look on his wrinkled face.

“Jarl Igmund,” another member of the court began tentatively, “What that girl suggested, surely you can’t be considering it?” When Igmund failed to answer immediately, that sent up another round of angry shouting.

“Silence!” the Jarl boomed at last, shaking himself out of whatever reverie Gisela had left in her wake. “What choice do we have? Ulfric tests our defenses, and we are too busy protecting our people from the Forsworn to strengthen our borders!”

“We have mercenaries!” the new voice was one of the many Markarth nobility in the Silver-Blood’s pockets, “Let the Silver-Bloods handle the Forsworn and have the soldiers guard the borders.” Those who trusted the Silver-Blood family shouted in agreement while those who loathed them for their Stormclock sympathies tried to shout them down. It was chaos in the court again, but this time it was chaos woven by a small human woman.

Ondolemar hated to admit that he was a little proud of how well Gisela had voiced her arguments. The questions she asked that were so simple but so illuminating. She was a fragile thing, a mockingbird among giants. She spoke loudly, she sang with pride and strength, and she was always far too delighted to start fights with those capable of crushing her with a single hand.

“We cannot rely on the strength of sell-swords!” Faleen snapped, “What does that say about the warriors of the Reach, that we cannot protect our people on our own?”

“The wench suggested we join forces with the Forsworn!” Thongvor shouted furiously, “After the way they’ve murdered our people and burned our homes!”

“Have we not slaughtered them back? Razed their camps to the ground?” An old breton woman roared back across the way, “Have we not all lost sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, fathers and mothers? The Other-worlder believes we can protect our youth from an endless cycle of blood and pain, what have we to lose except lives that would be lost in war regardless?”

It felt like half an age of verbal battle before Jarl Igmund called the meeting to a close. The nord looked haggard, the lines in his face more pronounced. There would be much for the man to consider. Ondolemar was the last to leave the throne room besides the people who would be staying there for the day’s business, and he pondered the decision that Igmund would need to make in the near future. Ondolemar was already beginning to write the report in his mind, a united Reach had the potential to be troublesome for the Thalmor, but he’d found himself feeling differently towards the man and manmeri as of late. Of course, the source of his doubt and distress was his charge. Her philosophical viewpoints made him question the teachings of his youth. Now Ondolemar was hesitating more frequently in his duties, he was becoming more lax in enforcing the Talos ban, and, worst of all, he was growing uncertain in his purpose.

Gisela, troublesome woman, was in her bed when he entered the office. It had been several months since she was severely ill with drug withdrawals and yet they hadn’t bothered to adjust the arrangement. Ondolemar wasn’t sure why, she delighted in the occasional torment and she distracted him from his work, but the thought of working alone in a silent room was displeasing. When he stepped through the entryway, she lifted her head and offered a small smile.

“I am surprised you haven’t fallen asleep yet,” Ondolemar said. Gisela shrugged.

“Can’t sleep, my brain is too busy,” she explained. She was silent for a moment, pursing her lips before asking in a small voice, “Am I in trouble?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Ondolemar said mildly, “You have made yourself many enemies today, but you have also found allies.”

“So, politics.” Gisella dropped back into the pillow and blankets with a muted thump. “I hate politics.”

“And yet you identify as an anarchist,” Ondolemar pointed out, amused.

“Mostly, yeah,” the woman said, staring upwards, “People are social creatures, we form our own hierarchies naturally. I’d settle for elected officials with minimal corruption at this point though.”

“How generous of you to set the bar so low.” Ondolemar settled at his desk and began to draft his report. Going over the small details that may require additional investigation, he again began to wonder about his ward’s odd reaction to the man Nepos.

“Gisela,” he began cautiously, “There is something I’m wondering about...” She lifted her head again to signal that she was listening, “There was someone present at the court today who made you… Anxious. Might I ask why?” Gisela’s natural tendency to show her thoughts on her face was rather useful. Nibbling the dead skin off of her lip, furrowing in her brow, she obviously wasn’t keen to answer him.

“There is no war in Ba Sing Se,” she said after a long and drawn out silence. Ondolemar frowned, tilting his head to encourage her to continue. “...That man… I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. He knows something, I just know it.”

“And the war in Ba Sing Se?” He prompted.

“There’s no war in Ba Sing Se,” she intoned mechanically, “There is no war within the walls. We are safe here.” The way she said the lines was eerie, practiced. “It means there are deadly secrets being kept from the populace. That the government tells lies, even to their king.” Ondolemar’s stomach turned sour.

“And you believe that man to be suspicious? That he is dangerous?” Gisela nodded, not meeting his eyes. How curious. “I will assign agents to monitor his activities.” Her head jerked up.

“Really?” She seemed startled.

“Of course,” Ondolemar said, slightly confused by her genuine disbelief, “You’re an intelligent, if rather harebrained, woman. You are unafraid of the Silver-Bloods, of the Thalmor, nor do you fear speaking what could be considered treason to the Jarl's court. If you have a feeling like this about someone, I will trust it.” The woman blushed, from the tips of her ears down her neck. It felt like a victory to Ondolemar.

The mer set aside his papers as Queyan rapped her gauntlets on the wall. The agent carried with her a letter with the Ambassador’s seal displayed clearly on it. Gisela watched quietly as he broke the wax seal and opened the letter.

“The Ambassador is hosting a soiree in the headquarters in Haafingar,” Ondolemar stated aloud after reading through the contents, “My presence is requested, as is my ward’s.” Gisela sat up suddenly, with a hiss of pain at the suddenness of it.

“What!?” She blurted, paling slightly.

“We will need to get you something suitable to wear, you are a guest of the Thalmor and in my care. I would not have you look like a commoner.” Ondolermar went on, amused by her sudden panic.

“Why me?” Gisela asked, eyes wide.

“Did you not think I mentioned an Other-worlder in my reports?” he asked her, using the term the old breton in court used, “Ambassador Elenwen is interested in meeting you.”

He watched as Gisela pulled the blankets over her head and curled up into a melodramatic lump. He couldn’t hold back a small chuckle when he heard a muffled “fuck” from deep within the bedding.

Chapter Text

The foreign woman, Gisela, had some very radical ideas. Despite not holding a position in court, and being under the thumb of a Thalmor minder, she had a startling amount of leeway with the Jarl when it came to speaking her mind. And she did so, wielding innocence and cultural differences like an assassin wields a stiletto. Nepos had not cared much about her beyond amusement over her behavior towards the Silver-Bloods, not until he’d seen the way her face changed, as if she knew who he was, while she spoke about freedom for the Reachmen. It was fascinating.

Nepos the Nose had eyes and ears everywhere, he had heard of the woman from beyond the Void, and much of what she spoke about to her designated guardians. Several reachman born servants in Understone Keep kept watch on her, but Nepos had not seen a use for her until that point. Gisela had proposed something that had not been considered in a quarter of a century, a ceasefire. His watchers had informed him of her apparent hatred of the Silver-Bloods, born from seemingly nothing at all. That any attempt by Thonar or Thongvor to question her resulted in incredibly passive but scathing critiques regarding politics or business. It was rather funny.

But, several days after she spoke to the court, Madanach sent another message. He and those in the mines who served him were quite to discover that it took an insolent crippled wench to convince the Jarl and some of his court to even consider trying peace again. That so much innocent blood had been spilled and an outsider was the one who held the most sway. After the cruelty the nords had inflicted upon the Reach, the pain of the injustice had yet to fade. Any semblance of unity, even against Ulfric Stormcloak, would be very difficult to manage now. Nepos had yet to hear back from the clans he had sent word to, informing them of what Jarl Igmund might be inclined to do. Ultimately, it would be a majority decision on how to handle an attempt at a treaty with the nords, despite whatever their King would decide.

Uaile walked into the sitting room, one of his many contacts at her heels. It was one of the breton servants who reported to him from the Keep, with very interesting news. They had overheard the Justiciar order a watch on Nepos a few days ago, which made the old Reachman smile. The elf must have noticed his pet human looking at him with confusion, then with anxiety. Thalmor are observant after all, sometimes to the point of paranoia, but in this case it was well justified. Gisela was not only a potential ally, but a weakness in the highest ranking Thalmor in the Reach.

The servant also reported that the woman went on irregular strolls around the keep, with a Thalmor agent as escort. The elf would assist with walking and lifting the woman up or down staircases. Nepos would be lying if he said he wasn’t the least bit envious. He was old and tired, and his knees did not always agree with all of the stairs in Markarth. Morven would carry him, if Nepos asked, but it would be undignified of him to do so.

He smiled at Uaile, whom he cared for after the arrest of her father, who pretended to serve him as maid but acted instead as his protector. She understood what he wanted, paid the servant for their information, and locked the door behind them. When she returned to the sitting room, her expression changed.

“With all due respect, Nepos,” she said, “Have you gone mad?” Nepos shook his head, exhaling a sigh. “We’re being watched by those damn elves and you want to walk right into the serpents’ nest. To talk to someone who claims to be from another world.” Uaile was wrong, but also right. Nepos did not want to go to the Thalmor, but he did want to talk to the girl. Her surprise and nervousness when she saw him in court was intriguing, and he wondered what it was that she knew. He wasn’t called The Nose for no reason, after all.

“Not to the Thalmor Headquarters,” he said mildly, “It is likely that the Thalmor already knows what it is that I do and to whom I owe my allegiance. I was thinking I would invite her to dinner one of these days. I have you, Uaile, as well as Morven and Tynan. If her guardian becomes violent, we have the upper hand, but I doubt it will come to blows.” Morven brought the portable writing desk, and Nepos began to pen a polite invitation.

Uaile sighed loudly, “If you insist.” Nepos looked up at her fondly as she stalked off to clean something in her irritation. She wasn’t truly a maid, but she cleaned especially well when angry, as an outlet. The girl had a temper on her, but he knew that her father would be proud of the woman she’d become if he ever got out of the mines. He was certainly grateful of the role that she had chosen, after her father was arrested and he’d taken her in. Uaile did not want to owe anyone a debt, not even the old man who gave her a safe place to grieve and grow. It made Nepos proud.

With the invitation written, he sent Tynan to Understone keep with the instructions to wait for an answer before returning. Nepos knew that the Thalmor as a whole had no intention of making an enemy out of the Reachmen. The tribes who attacked the nords and the Empire caravans on the road left the Thalmor alone, and the Thalmor left the Reachmen alone on account of their disbelief in Talos as a god. Ideally, Nepos hoped, if the Dominion went to war with the Empire and with Skyrim again, they would return the Reach to the people it rightly belonged to.

It was Nepos’ hope that, if Madanach passed before such a thing happened, the next King would petition the Aldmeri to become an independent state. Like Madanach had done with the Empire before Hrolfdir and Ulfric ripped through Markarth with blades drawn for the slaughter. Nepos took out his journal, and wrote down what he wanted to accomplish. How he hoped that by speaking with Gisela, he could turn her to his side, or at the very least convince her to owe him a favor. From her impassioned speech at the Jarl’s court, she believed there was a significant injustice in Markarth, and perhaps he could twist her just enough to favor the Forsworn over the nords. From what his eyes and ears reported, the Justiciar favored her enough that he would likely encourage an alliance with the Reachmen against the nords to his superiors should the Great War resume, if she begged him to.

Too long, Nepos had ordered the young to their deaths, dictating the instructions he received from his imprisoned King. If he played his hand well, he could influence Gisela to sway her Thalmor keepers, or the Jarl. If he slipped that Madanach was alive in Cidhna Mine, with Thonar Silver-Blood holding his leash, he could invoke her sympathy. It was a dirty move, but if it got him what he wanted, Nepos would do whatever it took. Perhaps it could save some lives too.

Tynan returned, with invitation delivered. He informed Nepos that he had been able to give the letter to Gisela directly, and that she had become extremely flustered upon reading it. The Justiciar, Ondolemar, had told her that it would be good practice for her to be in more formal settings and encouraged her to accept it. That was interesting information that Nepos filed away for another time. The woman would come to meet with him, with the same agent who usually acted as her accompaniment. With a smile on his face, Nepos sat back in his chair and gazed at the fire in the hearth. He had a dinner party to plan.

Chapter Text

“Why did the dwemer love stairs so much?” Gisela asked indignantly.

“Because they loathed you in particular,” Queyan said, holding the frail woman in her arms. Gisela started trembling with suppressed laughter, and Queyan smiled. The girl’s sense of humor was easy to appeal to most days, and Queyan had learned quickly that making her laugh was the best way to get her to open up and feel comfortable around her.

“Of course,” Gisela snickered, “How could I forget?” Queyan ignored the curious stares of the residents of Markarth. The novelty of a Thalmor agent carrying around what looked like a small breton woman and not arresting her was attracting all sorts of attention. While the Thalmor had not been able to curb all of the rumors of a person from beyond the Void, it was not obvious as to whom the rumors spoke of. Most probably imagined something that was not a short human with a walking stick, especially not being carried up and down stairs.

They had gone first to the lower levels of the city, closer to the main gates, to visit a dress shop. Markarth had a very extensive market, being the largest and most populated city in the Reach. Gisela had given up bickering with Justiciar Ondolemar regarding her expected attendance of Ambassador Elenwen’s party. She didn’t want to go, she even said she was already planning on being sick that day. She argued that the carriage ride would leave her in too much pain. Ondolemar of course had informed her that he would have proper precautions in place, with healing potions at the ready. And so Gisela gave in.

Queyan, who would not be attending, was understanding of her hesitation. Elenwen was intimidating, she had no shame in admitting that if asked. Not only that, but these parties were filled with wealthy merchants, nobility, and even the Jarls attended on occasion. Gisela was a commoner, she was loud and crude and proud of it. It was reasonable for her to be nervous.

Of course, that anxiety did not stop her from somehow becoming engrossed in a discussion of fashion with the dressmaker. The fashion from her homeland was vastly different to what the nobility favored, and her tendency towards painfully sensitive skin made her a little more difficult to dress. She was not fond of breastcloths, as the tucking of loose fabric would cause irritating dents in her skin, but with some paper and charcoal she sketched out some very interesting designs for brassieres. Queyan thought that the “bullet bra” as she called it, looked ridiculous. The dressmaker was incredibly interested in the design for adjustable straps that didn’t need buckles, buttons, or eyelets to be secured.

Between the two, they decided on a style that Gisela called an “Edwardian Polonaise” before Queyan finally managed to get them to finish their business. Gisela pouted the whole way, but when Queyan scooped her up to bring her to Nepos’ house, her buzzing became less excited and more anxious. She held steady until they got to the door, then she froze like a rabbit.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Queyan commented, “But I’m right here. You will be alright.” Gisela hissed through her teeth and wiggled her body a bit.

“But he’s-!” She cut off, fighting through what she called the fog in her brain looking for the right words, “...Fancy!” Queyan covered her mouth to stop from snorting. She had a feeling Gisela was settling for the first word that came to mind, but it was funny. Gisela noticed her amusement and made a high pitched sound that resembled both a whining dog and a reed whistle. Queyan couldn’t help but laugh. Before Gisela could panic any further, the heavy dwemer metal door swung open and a tall, sturdy breton woman in simple clothing eyed them with a thinly veiled sneer.

“ Nepos is expecting us,” Queyan said, when the most Gisela managed was a quiet greeting. The woman, an extraordinarily rude servant it seemed, scoffed. But she ushered them in regardless of her own personal feelings.

“Nepos!” She shouted down the stone hallway, “Your guests are here!”

“Good, good!” Nepos the Nose called back, “Send them to the sitting room.” Queyan found the servant’s behavior to be intolerable, but as a guest she would not criticize. It would be rude to comment on how one runs their own house hold , at least to their face. Gossiping about it later is finer form, everyone civilized knows that. She lifted Gisela up the small set of stairs in the entryway, and they made their way through the impeccably decorated house to the sitting room. In a cushy looking seat was Nepos, a portable writing desk on his lap.

“Welcome, thank you for coming,” He smiled kindly. It was no wonder no one suspected him of being Forsworn aligned, when he looked and acted so unassuming. It was curious that only Gisela seemed to notice that he was not as unified with the other wealthy men of Markarth as he pretended to be.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Gisela said, settling gratefully into the chair he offered. Nepos offered refreshments as Queyan took her own seat, Gisela requested tea and Queyan asked the same. He directed another servant, a male manmeri this time, with facial tattoos that looked very much like those often worn by Reachmen, or men trying to look like warriors. Gisela was trying to be subtle in her wide-eyed glancing about, and Nepos chuckled.

“ Ah, thank you,” Gisela thanked the servant when he poured the tea into a cup for her. Queyan smiled fondly at the woman, so adorably quaint in her ignoring of hierarchies. Greeting the maidservants and the like as she would greet the Jarl. Of course, Nepos also thanked his servant. Nothing on the man’s face indicated that it was unusual behavior for his master, which either meant that the servant was concealing his expressions or that Nepos was regularly so kind. Either way, the action ensured that Nepos didn’t start off wrong-footed with Gisela.

The three of them exchanged customary pleasantries, and made small-talk as they sipped their tea. Gisela’s hands trembled less as the weight of the cup lessened, and Nepos’ hands were steady with the strength of a man who had not gone soft with age. His eyes twinkled, swimming with hidden thoughts. Queyan knew the look of a man with a thousand questions on his tongue and the willpower to keep them all behind his teeth until he permits them to slip.

“ So,” Gisela began, setting the cup down with a small rattle of shaking hands, “What did you want to ask me, sir?” Nepos smiled.

“What is it that makes you think I want to ask you anything?” He answered with a question. Queyan hid the tug at the corner of her lips behind her cup. Gisela gave the old man a flat look.

“You know who I am,” she explained with almost practiced ease, “And everyone asks me questions. They want to know something about where I’m from, or they want another culture’s opinion. I asked a few people at the Keep about you, mister Nepos, and they say that you know things. It makes sense to me that you would want to know more.” Queyan let her smile show that time, she’d overheard Gisela ask the servants, including one or two suspected of being Nepos’ informants.

“A fair assumption to make,” Nepos conceded, “ And correct, but I will answer questions for you in return.” Queyan’s eyebrow raised curiously. “I already know you are close with several members of the Thalmor assigned to the Keep, I had a feeling you would let our conversation slip.” Gisela smiled and shrugged.

“You’re not wrong,” she said, “ And I expect I’ll need to ask for context on some things, I’m still catching up on local history.” Nepos laughed, a lighthearted laugh.

“No one expects you to become an expert,” Queyan pointed out gently, but Gisela gave a minute shake of her head.

“Not an expert, no,” she agreed, “But as far as I know I’m stuck on Mundus for the immediate future, so it’s in my best interests to avoid… Mistakes.” Gisela’s eyes glazed over for a moment as she trailed off, as she did on occasion, but she returned to herself quickly.

“ A wise decision,” Nepos said, and Gisela’s shoulders relaxed slightly, “ Though, I was not sure if I should or shouldn’t wait until after supper. Morven is quite the talented cook.”

“ Ah,” Gisela said, “Sure, that’s fine by me.”

The lighter conversation continued until a servant appeared to usher them to the dining room , this one was also a breton, male, but no facial tattoos or paint. After the meal, and after the dishes were carried away, all three of the servants came into the room. They carried weapons, poorly concealed, or they weren’t trying to hide it. Likely Nepos’ protectors, as Queyan was for Gisela that evening.

“ Is this everyone?” Gisela asked Nepos. The old manmer laughed.

“I hope you don’t mind, they’re very protective of me,” he explained, not minding the dirty looks being aimed at his guests. Queyan was rather annoyed by that, but Gisela brushed it off easily.

“I understand more than you know,” Gisela deadpanned, and Queyan was immediately reminded of Ondolemar.

“ I’m not surprised,” Nepos smiled. He started the questioning by going back through the speech Gisela had given to the court, asking for clarification or more detail on how she viewed the similarities between her people’s history and Skyrim’s. Gisela asked him more about the history between the nords and reachmen, how that relationship has changed with time. She was less interested in what was written in the books, and more about his own personal experience.

“You favor the reachmen,” Gisela commented aloud. Nepos’ serving guards tensed at her bluntness.

“I do,” Nepos said, just as to the point, “ As do my protectors. They’re victims in this conflict, and I have the resources to provide aid.”

“That is treason,” Queyan pointed out, and the group of bretons bristled visibly.

“You guys probably knew already,” Gisela told her, “And if the Thalmor haven’t said anything yet it’s either because they don’t intend to, or because they want to hold on to that information.” She smiled at the woman, because she’d guessed correctly. Queyan wasn’t about to specify, of course. It wasn’t her place.

“You don’t seem surprised either,” Nepos said, “But I assume it’s because I did not react the way everyone else did when you spoke of justice.” Gisela nodded, confirming his claim. “It made you nervous, I wonder why.”

“That’s not a question,” Gisela offered a forced smile, “It made me nervous because I would like to not be a target of anything or anyone. Understone is practically the palace of the hold, if there’s ever a place for spies to be, it would be there. I just… I wasn’t expecting someone to smile at me in approval while the rest of the court goes batshit for one reason or another. I felt like I painted a bulls-eye on myself, to kill put arrow here.” She tapped her chest for emphasis. “ I’m too crippled to fight in a physical manner, I lack the power to make things happen on a broad scale, but I had the ears of the people with that power.” Gisela shrugged and looked down at her hands. A signal that she was getting stressed . “If I can just plant the seed of doubt, shake that unyielding sense of rightness, maybe they’ll be more open to choices that are better for everyone.”

“It takes a strong wind to make the a great bend or break,” Nepos said gently, likely sensing her anxiety as Queyan did.

“But no matter how loudly the wind howls, the mountain will not bow for it,” Gisela countered, fidgeting with her fingers. Queyan gingerly took one of Gisela’s hands, interrupting the stress behavior. Gisela gave her hand a squeeze, she didn’t look up but she managed a small smile.

“From what I hear, the Jarl is a tree, not a mountain,” Nepos said, “He is thinking of bending, despite the push from his court to dismiss your idea entirely.” That got her to lift her head . “The Silver-Bloods are heading that motion. But it does not surprise me.” Nepos tented his fingers and leveled both Gisela and Queyan with a serious look. “They have the king of the Forsworn in Cidhna Mine, after all.”

“Madanach is alive?” Queyan asked. Gisela stared, wide eyed and stunned silent.

“He is,” Nepos said, “Thonar stole him from under the headsman’s axe after Hrolfdir’s death, dealt with loose ends, and Igmund never found out. Now Madanach is being used as a puppet, aiming the Forsworn where the Silver-Bloods tell him to. How else could the family have managed to obtained all those additional mines at such easy prices? Of course, not all of the Reach is willing to follow what is clearly Thonar’s instructions. Madanach has his ways of speaking to me. And I follow the orders of my king.”

“He’s ordering terrorist attacks,” Gisela said suddenly, “But those are… It’s a terrible plan!” The female breton, another reachman it seemed, puffed up in anger.

“That is my king you insult!” She spat at Gisela. Nepos just laughed.

“Don’t fret too much Uaile,” he said to the woman, “She spoke ill of Hrolfdir in front of Igmund and his entire court. She means no harm, she merely finds fault in technique.” To Gisela he said, “What would you suggest?”

“ I’m sorry,” Gisela told Uaile, “I’ve seen some long term results of massive terrorism. It shook my country to the core, drove us to unify, and thousands of people were killed by the worst of patriots because they bore what others perceived as physical features that could have come from the country that the terrorists did. Almost twenty years later, it’s still happening, these people are still being demonized and discriminated against, and the violence gets worse around and on the anniversary of the event. A lot of nords were sympathetic to the reachmen after the Markarth incident, from what I've learned, but terrified to say anything because of the retaliation against them by Ulfric and Hrolfdir. Now after two and a half decades of being terrorized by the forsworn, they remember less of the harm done to the reachmen and more of the harm they’ve suffered because of the reachmen.” While Gisela had begun her speech with a tremor in her voice, she was getting louder and more firm as she went on. “ It’s unfair, I know it’s unfair. I have no right to tell anyone the right or wrong way to protest and commit civil disobedience. But targeting what could be potential allies is liable to be more harmful right now.”

“I know this, but Madanach does not care,” Nepos said, sounding far more tired than Queyan had ever heard before, “I have been sending the youth to their deaths for a long time, in service to my king, and I am weary. Madanach has spent too long imprisoned to care about the nords who supported him in secret, he only cares that they turned a blind eye to save their own skins when blood ran through the streets of Markarth.” Gisela was silent, her eyes watering slightly as Nepos spoke. “In you, my dear, I saw someone who could avoid being vanished by the Silver-Bloods. You’re too well protected for that, few would go against the Jarl and the Thalmor to silence you. You’ve already made Igmund doubt his own stance after all.”

“You just want me to do what I’ve been doing?” Gisela asked, “Call it as I see it?” Nepos laughed, a soft huff rather than a full body chuckle.

“Fair enough,” He conceded, "Yes."

“One thing seems weird to me,” Gisela mused aloud, “Thonar has a mind for business but stealing Madanach as a political puppet doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing one comes up on the fly.” Queyan sat up straight and tense as a drawn bow. “Call me a conspiracy theorist, but what if Madanach didn’t order anyone to kill Hrolfdir?” The silence that overtook the house was so great, Queyan could have heard a needle drop from across the building.

“Are you suggesting that the Silver-Bloods arranged for Hrolfdir’s murder somehow?” Queyan asked, bewildered. Gisela furrowed her brows.

“I don’t know,” she said, “But it seems off, doesn’t it? It must have happened so fast too. Mister Nepos, you’ve known the Silver-Blood family longer than us, could Thonar or Thongvor have had a eureka moment and made the plans quickly enough to snatch Madanach out from under the headsman’s axe? A eureka moment is a really good idea or a sudden revelation, by the way.”

“Hmm,” Nepos hummed, “You raise a valid point. Finding proof would be almost impossible after so long, and with Thonar having had ample time to tie up loose ends...”

“Ondolemar would not need much prompting to petition for an investigation into the family,” Queyan added, “He loathes the Silver-Bloods, but they are too troublesome to deal with for the Thalmor as of now. However, if you can get proof of Madanach’s innocence regarding Hrolfdir’s death, or evidence implicating the Silver-Bloods, it may be possible to convince Igmund to free Madanach. Even if a condition of his freedom is a non-aggression pact or a peace treaty between the reachmen and the hold.” Gisela’s eyes went wide and she took a moment to process the implications.

“A fine point, my dear,” Nepos smiled at Queyan, “If Igmund has irrefutable proof of Thonar and Thongvor’s misdeeds, then he will deal with the problem for us. Perhaps he would offer Madanach reparations. ” Queyan gave a curious glance in the direction of Nepos’ forsworn guardians. They seemed much less overtly hostile, but still wary. Gisela was getting fidgety again, however.

“At risk of sounding like a horrible person, because I very much am one sometimes, does this mean the proof can’t have been tampered with?” Queyan perked up, a smile on her lips.

“Fabricate evidence?” she asked the smaller woman, amused by the conniving side of Gisela she was getting to see.

“Perhaps,” the girl was blushing, how quaint, “ Hypothetically speaking.” Nepos laughed.

“Of course, this is all hypothetical. Now, what was it that you had in mind?” he wondered.

“Plant one of Hrolfdir’s personal items in the Silver-Blood’s home?” Gisela suggested cautiously , “ omeone probably robbed his body after he died, even if it was an opportunistic reachman and not one of Thonar’s lackeys. Mister Nepos, sir, your connections might be able to turn up something that’s undeniably Hrolfdir’s.”

“There is a shield,” one of Nepos’ servants, the male without the tattoo, piped up, “But it was given to the hagravens as a trophy. They won’t give it up if they don’t get anything out of it .” Gisela exhaled a disappointed sigh, then fought a yawn. Poor girl, Queyan thought to herself, she must be exhausted.

“Ah, the hour runs late,” Nepos said, noticing Gisela’s flagging strength, “I won’t keep you any longer. I expect we’ll be in touch soon enough anyway. There is much to do.” Polite farewells and good evenings were exchanged, and a soft and sleepy ‘good night’ from Gisela, and the two set off back to Understone Keep. Queyan had much to report to the Justiciar, but first, she would put her friend to bed.

Chapter Text

Carriages are horrid contraptions. Despite the additional cushioning and the well worn roads, it was jarring and ache-inducing. It reminded Gisela of her mother’s old car, in the United States northeast. The shocks and struts had been old and worn, and the streets were full of potholes from the freeze and thaw of winter and early spring, rough from excessive road salt use. Her bones felt bruised, every bump rattled her joints, and her muscles were aching from the tension of trying to keep her self from shaking apart.

Calcelmo, Aicantar, and Ondolemar, being her references for what is and isn’t conventional in magic, had warned her against overusing her healing spell. While it would increase her magicka pool and reduce the effort and magicka needed to cast it, it could have a negative impact on her body to channel it constantly. Apparently, it was possible to build up a tolerance to magic, explaining why her player character needed to use the spell for longer at higher levels in the game . So she had a system, much like taking meds she would let a set number of hours pass before she could soothe the inflammation and overactive nerves with magic. Special circumstances like her period, high stress environments, or carriage rides, it was alright to target specific pains more often, but full body sessions were controlled. Like the time she was on opioid painkillers for a few years and had to jump through a gazillion hoops to get each prescription.

Ondolemar suggested an activity to take her mind off of the rough ride, such as singing or reading, something to pass the time. Gisela was too grouchy from pain to sing at the moment, and she didn’t have the focus needed to concentrate on even the awful trashy romance novel she’d brought along. She knew herself well enough that she wasn’t capable of verbally explaining her difficulties while in this mindset, she’d say something nasty that she would regret later or just break down in tears. So she looked at him with her face scrunched up and hissed like a defensive opossum. Ondolemar pulled a small bottle from his pocket, a diluted healing potion, and offered it to her wordlessly.

It was like drinking a smoothie made from wheat grass, with a little dirt for flavor. Bothela didn’t bother making the potions taste better, since it was just wheat kernals and blue mountain flowers and not anything especially foul like bits of bug or eyeballs. Besides, Gisela’s raspberry leaf tea recipe, which was just raspberry leaves and nothing else, tasted exactly like leaf water, so she wasn’t unaccustomed to generic plant flavor. At least Bothela was importing the raspberry leaf in bulk now, since the servants in Understone spread the word of its effectivity and it became popular fast. She drank only half of the small bottle, feeling the natural magic of alchemy spread through her limbs and dulling the aches and pains, before giving it back to Ondolemar to hold on to.

Gisela didn’t know how big Skyrim was exactly, but she was guessing it was somewhere around medium to large-ish European country or American state . She was guessing of course, but getting from Markarth to Solitude was about five or so days of travel by carriage. Her reference points were mostly America-centric of course, for example, the carriage travel distance from Philadelphia to Boston was fifteen days , thank you to that one Revolutionary War cartoon she’d watched as a kid. Liberty’s Kids. Commercial break trivia was fun and much more useful than she ever thought it could be .

The itinerary was this; they would spend two nights camping in the Reach off of the road, rent rooms at an inn in Dragon’s Bridge on the third night, then another night of camping before reaching the Embassy late on the fifth day. If they ran into trouble, they would arrive on day six. The Forsworn had yet to attack any obviously Thalmor aligned caravan, but it was better to be cautious. Ondolemar was aware that Nepos the Nose was spreading word of a potential future alliance between the Reachmen and the Thalmor, so the odds of encountering hostiles were very low. Gisela had even seen a few Forsworn in the distance, watching but at ease. Like silent guardians, she supposed. She wondered if any were passing information along, keeping an eye on them for Nepos or Madanach. Considering the conspiracy in the works, it would make sense to monitor her and Ondolemar.

They stopped before dusk, setting up camp before the light faded. Rather than bedrolls, Gisela and Ondolemar had cots on folding wooden frames. Hers was piled with blankets, some would end up being used as cushioning. She’d also snatched some of the extra pillows from the carriage to use for additional support.

Her limp was terribly pronounced, her already bad hips and knees made worse by the time spent on the road, so she wobbled around the camp with her cane in one hand and her free hand grabbing anything nearby for support and stability. Her guardians were uneasy watching her tottering about and promptly sat her down near the fire and told her to ask if she needed anything. Gisela pouted, but didn’t argue. She did her best to stretch instead, and was rewarded with some satisfying pops as her hips and spine snapped back into alignment.

“Does that not hurt?” One of the Thalmor guards, a new mer that Gisela hadn’t met prior to the trip, asked with a wince. Poor guy was due for a hazing, might as well start now.

“Yeah, but doesn’t everything?” Gisela replied, purposefully cracking each knuckle one by one, “I miss my chiropractor, he could crack me like a glow stick. I was always taller leaving than I was going in.” The mer paled to a dull gold, eyes widened.

“C-crack you?” He asked, alarmed. Gisela grinned, baring her teeth. Gotcha.

“Push my bones back into place, tug on my spine to decompress it,” she listed, counting on her fingers as she went, “He did this thing to my neck, made it easier to look over my right shoulder. Hurt a lot, but in a good way, y’know?” The mer was looking a bit chartreuse now, less of a healthy altmer yellow and more of a weird greenish tint. He’s a wimpy one, Gisela thought to herself. And the finishing move now. She put the heel of her palm to the side of her jaw and pushed. Her jaw made a loud crunch, like walking on fine gravel.

“Gisela!” Ondolemar shouted from where he was going over the map with the lead bodyguard, “No terrorizing the new blood!” He’d picked up some of her speech habits over the past few months, which was always hilarious when he noticed he was speaking like her.

“But they make it so easy!” She called back, pitching her voice into a slightly whiny tone. The glare she got from across the camp only made her more delighted, but she wasn’t going to push it. Glancing back at the newbie, she smiled, fewer teeth bared that time. “ Sorry about that!” The apology was so obviously insincere, but the mer looked like he appreciated the sentiment at least. Ondolemar eventually introduced him as Lestelmo, along with his coworker Orfarion and their superior Telomin.

Orfarion was acting as the driver of the carriage, the dedicated mage of the group, and took care of the horses. Two for the carriage and two for riding. Lestelmo and Telomin rode next to the carriage, keeping an eye out for trouble. Telomin sent Lestelmo to get water from the river to prepare dinner with, and began to plan a watch for the evening. She also ignored Gisela piping up with an offer to take a watch, like a professional who was used to dealing with annoying clients. Lestelmo set some water aside at Gisela’s request, and set it in a separate pot to boil for tea. Gisela openly and loudly refused to drink it as it was, and for good reason.

“This ain’t the Oregon Trail,” she said firmly, after stopping Ondolemar from scooping a drink straight from the bucket. “I refuse to die of dysentery. Do you want to die of dysentery? Because t his is how you die of dysentery.” Ondolemar had already heard her ravings about germ theory, so he didn’t need to listen in as she lectured the bodyguard s on why one should never just drink water from rivers and ponds. Poor wimpy Lestelmo went slightly green again. They all decided to have some of the tea Gisela packed and planned on boiling water for their canteens for the road tomorrow . Another victory for modern medicine, sort of.

After dinner, thoroughly salted in Gisela’s case because her blood pressure felt low, she leaned back and looked at the sky. She saw two moons hanging in the night, neither were full but both clearly visible. She didn’t recognize any of the stars or constellations. It made her homesick and heart-sore. A wolf howled in the distance as insects sang and lightning bugs flitted through the scrubland. It was nothing like the Blue Ridge Mountains she grew up in, and she didn’t know if that made the ache in her chest worse or not.

“Gisela,” Ondolemar pulled her from her depressive spiral gently, “Is something upsetting you?” Gisela smiled sadly, a little surprised that he noticed.

“Thinking of how different it is here, my home is hills and valleys but it’s...” she trailed off, looked back up at the sky, “I miss my stars, my one moon, my forests filled with oaks and poplars and sycamores and the wild raspberries that would grab my clothes when I walked by. I miss the mica in the rocks that made the dirt on the hiking trails sparkle in the sun. I miss the sound of birds imitating car alarms because nature and city overlapped.” Gisela cut herself off with a forced laugh, choking down a sob. She didn’t understand how she could have been fine for months, only to crack now.

“It is alright to miss it,” Ondolemar said softly, taking her hand in his own, “Some hurts fade with time, but they may never go away.” Gisela huffed through her runny nose, but she didn’t pull her hand back.

"Maybe I’ll be able to go back one day,” She said with a sniffle. Ondolemar’s grip tightened slightly, as though he didn’t like the idea. Gisela glanced at his hand, then looked back up at his face. He wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at the stars, and she wondered if he even realized what he did.

Gisela took a deep breath and wiped the gathering damp from her eyes. Ondolemar turned to her then, noticing the movement. His face was softer than she’d seen it before, he had no careful mask to guard himself like he did when in Markarth. It was enough to make her feel weepy again. And that reminded her of another thing she missed, sad songs to help encourage the tears to fall when just being sad wasn’t enough. So she started to sing, her voice wavering.

To know her is to see
That nothing is as it seems
She'll show her true face when you're
Stripped of all belief
Sweet tyrant, laying out the course with what you need
To send you through the veils
Of Eternity…

Mmm...

Crack me open or I'll go down
On this sinking ship, don't leave
Me to drown
Still the water bears the sound
Of my eternal plea
And all I found...

And all I will...

Gisela felt the first tears fall from her lashes, the sorrowful chorus having the effect she was hoping for. She looked up at the sky, at the foreign stars, and felt the knot in her chest tighten. As it did, so too did Ondolemar’s hand around her own, and she felt lighter for it.

She calls you with a mirage
Of what you want to see
You fall into her arms
As she shatters all your dreams
Sweet violence, aimed to crack the shell from which you bleed
And send you through the tree of Eternity…

Mmm...

The others had slowed down at that point, listening as she sang. It hurt, but it was cathartic in a way. It was a hurt that she chose for herself, a channel to release the pain she kept to herself. So she sang and let the tears fall.

Crack me open or I'll go down
On this sinking ship, don't leave
Me to drown
Still the water bears the sound
Of my eternal plea
And all I found…

And all I will...

And all I will…

And all I will...

And all I will...

Chapter Text

When Malborn received the letter from Delphine informing him that she needed to send a spy to one of Elenwen’s parties, he knew he was going to be in for a bad time. The Blades had been all but dead and gone for decades, and recruiting someone adequate would be difficult while in hiding. He would know, after all. He loathed the Thalmor as much as the next guy, but infiltration took a more delicate touch than someone like Delphine was capable of.

As if that wasn’t trouble enough, the party she wanted to infiltrate was going to be the same party that the Thalmor’s “special guest” was due to attend. The sensitive nature of his position meant that he couldn’t properly explain the situation to Delphine, too much contact would put him in harm’s way. The best he could do was pass along a short coded message that there would be extra guards posted around the embassy, for reasons that he as a lowly servant wasn’t privy to. Elenwen herself was more excited than she had been in weeks. It meant that this guest of hers was incredibly important for one reason or another.

The guest quarters had been made up, a suite with two bedrooms and a joint sitting room, in the main building. Just up the stairs from where Delphine’s spy will need to pass through to get to Elenwen’s Solar. Malborn would be lying if he said he wasn’t panicked. He had no idea who this guest was, nor what they were capable of. For all he knew, this could throw the entire plan into jeopardy and get them both killed. Wasn’t like he had that much to live for, but he’d much prefer to live long enough to see Elenwen die. Or at least not suffer at the hands of a Thalmor torturer before he went.

So he sat in The Winking Skeever in Solitude, listening to one of the students from the Bard’s College on rotation. Some male nord on a drum, who was bragging to some of his friends about joining the army to drum for them after he graduated. Idiots, the lot of them. War wasn’t glorious. Malborn could still hear the dying screams of his family when he closed his eyes, he still woke in the middle of the night in a panic when he smelled smoke from the hearth. Malborn was lost in memories when an argonian sat across from him, feathered crest rough from travel and facial scales dull from road dust.

“Our mutual friend sent me,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“Really?” Malborn asked, raising an eyebrow, “You’re who she picked?” The lizard stared at him dryly.

“Of course not,” he snarked, “She actually picked the other dragonborn. I’m just here to be a bother.” Spirited at least, he might stand a chance if he doesn’t offend the Ambassador. Also, dragonborn? The “hero” of nord legend is an argonian?

“Fine,” Malborn muttered, putting the information out of his head, “Here’s how it’s going to go, you give me anything you can’t live without and I’ll get it in for you. You can’t bring any hidden weapons, they frisk all guests at the door.”

“How thoroughly do they frisk their guests?” the argonian interrupted. Malborn leveled him with a scowl, and he raised his hands in a surrender.

“Don’t do anything that will compromise our position. I don’t care what you do as long as I’m not involved beyond helping you sneak out of the party. After that, I couldn’t care less.” The argonian nodded. “As I told our mutual friend, the situation has changed. Ambassador Elenwen has a special guest attending, due to arrive today a few hours before the party. I don’t know who they are or why they’re so important, but the guard has been doubled around the main building. At least with eyes on them, it’ll likely be easier to slip out of the crowd.”

“Interesting,” the lizard mused, scratching at the dusty blue scales on his chin, “And my belongings will be concealed away from the party? Is there any guarantee that they won’t be discovered between when they are stashed and when I can retrieve them?” Delphine picked a smart one at least. Or the Divines did. Dragonborn. Damn it. Things are already complicated, is it too much to ask for a break?

“No, the Thalmor doesn’t investigate employee’s belongings as much or often as they probably should,” Malborn shrugged, “I’m not telling them otherwise, trust me.” He winced as one of the drunkards sang off-key along to the bard’s rendition of Age of Aggression.

“Very well,” the lizard said, “I have my favored armor and weapons in here,” he used his foot to push a knapsack under the table towards Malborn, “Along with my other important tools. If anything is missing or damaged, I will find you, landstrider, that is a promise.” It was said in a joking manner, but Malborn didn’t laugh and neither did the argonian. “I’ll likely arrive fashionably late, I will need to make myself presentable after all.”

Malborn subtly pulled the bag toward the legs of his chair, “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “If that’s everything, I have to get back before anyone thinks I’ve run off.” The argonian nodded. Malborn shouldered the knapsack and got up, slipping past a bar wench that the argonian had flagged down.

Getting to the Embassy from Solitude was a short hike uphill, or up mountain, considering the snow that almost never melted visible on the peak. He took note of the fresh carriage tracks in the mud on the road, Elenwen’s “special guest” had likely arrived. Malborn’s assumption was proved correct when he stepped through the gates to see a carriage being unloaded.

An altmer was the first to emerge from the carriage, Ondolemar, the chief Justiciar assigned to the Reach. As he straightened his robes, Malborn heard a loud groan from inside the carriage, a groan in a woman’s voice.

“We’ve arrived,” Justiciar Ondolemar said.

“I heard you the first time!” the woman snapped, “And the time after that!”

“You haven’t bothered to stand up, I assumed perhaps you were not listening.” Malborn wasn’t sure what he was hearing, the Justiciar cracking a joke?

“I am neither physically, mentally, nor emotionally prepared for that.”

“For standing up?” Justiciar Ondolemar was smiling, and it wasn’t a cruel smile, incredibly.

“Obviously!” A human woman, a breton with wild curly hair and thick rimmed spectacles, emerged, squinting around the courtyard. Malborn had paused near the walkway to the servant’s entrance, curiosity getting the better of him. “It’s fucking cold.” She stated.

“It’s warmer inside,” Ondolemar told her, not at all ruffled by her behavior. The woman took his offered hand and slid out of the carriage. She leaned heavily on her cane, pulling her shawl tighter around her. The Justiciar had his arm up like she was a noblewoman, and she clung to it with the arm she wasn’t holding her cane with.

“Will I be expected to talk to the Ambassador before the party?” she asked Ondolemar, “Because my ass and back are killing me and I can’t promise I won’t be a bitch if she talks to me in the next hour or so.” This was Elenwen’s special guest? A little crippled breton? What was so special about her that the plan for tonight’s party needed to be rearranged?

“You will at least try to behave yourself tonight,” Ondolemar said, in a tone that screamed long-suffering, “Please?” And was he begging a human? Said human wrinkled her nose at him and frowned.

“You’re the one who made me come, buddy,” she said, “Now I’m going to be everyone’s problem.” Malborn could hardly believe his ears. “Ugh, fucking stairs. You gonna do the honors or should I call for Lestel-!” She cut off with a squawk of alarm as the Justiciar scooped her up, one arm under her back and the other behind her legs. Malborn stared, open-mouthed, as Ondolemar, chief Justiciar and Talos hunter of the Reach, carried a human up the stairs to the door.

Judging from her behavior, she was going to have a lot of attention on her. It'll be easier to sneak the argonian spy out of the party and to the larder if she makes a scene the way she's implying she will. At least this was party wouldn’t be boring.

Chapter Text

Gisela sat in front of a short wardrobe, looking at her reflection in a mirror. Several cosmetic products were sitting on the top of the makeshift vanity, and a rather high-strung bosmer woman stood behind her with a comb. The woman was assigned to assist her in getting ready for the party, she was told, since it would be highly inappropriate for a Chief Justiciar to help her dress the way he helped her with existing in general. The bosmer, Uuldras, was having a difficult time coming to terms with the cultural differences between the local fashions and what Gisela wanted to do.

“Are you sure?” Uuldras asked for what was probably the tenth time. Gisela was in the process of drawing thin lines of kohl around her eyes.

“This is how we do things where I’m from,” Gisela replied, squinting at the mirror. She was only just able to see what she was doing, and was wishing that there was a way to fix her eyesight with magic. Can’t apply makeup with glasses on after all. Uuldras frowned again, and looked at the comb she was holding. Gisela had refused the comb, informing her that doing anything to curly hair while it was dry would be a mistake.

“Well...” Uuldras said, uncertain, “Is there anything I can do to assist you?” Gisela smudged some red pigment just along the line of black, then dabbed a bit of white into the inner corners of her eyes. Putting her glasses back on, she turned her head back and forth, decided it was sufficient, then moved on to the rest of her face. Blush and lips, simple to emphasize her eyes.

“Uhm,” Gisela began, also a bit clueless of what to do with the assigned maid, “Could you help me pin my hair as I style it?” The woman was thrilled to have something to do, even if it was small. Gisela had opted for the swirled pompadour of the Edwardian Gibson Girl, to match her dress.

The overcoat portion of the gown was a lovely red satin, trimmed with white ruffles. The skirt underneath was made with the same white fabric. It was everything Gisela wanted, something elegant that would make her stand out among the nord nobility and wealthy merchants from across Tamriel. Everything about her ensemble screamed “foreigner”. Hopefully, this would help her get everyone’s eyes off of the dragonborn, whenever said dragonborn needed to make their getaway.

A knock on the bedroom door pulled her from her thoughts as Uuldras pinned the last curls into place. The door opened without waiting for a response to reveal the person that Gisela had been dreading meeting. Elenwen. Behind her, Uuldras immediately dipped into a bow. Gisela, still sitting down, nodded politely instead.

“Well met,” the altmer woman said, “I am Ambassador Elenwen, I apologize for not introducing myself sooner but I had… Business to attend to.” The way she said “business” made the fine hairs down Gisela’s neck and spine stand on end. Elenwen didn't look much like she did in the game, she lacked the bruise colored eye bags or eye shadow and dark blush that was so obvious on a screen. Her skin was smooth, and with the exception of a few frown lines she had basically no wrinkles.

“Not a problem Lady Ambassador,” Gisela said, pasting a customer service smile onto her face, “I’m just finishing up here. Was there anything you needed from me?” A polite offer and a request to hurry it up, all packaged neatly into one question. An amused glint passed through Elenwen’s eyes, she’d caught onto the subtext.

“I need nothing from you,” Elenwen said easily and bluntly, “You know nothing of how you traveled through the planes, nor do I have any matters that you are authorized to give your special kind of advice on.” Gisela blinked. “I read the reports Justiciar Ondolemar sends, I know what it is that you advise on and where your expertise lies. You are here as a guest, not for your services. You,” she gestured at Uuldras, “Dismissed.” Uuldras was gone from the room in a flash.

“Of course,” Gisela said, turning back to the mirror. She was ready for the party, but being alone with Elenwen was making her fidgety.

“Are you truly so used to people only ever wanting things from you?” Elenwen asked, moving gracefully to stand behind Gisela. The woman was incredibly tall, towering over her.

“Everyone wants something,” Gisela said, retouching her blush for lack of anything else to do, “Favors, advice, information, conversation, even just company. Or am I wrong?” Elenwen laughed.

“And there’s that odd wisdom Ondolemar writes of so fondly, and that brash forwardness,” Elenwen put a hand on Gisela’s shoulder and squeezed just slightly too hard. Gisela couldn’t help the tensing of her body at the surprising and unwelcome contact. “Though, I do hope we can get along. I look forward to seeing you at the party.” And she swept out with the regal grace of a queen.

Alone in the room at last, Gisela took a deep shuddering breath. Of course Elenwen would use intimidation tactics on a guest. Or Gisela was just wimpy. Both were possible, could even be both at the same time. Ondolemar had undoubtedly mentioned her political alignment in his reports, was this Elenwen’s way of telling her not to influence him? Gisela wasn’t stupid, maybe a little stupid but not a lot stupid, she’d noticed Ondolemar’s internal conflict over his job and morals after her many rants. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror and groaned loudly. The party hadn’t even started yet and she was exhausted.

Dragging herself to her feet, she hobbled to the door, cane and shoes muffled by the rugs on the stone floor. The door was heavier than she expected, and she stumbled when it gave in, only to be caught by someone tall and strong. Ondolemar blinked at her in surprise, and they both stood there in confused silence for a moment before he helped her right herself.

“I had expected you to still be sitting,” he said slowly, once she’d gotten her stance as stable as she could. Gisela puffed her cheeks indignantly, leaping back into her more silly persona to distract herself from the unpleasant encounter.

“I am entirely capable of walking from one side of the room to the other,” Gisela said, “Not my fault the door’s a heavy bastard.” Ondolemar’s eyes and expression softened and he smiled down at her.

“I was not aware a door could be born out of wedlock,” He said, indulging in her ridiculousness. Success.

“You’d be surprised.” Ondolemar offered her his arm, and she took it without a moment’s hesitation. Gisela straightened her back and relaxed her shoulders. Good posture was essential to wearing this dress to its fullest potential, she wasn’t a Gibson Girl, but she could emulate one at least. Think murder and walk. Ondolemar matched his stride to her odd gait and shorter, slower pace. He carried her down the stairs in a bridal carry, and politely didn’t comment on what was definitely a blush on her face, ears, and neck, considering how hot they felt. Why was it that she only blushed when Ondolemar picked her up? She was fine with Queyan, and she hardly felt so self-conscious when Yngvar or Aicantar needed to carry her. Was she crushing? Shit, she was, wasn’t she?

When they reached the door into the reception hall portion of the Embassy, Gisela could pick out the sounds of conversation already well established, and of a bard plucking at a lute. She looked up at Ondolemar and offered a nervous smile. He opened the door much more easily than she had, and stepped in at her side. Eyes turned curiously to see who the newcomers were, then widened when they saw the Chief Justiciar with a very oddly dressed human woman on his arm. Gisela shifted her gait, face smoothed into a mask of confident nonchalance, walking the way nobility did in the movies with only a minor limp instead of her usual sway.

Gisela didn’t see Jarl Igmund at the party, nor did she see anyone she could identify based on their game selves' faces. There was a male bosmer behind a bar that was most likely Malborn, though. She opted to cling to Ondolemar’s arm for the time being, cane handle hooked over the crook of her elbow to free her hand. She watched as a few more guests filtered in, and listened to the small-talk that filled the room. Names came up that recognized, introductions were made. Ondolemar put a glass in her hand, telling her that it was an alto wine. It looked like a pale rosé to her, which was surprising, she’d expected it to be a white wine. It was, however, rather dry and slightly acidic, much to Gisela’s disappointment. She preferred sweeter drinks.

“What does a fellow need to do to get a drink around here?” someone asked loudly from near the door. Gisela felt her heart rate jump, and looked over with all the subtlety she could muster. A tall redguard with a dark red alcohol flush on his cheeks had dropped himself into a bench.

“My feet are becoming tired,” Gisela told Ondolemar, switching her wine glass to her other arm. She waved off his offer to escort her to a seat, and made her way carefully to the bench where the redguard whose name she’d forgotten was sitting.

“Ah, hello fair lady,” the man greeted, though he impolitely didn’t stand up and Gisela didn’t care enough to comment on that, “Another new face today, what a coincidence! Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Razelan. Imports and exports, by trade. Observer of human nature, by avocation. Who might you be?” He gave her a cursory up-and-down look, but he didn’t stare inappropriately so he was already O.K. in Gisela’s book.

“Pleasure to meet you, Razelan,” Gisela said, “My name is Gisela, I have no fancy titles or job. I’m mostly here as a novelty. May I sit?” Razelan shifted to make more room on the bench, allowing for Gisela to sit next to him with a more appropriate amount of distance between the two. She took another sip of wine and winced slightly. “You’ve been to these parties before? It’s my first time, are they always so...” She waved her hand a bit for emphasis, “...dull?”

“Ha!” Razelan barked a laugh as Elenwen began to speak with someone in the entryway, “They’re even duller now that Elenwen, the bitch, ordered her staff to cut me off. Apparently I’ve caused one too many scenes.” Razelan crossed his arms with a huff. Gisela offered him her own glass.

“Want the rest of my wine?” she asked, “It’s too dry for me, but I couldn’t tell my escort that.”

“Thank you, kind lady!” Razelan jumped on her offer, “It seems that there is indeed a generous soul among these pinch-pennies and lick-spittles! If there’s anything you need, do not hesitate to ask!” He took a long drink from the glass before the rest of her sentence caught up. “Escort? Who’d you come here with?” Gisela leaned back a bit in the seat and tilted her head in Ondolemar’s general direction.

“I came with Justiciar Ondolemar,” she said, “I’ve been staying in Understone Keep as a guest of Jarl Igmund, and the Lady Ambassador thought me interesting enough to insist that he bring me with him.” Razelan’s eyebrows shot up.

“The big boss!?” he gasped, “No way! You’re messing with me!” Gisela smiled mischievously and shook her head gently.

“Why would I lie about something like that?” she asked, keeping her tone light and teasing. Behind Razelan, Elenwen was saying something about wine to Malborn in a cross and snippy tone. “When he’s not working, he’s surprisingly fun to be around. Great sense of humor. But you didn’t hear me say it.” Razelan snickered, probably delighted to find someone so crass at an uptight gathering. Or already drunk. He did seem the type to pregame a fancy party.

Then he stepped into view. A tall, long-limbed argonian, with scales of blue and black and white, vivid red eyes, and a magnificent black-feathered crest. He moved lithely, carrying himself with the confident silence of a practiced hunter. This was the dragonborn, for sure. If that wasn’t obvious enough, the quick exchange with Malborn over the bar as a drink was poured all but confirmed it. Razelan followed Gisela’s wide-eyed stare.

“Ah him? I didn’t get his name, he’s the other new one,” Razelan drained the rest of the cup, “Met him on my way in. He arrived in a carriage too, must be someone important.” Gisela nodded wordlessly. She hadn’t seen any of the beastfolk in person yet. Just humans, mer, and orsimer. Nothing could have prepared her for the experience. Then the argonian turned around and met her gaze. Gisela’s ears went warm and she averted her eyes. Razelan laughed at her embarrassment over being caught.

“I erect the spines of greeting,” purred the smoothest, bassiest voice Gisela had ever heard, “I am called Early-Bird-No-Worm. Though some call me Bird, and others call me Worm. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” And there was the dragonborn. Gisela internally cursed her voice kink, praying to any gods who would listen that she wouldn’t blush too much.

“Well met,” she said, resisting the urge to fidget as she made the polite amount of eye contact, “My name is Gisela, this is Razelan.” Razelan was already scowling at the empty wineglass.

“We met outside the door,” Bird said, and Gisela was mentally calling him Bird because she honestly didn’t think she knew him well enough to call him Worm, “I believe I am the last to arrive. What brings you to this party?”

“Bad manners to ask such a direct question,” Razelan interrupted, “Especially at one of Elenwen’s little soirees. But I have nothing to hide, I'm in from the south, on business. And if you want to do business in Tamriel these days, well, you'd better get used to cozying up to the Thalmor. Like it or not." Gisela chuckled under her breath. Getting to overhear the actual in-game dialogue from the mouths of real people as it happened was wild.

“I have nothing to hide either,” Gisela said with a coy smile, “Chief Justiciar Ondolemar is my keeper, I live in the Thalmor headquarters, in Markarth’s Understone Keep. Jarl Igmund’s court wizard Calcelmo has been studying me due to a… Magical accident I’m a victim of. As a result, I’m something of a curiosity, all shiny and new and odd, so Elenwen told Ondolemar to bring me with him.”

“Fascinating,” Bird breathed, eyes sparkling with interest, “I dabble in curious magic myself, perhaps we could find time to discuss it one day?” Gisela grinned, not bothering to be polite and keep her lips closed.

"I'd enjoy that, I think," she said.

“Uhm, sorry to interrupt,” Razelan said, “Gisela, my one true friend in all of Skyrim, could you get me another drink?” She looked at her cane, and Early-Bird-No-Worm looked at the cane too.

“I could,” she said, “It’ll take me a minute, though.” Bird held his cup out to Razelan, whose eyes light up like string lights.

“Amazing!” Razelan gasped, taking the cup with reverential gratitude, “Two kind souls in one night, the gods are smiling upon me this day. If there’s anything you need from me, my friend, you only need to ask!” Bird smiled, and wow it was strange to see how such a reptilian face emoted like that.

“Actually,” he said, “There was something that I had in mind...”

“Anything!” Razelan said, wiping drink from his facial hair. Bird glanced sideways at Gisela.

“Can you keep a secret?” Bird asked cautiously. Gisela nodded.

“I can, I swear on whatever gods will strike me down for lying if I don’t.” Razelan laughed. “I honestly don’t know which gods to swear on for that, actually.”

“Could you create a distraction for me?” Bird asked Razelan, and Gisela gasped silently. Both men looked at her.

“Can I help?” she asked softly. Bird laughed, and a lovely laugh it was.

“Making scenes is my specialty,” Razelan said with pride, and raised his eyebrow at Gisela. Like a challenge She bared her teeth in a feral looking grin.

“I never actually promised Ondolemar that I would behave tonight, and I have the perfect thing in mind!” she turned to Bird, “I will ask you to do one thing for me though, something easy enough I promise.” The argonian cocked his head curiously. “Ondolemar, the altmer in the fancy Thalmor robes mingling with the guests over by the bard, is in charge of me. I’d like you to tell him that I’m going to demonstrate the performing arts to a new friend and I want to let him know not to take me seriously. Do you want to give us a signal to start?” Bird seemed puzzled, but he agreed nonetheless. The signal would be standing near the bar.

As soon as he started walking toward Ondolemar, Gisela turned to Razelan and began to explain her plan. She was going to pretend to be mad at him and was going to monologue at him. The rant was well known in her homeland, she told him, and is often quoted to humorous effect. Razelan would just need to sit back, look pretty, and enjoy his liquor. She glanced at Ondolemar and Bird, and Ondolemar’s immediately fell into an expression that screamed “long-suffering” and “so tired of this shit”. But he didn’t come running when Bird walked to the bar to feign getting another drink, so Gisela stood up and cleared her throat.

“What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch?” she said loudly, trying not to laugh when she heard someone spit their drink back into their glass, “I’ll have you know that I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Qaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in guerilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US Armed Forces.” Razelan was going scarlet in the face trying not to burst into laughter, and several guests were audibly snickering. Elenwen was asking her guards what in Oblivion was going on. Malborn and Bird were through the door now and it was closed tight. Gisela was on a roll and would not be stopped by anything. “I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the internet? Think again, fucker!”

“Gisela, please-” Ondolemar started to say, approaching her on her left side.

“As we speak, I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot! The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid! I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands!” Ondolemar rubbed his temples, and took a few steps to the side to engage in a hushed conversation with Elenwen. The guards were also laughing, probably at Razelan’s expense. “The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands!” Malborn ducked back into the room and was back behind the bar while Gisela ranted and raved. Elenwen was telling Ondolemar to make Gisela stop. “If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue.” Ondolemar stepped in front of her, and in one quick maneuver, tossed her over his shoulder. She paused, caught off guard with an audible 'hurk' sound as her gut met his shoulder, but as he started to carry her to exit back to the guest quarters, she shouted louder. “But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot! I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it! You’re fucking dead, kiddo!” And the door to the party room slammed shut.

Chapter Text

The sound of the door slamming was punctuated with roars of laughter muffled by heavy solid wood. Gisela wriggled on Ondolemar’s shoulder, but the arm wrapped around the back of her thighs tightened to prevent any attempt of escape. She snarled and smacked at his back with the hand that wasn’t still clutching her cane.

“Put me down!” she hissed, “I’m done!” Someone laughed behind her, in front of Ondolemar.

“Your pet human misbehaving?” A voice, a man teased, obviously entertained. The other voice snickered.

“Pet!?” Gisela shrieked, indignant.

“Silence,” Ondolemar spat, incensed, “Return to your posts at once.” There was movement in the corner of her eye, and she glanced over to see a leather hooded argonian crouching by the door to the hall. The one that probably led to the kitchens. Fuck. Early-Bird-No-Worm made eye contact and held a finger to his scaly lips, Gisela made the gesture back in acknowledgment. Well, looks like she should probably keep the guards distracted.

“Hey!” one of the guards yelped as she swung blindly around Ondolemar’s side with her cane. It wasn’t the one who called her a pet, but he had laughed.

“Talk shit, get hit!” she snapped, “Call me a pet to my face you asswipe, I’ll put my arm down your throat and yank out your kneecaps!” As Ondolemar walked past the now thoroughly befuddled guards whom Gisela could now see gawking at her, Bird darted silently behind them and out of sight towards what was probably the outside. Was that Thieves Guild armor?

“...How?” one of the guards whispered to the other, the bizarre threat leaving him shaken. Gisela bared her teeth and snarled like an animal. Both altmer stepped back, alarmed and intimidated.

Ondolemar increased his pace up the stairs to the guest suite they shared, Gisela slumping the moment the guards were out of sight. He dumped her unceremoniously onto the fainting couch and sat himself in a plush office chair across from her.

“Gisela.” she winced, still dizzy from the sudden change in her orthostatic orientation. “I would like to know what it was that you were thinking when you made a scene, despite promising to be well behaved.” Ondolemar was pissed, his voice strained from holding back the anger so he sounded impassive. Oh that just made it worse. It felt as bad as her parents being disappointed in her, back when she was first getting sick, before they knew why she was breaking.

“I was thinking,” she began slowly, her voice cracked as the rejection sensitivity started to set in, “That...” Shit, she kicked herself internally. What was she supposed to say? That by making a fool of herself and Ondolemar by association, she was another piece in the domino chain of Alduin the World Eater’s defeat? That she was helping further the plot?

“Go on.” he sounded cold, and it twisted in her chest like a fist clenched around her heart and lungs.

“I-” Gisela choked, the words lodged in her throat. Vision blurring as her eyes watered, she looked up to meet Ondolemar’s stony face. “I had to,” her voice sounded strangled, “I needed to. I can’t tell you.” Ondolemar covered his face with his hands, dragging them up over his scalp and through his military-short hair.

“Why can’t you tell me?” he pleaded, an emotion that wasn’t anger bled into his voice. Some kind of distress, Gisela couldn’t tell which. She shook her head, regretting the dizzy spell it triggered.

“Not here,” she whispered, hoarse, “Not now. Please.”

“Ambassador Elenwen will demand an explanation,” he told her, weary.

“I drank too much,” Gisela said without hesitation, “I’m not supposed to drink when I’m on medication, I’ve never been able to drink an entire glass before.” She met his eyes and turned the inner corners of her brows up. “Ondolemar, please. I promise, I’ll tell you after we leave.”

“You will tell me,” Ondolemar’s voice had gone cold again. Gisela flinched. “After we leave, in the carriage, you will tell me what secrets you are keeping from me.” She knew it, he was furious. He made to stand up and she instinctively ducked her head, eyes closed. She’d never been hit, never been beaten, but she did it anyway.

“No,” she whispered, and he paused on his way to the door, “Don’t leave me here.” Gisela had never begged him for anything, not like this. Ondolemar didn’t move, just waited quietly. Downstairs, likely in the solar by now, Bird was stealing Thalmor intelligence and freeing their prisoners. She prayed to Auri-El, the most powerful of the elves’ gods, that Malborn would be alright, that Bird wouldn’t let him die. If Ondolemar went downstairs, would he be expected to fight?

“Why should I stay?” Ondolemar asked. Of course he’s feeling hurt by the secret keeping, knowing that she caused him pain made the sharp ache in Gisela’s chest worse.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Gisela confessed in a soft voice, “I’m scared.” She stared at the floor with unfocused eyes, the pattern in the hand-woven rug blurring into blobs of color. Ondolemar walked over slowly, then knelt in front of her. She didn’t look at him.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked quietly, and when she didn’t reply he took her hand, “Gisela? What are you so scared of?” Her eyes snapped into focus on his face, her startled blink knocking loose the tears that clung to her lashes. She ran through several possible ways to explain herself, each carrying more secrets than the last.

“Don’t tell her,” Gisela said, “Promise me.” Ondolemar froze, considering whether or not he could defy his superior like that. He was quiet for several moments before nodding, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “I saw this happen, all of this. It has to happen.” The movement of his fingers stopped. She watched as his eyes hardened. “You don’t have to believe me,” she said softly, “I know how it sounds.”

“...Jarl Igrod Ravencrone of Morthal also claims to possess foresight,” Ondolemar said slowly.

“She does?” Gisela asked, pretending not to know already.

“Yes...” he trailed off, deep in thought. His thumb began to draw circles on her skin again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, but...”

“You’ll see,” she said with a rueful smile, “I said I would tell you after we leave, and I will.” Gisela jumped, heart in her throat, when shouting erupted downstairs. Ondolemar dropped her hand and stood up quickly. Moments later, someone pounded on the door.

“High Justiciar Ondolemar!” they called through the wood, “Someone broke into Madame Ambassador’s solar!” Ondolemar looked at her, eyes growing wide as he realized what she’d participated in.

“They’ve gotten away,” she murmured solemnly, too low for the person outside the door to hear, “With their accomplice and the prisoner.” Ondolemar threw the door open, and Gisela saw a Thalmor soldier that she didn’t recognize.

“Inquisitor Rulindil is dead,” the soldier continued, “The soldiers sent to apprehend them haven’t returned.” Ondolemar pulled his hood up and stepped out, closing the door with a loud bang. Gisela flinched at the noise, then slumped into the couch with an exhausted groan.

Regret and terror churned in her gut. She had just proven her “foresight”, but at what cost? Was she going to get tortured for information? Did she undo all the positive changes she’d influenced in her friend? In the man that she’d developed a crush on? Gisela buried her face in a cushion and screamed until she ran out of air.

Breathing hard, she began frantically tugging the pins from her hair, dropping them in a sloppy pile on the side table next to the decorative vase. She pulled her shoes off, then, cane in hand, stumbled to her bedroom. Getting out the of the dress solo was troublesome, and so was scrubbing off the makeup, but in her underclothes with hair free and wild, she felt better already. Well, that was a lie. She felt less constrained, despite being essentially grounded in the guest quarters.

She hobbled to the window in only her soft corset and bloomers to peer through the glass. It was a bit of a madhouse outside. There were angry guests trying to leave and being prevented from doing so. Several Justiciars, under Ondolemar’s directions probably, were conducting questionings in the cold. Gisela figured that if she’s going to pretend to have been drunk during her navy seals rant, she might as well drive home the point. Besides, she needed to explode a bit. Her wimpy arms struggled with the frozen metal latch and hinges as she pushed the window open a crack, hissing at the frigid gust that blew through. Alright, time to play.

Now, I know that I can't make you stay, but where's your heart?
But where's your heart? But where's your-
And I know there's nothing I can say to change that part!
To change that part, to change…!

She projected her voice to a musical scream, feeling the memories of aggressive teenage angst flow through her again.

So many bright lights, they cast a shadow, but can I speak?
Well, is it hard understanding I'm incomplete?
A life that's so demanding, I get so weak!
A love that's so demanding, I can't speak!

I am not afraid to keep on living!
I am not afraid to walk this world alone!
Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you can say can stop me going home!

Gisela’s legs wobbled from the power she was channeling to her lungs. Even her magic was responding to the influx of emotion, the anger and fear and shame and sadness. It filled her throat and soothed the strain from her screaming. It swelled in the air she breathed.

Can you see, my eyes are shining bright, 'cause I'm out here-
On the other side of a jet black hotel mirror, and I'm so weak!
Is it hard understanding I'm incomplete?
A love that's so demanding, I get weak!

I am not afraid to keep on living!
I am not afraid to walk this world alone!
Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you can say can stop me going home!
I am not afraid to keep on living!
I am not afraid to walk this world alone!
Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you can say can stop me going home!

Since she started singing, the commotion outside had been tapering off. She wondered if Ondolemar was listening. As upset as she was for disappointing him, she was angry at him too. And she was angry at herself.

These bright lights have always blinded me
These bright lights have always blinded me, I say!

I see you lying next to me
With words I thought I'd never speak
Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead!

'Cause I see you lying next to me

With words I thought I'd never speak

Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead!

She pitched her voice up into a scream again. She was crushing on Ondolemar, she’d been realizing it over the course of this damned trip. It was infuriating that she was falling for a high ranking racist. He was changing, but the Thalmor still had his devotion. He was still a supremacist. Queyan had seen this stupid infatuation beginning to blossom, that was why she was always so amused by their interactions.

'Cause I see you lying next to me!

With words I thought I'd never speak
Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead!
'Cause I see you lying next to me!
With words I thought I'd never speak
Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead!

I am not afraid to keep on living!
I am not afraid to walk this world alone!
Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you can say can stop me going home!
I am not afraid to keep on living!
I am not afraid to walk this world alone!
Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you can say can stop me going home!

Gisela swayed in the middle of the bedroom, gripping the handle of her cane with white knuckles. She let herself drop to the floor, healing magic repairing the bruises she sustained from her recklessness. Her legs and feet itched and burned from the swelling. Breathing heavily, she let the cold breeze whisk away the fire in her skin. Why did she get hot and sweaty when she was angry? She honestly had no idea, but with the aggression burned out, she just needed to cool down.

As she lay there on the rug, exhaustion began to set in. All in all, it had been a wild day. It was hard to believe so much had happened since she’d woken up. Fatigue set in, knocking her over the head like a sack of bricks. Gisela closed her eyes and slipped into consciousnesses.

Chapter Text

This was madness. It had to be. Ondolemar was standing in the interrogation chambers below Madame Ambassador Elenwen’s solar. Rulindil was slumped dead at his desk and two formerly competent Justiciars were practically butchered on the floor. The breton left in Rulindil’s care was also missing, and an empty vial on the floor in his cell smelled of healing potion.

“The spy’s accomplice was Malborn, one of the bosmeri servants,” Elenwen mused, using the toe of her boot to roll one of the dead Justiciars over. “We’ll need to vet the rest of them now.” Half dry blood stained the leathers from precision strikes with a thin blade. The spy knew what they were doing at least, targeting weak points in the armor. Kneeling for a closer look, he noted the excessive pool of blood on the floor.

“They’re very skilled with daggers,” he noted aloud, “They managed to sever the brachial artery on this one.” The other dead Justiciar was hamstrung before his throat was slit. The pattern of spray indicated that the Justiciar stepped back with the strike. An assault from the front. Rulindil himself had been killed with an upward angled stab from the base of the skull into the brain. A more instant death than a cut throat, but more difficult to achieve. “Inflicted injuries are exact, the spy knows where to aim for the most damage. Even in active combat. They are likely trained as an assassin.” Elenwen simply nodded at his analysis.

“There’s several items of interest missing,” Elenwen said, “Some money, some valuables, and several important files.” The files piqued Ondolemar’s curiosity.

“How important are those files?” Ondolemar asked. Elenwen raised a brow at him, her face smooth and free of any tells.

“Dossiers,” she said, “On potential assets, and on confirmed enemies. And the little information we’ve collected on the dragons.” She gestured towards Rulindil’s cold corpse, “Rulindil was looking for one of the Blades that escaped, a lore keeper. Besides the monks called Greybeards, the Blades are our best lead. Now that their files were all stolen, I can only presume that the spy was working for the Blades.”

Ondolemar chewed the new information over in his mind. Combining this with what he already knew… Gisela. His blood ran like ice when he remembered how she’d made him promise not to tell the Ambassador and First Emissary. She’d known something was going to happen. She had told him that it needed to happen, and that she was scared of losing him. There was something greater at work.

“There was also the information on your… charge.” Elenwen added, the barest hint of carefully concealed amusement in her voice, “The dossier on the young Miss Gisela was also stolen, as well as the one of Stormcloak.” Ondolemar felt a chill creep up his spine. “There is also the matter of the spy’s identity.”

“You think Gisela knows who the spy is,” he didn’t ask, just said, “We’ve already rounded up the guests. All but one is accounted for.” The argonian, Early-Bird-No-Worm. Knowing what he did on the naming conventions of the lizards, he was quite amused by the potential stories behind such a name.

“One who was seen speaking to Gisela before her very well timed outburst.” Elenwen continued, “Razelan confirmed that the argonian asked her to cause a scene. Apparently, ‘she had the perfect thing in mind’.”

“Early-Bird-No-Worm did approach me during the party,” Ondolemar added, “He informed me that Gisela wanted to demonstrate the performing arts.” At Elenwen’s curious glance, he clarified, “Some kind of music or theater performed in front of an audience. Gisela has a flare for being over dramatic.” It had to happen, she’d told him. The spy needed the dossiers? For what reason? For the Blades?

“Perhaps she sympathizes with them,” Elenwen suggested. At the implied accusation, Ondolemar felt a spark of anger flare in his chest.

“I don’t doubt that she would,” Ondolemar half-agreed, “Had anyone explained to her what the Blades are. She’s a fragile soul, sympathetic to the core. I believe she once used the term ‘bleeding heart’, a person who feels strongly for anyone who suffers. Even an enemy. She simply has a passion for drama, she enjoys making trouble for people she doesn’t like.” Elenwen scoffed.

“Indeed,” she said. And ended the conversation. Ondolemar knew it wasn’t truly over until the Blades were dealt with, but with luck he could redirect some of the scrutiny. But why? For a human from an entirely plane. His chest ached curiously, but he pushed it down.

He had just stepped out into the courtyard to look aid in wrapping up the inquiries when he heard her voice. It warbled on the frost wind, the magic in his veins feeling out the magic in the words. She was singing magic, like the bosmeri Spinners sang stories. Her words, though, cut like paper did his fingers were he not careful.

The courtyard where the guests were collected was fairly quiet, listening to the magic in the air, with Gisela’s voice. When the cadence of the final words drifted away, it remained quiet. Ondolemar gazed at the window he knew was hers and wondered after her. They never had spoken so openly to each other before. Oh she had confessed things in the past, they had bantered like old friends, but nothing so heavy. Nothing that made her tremble as she had.

Ondolemar was reinvigorated, or perhaps simply motivated, to finish his work. When he did, he immediately returned to his-, to their guest quarters. It was chilly when he opened the door. The other door that led to Gisela’s room was wide open, a cold breeze blowing from it. His heart dropped to his stomach when he saw her collapsed on the floor in only her underclothes. She was breathing, but her skin was freezing to the touch. His magic snapped the window shut in an instant and he scooped her limp form in his arms.

He carried her into the central sitting room of their suite and placed her in an armchair that he pushed towards the fireplace. Magic brought the fire back to a comfortable blaze, and he found a thick woolen blanket to wrap her in. Gisela was already coming to when he returned with the blanket. Blinking blearily, she shivered a bit. Good, she wasn’t hypothermic.

“Oh, hello,” she slurred, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Don’t ‘oh hello’ me,” Ondolemar snapped, “How could you be so irresponsible?” Gisela tensed, but didn’t resist his manhandling of her to get her covered. “You fell asleep with the window open. In the winter. In Northern Skyrim!” She winced at his tone.

“I’m sorry...” She said instead of snapping back like she normally did after a stunt, “I was being stupid, I have no excuse.” Gisela being unable to meet his eyes told him that she felt a significant amount of guilt. Why guilt?

“Where’s your sense of self-preservation?” he asked. She worried at her lower lip with her teeth.

“Don’t think I ever had one,” Gisela admitted, forcing a laugh, “Or it’s not calibrated right.” She gave him a small smile, “My dad once jokingly told me to grab a stinging nettle. I knew what it was, I was definitely old enough to know why it was a terrible idea, I also grabbed it anyway.” She huffed a soft laugh again, but her wistful expression dropped into a frown. “I can’t really help being impulsive, I don’t always think ahead. I was frustrated and screaming into pillows wasn’t helping much so… Open the window and sing it out.”

“I’m upset,” Ondolemar confessed in turn, “I worry about you, you know. I wasn’t expecting to.”

“Because I’m human?” she asked, smiling wryly.

“Yes,” Ondolemar said, “Because you’re human. Because you have a way of thinking that I never considered.” She looked up, wide brown eyes meeting his own, “And now, I’m not so sure of anything anymore.” He rubbed his temples with cold fingers. He heard shuffling, and Gisela wobbled over to the couch he was on, still wrapped in the blanket. She dropped next to him, then leaned against him.

“You know,” she said, suspiciously cheerful, “There’s a song I’m reminded of.” Ondolemar couldn’t help the curiosity that burrowing out through the doubt.

“And what would that be?”

“A song from a story, two people from vastly different cultures who look very different from each other, learning and falling in love. The native, and the invader, the one who lives in harmony with the world, and the other who seeks to command it.” Gisela said, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. Ondolemar stared at her, then started to make connections to recent events.

“Reminds me of the reachmen and the nords,” he said, amused. The mention of love brought a flutter to his belly.

“Or the Thalmor and everyone else,” she added. That did sting a bit, that she was right. “They fall in love, though, so I don’t know how much of it can apply to...” Her arm emerged from the blanket and made a gesture, “You know.”

“Yes...” Ondolemar agreed, perhaps a bit too quickly. He remembered then, unfortunately, the state of her dress beneath the blanket and looked at the hearth to hopefully hide the heat in his cheeks. “The song?”

“I’ll only sing a bit,” Gisela said, leaning against him more firmly. Ondolemar told himself not to think about it too much, lest he fluster any more. “They’re the parts that actually apply here.” So she sang, softly, for his ears only.

You think I’m an ignorant savage
And you’ve been so many places, I guess it must be so
But still I cannot see
If the savage one is me
How can there be so much that you don’t know?
You don’t know?

You think you own whatever land you land on
The earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know ev'ry rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name
You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew, you never knew…

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

“I...” Ondolemar began when her voice trailed off. What could he say? How much of it applied to the Aldmeri Dominion and how much applied to him personally? He’d already admitted that he thought poorly of her in the beginning. How he now wanted to compare every other human he met to her standard? That maybe he wanted more? His chest squeezed at the thought.

“It’s...” Gisela struggled to find her words again, her nose crinkled and her eyebrows furrowed, “I can’t explain it emotionally. It’s that nature is kind of crazy. We don’t have such obvious divine interference back home but when we develop racial traits there’s an important reason for it. In the natural order.” The blanket slid off of her shoulders, showing off the straps of her custom designed stays as she started to gesture with her hands. “People get darker skin when they live in places that get a lot of sunlight because the melanin absorbs the radiation better and it keeps them protected from skin cancer. People with less or no melanin, lighter skin like me, are more prone to damage from the sun, like burning, or melanomas. Melanin takes energy in the body to produce, so people who evolved in places with less concentrated sunlight never needed to evolve it.” Ondolemar listened to her ramble about the science of skin tone. He wondered after his own golden skin, then about the dunmer and their ash tones. It explained some of the humans and their ancestry, but elves were much more magic. Gisela laughed when he told her as much.

“I did say the gods of my world pretty much never interfere. We never had any kind of confirmed proof of gods, we just have to rely on faith. And very old stories, to be honest.” She grinned up at him. Ondolemar pulled the blanket back up over her shoulders.

“Mara’s mercy,” he muttered, “Cover yourself, woman.” Gisela laughed again. “But I understand what you mean. Following your logic, if humans were not meant to be inferior, Auri-El would never have given Alessia the Dragonstone.” Gisela gave him a small nod. “He also would not have made the past Dragonborns human if he did not possess some sort of fondness for them. Being different is not bad, not lesser.” Gisela beamed at him, and Ondolemar felt warm inside. “Everything has a place.”

“Nature likes its niches,” then she laughed loudly, “It also like crabs.” Ondolemar frowned.

“Mudcrabs?” Gisela grinned at him.

“There’s a word back home, carcinisation. It’s defined as the state of ‘one of Nature’s many attempts to evolve a crab’. It’s succeeded at least five times, I think, with several other species somewhere on the road to being a crab. If there’s a place in nature for something to exist, something else will change over time to fit. And there’s a lot of room for crabs. A significant portion of people online decided that this is proof enough to jokingly proclaim that the superior form of life is crab.” Ondolemar wrinkled his nose. He’d faced mudcrabs. They were aggressive, the smaller ones tended to be more shy, even tamable, but the bigger ones favored larger prey. Like people.

“You raise a valid point, but I will never view mudcrabs as superior,” Ondolemar said frankly, Gisela stuck out her tongue. Ondolemar was both more relaxed for the banter, but still very on edge. She’d told him what he would find, if only just a little of it. He’d kept his word and not told Elenwen. From the hint of worry lines between Gisela’s brows, she was likely still worried about it. He didn’t want to break the peace by bringing it up either, but he didn’t want her to be afraid.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” he said, after a few moments of comfortable quiet. The way she slumped against his side was proof enough that she’d been stressed. She understood the subtext, he hadn’t said a word. “I also told the Ambassador that you simply delight in making mischief.” A smile quirked on her lips.

“I enjoy looking for trouble,” Gisela said, “and if I cannot find it, I will create it.” Ondolemar smiled too. He was more relaxed here, smiling more freely. He knew the peace between them would be lost soon enough, with whatever secrets she promised to spill after they left the Embassy. Gisela didn’t trust the Ambassador at all. When Gisela told him more of what she’d foreseen, he would tell her about the dossier.

“I have a feeling...” he sighed, leaning back against the couch. Gisela, was jostled slightly, but resettled quickly, “That there is going to be a lot of trouble.” Gisela sniffled, a side effect of being warmed up.

“Yes,” she confirmed without hesitation, “But with tonight out of the way, we can deal with the rest of it as it comes.” They were quiet for a time, listening to crackling of the wood. One of the logs popped, a pocket of moisture rupturing. There would be much to do in the future, it seemed. Might as well enjoy the moment.

Chapter Text

An excess of excitement one day will inevitably produce a flare-up the next day. Gisela felt a mess. All her joints ached and felt stiff. Muscles complained about the pressure of existing under their own weight. Her appetite was slim to none. Napping on the floor probably only made it worse. In true Gisela fashion, she went straight past regular complaining and straight into non-verbal groaning and dirty looks. Ondolemar gave her a healing potion and carried her to the magic- warmed carriage after it started to take . She growled at anyone she didn’t consider a friendly acquaintance. That included Elenwen.

“Still feisty, I see,” the woman said to Ondolemar with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “We had such a lovely conversation the other day. I was hoping to bid you both farewell.” Ondolemar’s face remained smooth, but she felt his hold on her tighten ever so slightly.

“Farewell, Madame Ambassador,” Ondolemar said, helping Gisela sit, “I will continue to write, as I have done previously.” He then settled himself into the seat across from her. Gisela was blissfully surrounded in furs and thick woolen blankets, cushioning her poor miserable body. There were more in there now than there had been on the trip up, that was for sure.

“Ffffffff….” she hissed, shifting herself into a better arrangement of limbs and pain when the carriage began rolling. Ondolemar raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to finish the swear. “-fffiretruck.” she said instead. He snorted, which was nice. She quirked a crooked smile through her grimacing.

She knew he was unbothered by her coarse language, especially in private, it was more of an inside joke at this point. One she hoped to keep when the journey was over and the secrets were out in the open. On top of her pain, she needed to deal with the stress of trying to figure out how much to reveal. She knew so much, but so little. And foretelling Ondolemar’s death would be a terrible way to open.

“Have you ever read Kolb and the Dragon?” she asked instead. The book was a simple novel, allowing interaction with the reader through a Choose-Your-Own style adventure. It was the best way to explain this, that she could think of at least.

“It’s a children’s book, isn’t it?” Ondolemar said. At her expectant pause he continued, “No, I have not.” Damn, that makes it a little harder.

“Well each section of story ends with several options, telling you what page to turn to based on what you choose. Which path, left or right?”

“I see,” Ondolemar was now giving Gisela his full attention. He was likely trying to guess where she was going.

“Now, pretend with me, okay?” she ran healing magic through her veins, “I’m going to guide you through a story like that, one that I… experienced. You wake up in the back of a cart, with your wrists bound.” And she began to speak, telling the story of Helgen’s destruction as it happened. She keeps her descriptions vague, limits the dialogue. She describes the prisoner making their way to Riverwood, being asked to talk to the Jarl, then being tasked with fetching the Dragonstone. She presents options as they appear, but rather than play it out with Ondolemar, she sticks to the story quest. His eyes narrow when she reveals the role of the Blades, and how the faceless survivor suspects the Thalmor of bringing back the dragons. He’s following along, not interrupting, but it’s clear he’s realized where she’s going with this. Then she mentions finding out what the Thalmor know by sneaking into Embassy. Needing to cause a distraction to slip away from the party.

“That was your role?” he asked. Gisela, bolstered by healing of the herbal and magical varieties, and hopped up on adrenaline, could only blush.

“Well, it could have been anyone the Dragonborn already knew. Or that prick Erikur. If they'd helped you get proof of a Talos-worshipper in Markarth, there was a possibility of talking you into making a scene, actually.” Ondolemar’s eyebrows shot up. “But it was going to be Razelan, he’s the easiest to convince. When I saw my chance to be a part of a story I’ve experienced dozens of times over the past decade, I got a bit selfish.”

“I confess,” Ondolemar said with a sigh, “You definitely know details that you shouldn’t have, which is evidence in your favor, but overall it wouldn’t hold up to questioning.” Gisela frowned.

“Do you believe me?” she asked. Ondolemar paused, and she saw the thoughts racing behind his eyes. She wasn’t expecting the doubt behind his hesitation to hurt that much. “I’ll offer a spoiler then, if the Dragonborn never joins a side in the war they will eventually call for a peace summit in High Hrothgar.” Ondolemar’s eyes glinted at the bit of ‘foresight’ she was doing. “General Tullius will meet with Ulfric Stormcloak, and Elenwen will make an appearance. Stormcloak will demand she leave. Stormcloak will also want control of Markarth as his price for leaving Whiterun alone. If he is given the Reach, and he likely will, you will be imprisoned and beheaded by Galmar Stone-fist.” Her pulse was thundering in her throat and ears. Ondolemar looked like he’d been slapped.

“...And you are positive that this happens?” he asked, uncertain. He was shaken, Ondolemar, who seemed so stalwart and unflappable for all he flustered when teased. And she’d told him she knew how he died.

“That is how it always played out, but I don’t want you to die!” Gisela said, “Elenwen would tell you if she leaves for the Throat of the World, yes?” His brows furrowed. “We can leave at the first sign of a peace summit, go to Solitude for the duration of the conference. Get the others and go. They shouldn’t have to die either, even if they-” she cut herself off. Even if they’re bigots is what she wanted to say. She wasn't aware of Thalmor ordered executions, or arrests in her time at the keep, but none of her Thalmor friends were lacking in blood on their hands. How much of it is the fault of their indoctrination? The moral dilemma flip-flopping in her gut made her nauseous. “Even if they think I’m less of a person because I’m not a mer.”

Because this wasn’t the first time she’d been a subject of political controversy for demanding space to be . First it was because she was disabled, now it’s because she’s a ‘lesser’ race. That was definitely new. She was stupidly outspoken, but her perceived weakness to those she speaks against has managed to endear her to a few. Gisela was lucky. The few who found her puffed up kitten impression to be adorable and harmless protected her from the more wary ones who’d been scratched in the past. Elenwen would probably be more than happy to vanish her for being so vocal, were it not Ondolemar holding the leash while Gisela hissed and spit.

G isela inhaled quietly, then exhaled slowly. Then she took Ondolemar’s hands carefully in her own. Compared to an adult male altmer, she was tiny. The average breton woman was the same as the national average for American women, of which she was just under the cut. Gisela turned his hand over so the palm faced up, and traced the lines with a feather light touch.

“You aren’t the same person that’s in the story,” she said quietly as the cart rattled, “The mer in the story is cold and distant, he cares only for his work, only for serving.” She ran her fingertips over the deeper lines on his palm. “You don’t have to be like him.”

“Did he have someone like you?” Ondolemar caught her hand and gently spread her fingers. Palm to palm, it was easy to see how small she was. And her unusually stubby fingers didn’t help that image.

“He didn’t. There was no weirdo from beyond the Void, who experienced the legend he was tangled in. Who cared enough to want to protect him when she could.” His hand was warm against hers. The carriage may have been runed against the cold, but some frigid air seeped in through the window and it was enough to set off her Raynaud’s. Her fingers paled and the back of her hand went a bit blotchy. She looked sickly compared to his healthy gold.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Ondolemar said, a sad smile on his handsome face.

“I know,” he looked up to meet her eyes, “But I want to. Will you let me?” Ondolemar’s free hand came up to move some loose hair to the side of her face. The barest brush of his skin on her cheek made her want to turn her face into his hand. Was she really so touch starved? Yes. She’s barely leaned into it, when Ondolemar paused midway through the motion, a wrinkle between his brows and a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” She said, she’d ruined the moment.

“No,” he said quickly, “I’m sorry. That was… Improper of me.” Gisela smiled at him, but couldn’t make it believable. Ah, she realized, this is a mutual pining situation isn’t it? Damn, that’s irksome.

Chapter Text

Aicantar walked briskly through the hall, holding the box that Gisela had asked him to bring. Inside were several dice, the kind used by gamblers, but unweighted. He had no idea why she’d asked him if he knew where to get some, but he was intrigued at the thought of finding out exactly what it was that she’d wanted them for. That and the several sheets of paper. Now that they were scheduled to meet, he would learn what her plan was.

He stepped into the large room to find a wooden table with several chairs placed around it. Gisela sat at the head of the table, Ondolemar to her right, Queyan to her left, and an empty chair across from her.

“Man of the hour!” Gisela beamed at him, “I’ve been looking forward to this!”

“And what is...” Queyan’s eyes went from Gisela to the stuff he was carrying, “This?”

“Dice and paper, though I am not sure what for,” Aicantar said, taking a seat. He pushed the box and paper across the table to where Gisela wiggled in place like an overexcited puppy.

“Table top role playing games!” she said, “A rather simple one I’ve played enough times to have the rules down, but with a Tamrielic twist. So almost a new one, just built on the bones of an existing system. These kinds of games are very popular where I’m from, with some games lasting years.” Years to play a game? Rather mind boggling.

“That explains what you’ve been working on since we got back,” Ondolemar said, “Though I do wonder what brought this on...” He was looking at the few pieces of paper she’d already filled out. They were organized in front of her, written in her inelegant scrawl and spattered with ink. Her fingertips were stained back and she had a faint smear on her chin.

“Because you, my most chalant of friends, need to unwind a bit.”

“Excuse me?” Ondolemar scoffed, looking almost genuinely offended.

“And after meeting your boss, so do I. So!” Gisela clapped her hands together, winced a bit at the sting, then opened the box. Inside were the four dice, carved from wood and, while oiled, barely polished. She placed one in front of each person, then passed out paper and charcoal pencils.

“So,” Aicantar chimed in before the two could get too sassy with each other, “How do we play?” Queyan made eye contact with him and exhaled heavily. Neither Gisela nor Ondolemar noticed.

“First, I’ll set the stage. It is Midyear, and the first harvest has just occurred. To celebrate, the citizens of Jancaster, a fair sized town located in a woodland area, are holding a festival. You three are animals, and you have decided to get in on the action.” Gisela was more animated than she usually was, and very excited. Ondolemar’s face crinkled a bit in concentration, Queyan tilted her head to the side in confusion, and Aicantar stared at the dice. “There is food and alcohol galore, friendly competitions, and best of all, the Burgomaster has announced a tidy monetary prize for the person who wins the most competitions.”

“Why would beasts care about money?” Queyan interrupted.

“Because you are very intelligent beasts,” Gisela said, unfazed, “Not only do you have a grasp of basic commerce, but you are also able to understand the common language spoken by the people of Jancaster. You aren’t exactly able to speak, but you can combine gesturing with a bit of sounding out of syllables and get your point across. Having that prize money would make it easier to get through winter too, since you would be able to just buy food when it’s scarce.”

“Bizarre,” Aicantar murmured, “But compelling.”

“Now on your sheet, write out the numbers one through six. This is a scale representing how feral your animal is at any given moment. This state of mind is not permanent, and can be affected by many things. One on the scale is completely feral, and six is civilized. When you try to complete an action, I will determine if you need to think like a person or use instinct like an animal. For a feral skill check, you want to roll over your state of mind, for a civilized skill check, equal to or under. Failing a skill check frustrates you and makes you less logical, so your state of mind becomes more feral. You can become more civilized by taking a moment to remind yourself that you are a very intelligent beast and raising your confidence. We start at three, make sure to leave enough room on your sheet for notes since you’ll want to track what your at. Now for species, I have six options. Each has a special skill. You can decide to pick yourself, or you can roll and let the dice choose for you.”

“I’ll go with chance, I think,” Queyan said after a moment’s thought. Not even waiting to hear what the animals on the list were, she rolled her die. She rolled a two.

“Two is...” Gisela said, her eyes lighting up with delight, “A goat.” Ondolemar’s lips pressed together tightly and Aicantar barely suppressed a snort of laughter at the look of bewilderment on Queyan’s face. “Your special skill is to, with enough time, be able to chew through anything. Write that down, yeah? Who’s next?”

“I’ll go, don’t tell me what the options are, I think I like the surprise,” Aicantar said, rolling his own die.

“That’s a four, you are a wolf! As a wolf you thrive when working as a group. Your ability is very special, so you only get to use it three times without a full night’s sleep to recharge. You can increase the odds of success by giving either your allies or yourself the chance to reroll any skill check.” Aicantar made sure to write down the details as she spoke, so she didn’t bother to remind him about it.

“Might as well,” Ondolemar said with a sigh, rolling a five. Then he picked up his pencil and wrote.

“Five… You are a bear, Ondolemar. Your unique skill is how gods-damned scary you are.” Queyan snickered at that. “You can, if needed, reveal yourself as a bear to intimidate anyone who is a threat to your goal. It’s unlimited, but it has the consequence of bringing the town guards on you and your team, so it’s ill-advised to stick around after using your ability.”

“Hm, not bad I suppose.” Ondolemar said.

“Rather well rounded, I think.” Queyan added, “What’s the other three animals we could have chosen?”

“Deer, spider, or rabbit,” Gisela said, “Now, you three have been watching Jancaster at a distance. Your above average intelligence compared to the rest of your species means you’ve come to an agreement and set aside your differences for the greater good. And that greater good is food and money.” Aicantar laughed at her narration. “Now it is the time to make a plan. Through careful observation and elite spy tactics, you’ve learned that there are three competitions that you must win in order to be awarded the prize. Ask me anything you need to, make your choices, and begin.”

“We are smart enough to pretend to be civilized folk, correct?” Queyan asked. Gisela nodded. “Can we disguise ourselves as people?” Gisela’s grin widened.

“I don’t know,” she said cheekily, “Can you?”

“As a wolf, I expect I’m pretty quick,” Aicantar said, “Could I see if I could steal some clothes off the drying lines on the outskirts of town?”

“There’s definitely a clothesline on the edge of town, one end is tied to a tree, the other to the house. How do you want to try and steal the clothes?”

“Hmm,” Aicantar paused to think for a moment, “Can I try and sneak through the bushes and make sure there’s no one around to see me first?”

“Roll a feral skill check.” Aicantar rolled his die. “Excellent, you pass! Not only are you able to snag enough clothes for all three of you, but you manage to pick clothing in a proper size too!”

“That was in question?” Ondolemar asked, bewildered.

“Of course, random clothes out of someone’s laundry isn’t guaranteed to fit, you know.” Gisela stuck out her tongue.

“And now we’re a bunch of animals wearing clothes,” Queyan said, a little confused.

“Exactly! You’ve got your disguises, what’s next?” And thus began quite the adventure for Aicantar and the two Justiciars. Aicantar was quite surprised to find himself taking the lead more than he’d anticipated. Ondolemar was more interested in playing a bodyguard role than one of leadership. Queyan, with her Thalmor background, settled easily into an in-between. Not a leader, but unafraid to suggest strategies that Aicantar hadn’t thought of. Information gathering was easy to do with the group working together.

“You manage overhear a few townsfolk talking about the first competition. It’s an eating competition, whomever can eat the most pies before the hourglass empties wins.” They looked at each other.

“Queyan,” Ondolemar spoke up, “Your ability has to do with eating, correct?”

“Yes, I- Oh!” Queyan’s eyes widened. Aicantar perked up as well. “Would that work for this?”

“It would,” Gisela confirmed, looking pleased with the course of the game, “You would get advantage on your rolls. You roll twice and pick the better roll. Eating would be a feral skill check. So you’re entering the competition?”

“Yes!” Queyan said, then blushed a bit. She’d been a bit louder than she meant to. “I mean, I am.”

“You take your seat at the bench, with a pile of pies in front of you. There’s all kinds of flavors, fruits and cremes. The Burgomaster takes the stage. Aicantar, Ondolemar, where are you?”

“I’m in the front, in case we need my ability,” Aicantar said without hesitation. He’d taking to this game the quickest.

“I will as well,” Ondolemar added. “In case a scene is needed.” There was the beginning of a smile on his face, like he wanted to make a scene. Aicantar hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

“You two are standing in the front of the audience. The Burgomaster clears his throat and announces, ‘Welcome to the fifty-fifth annual first harvest fair! The first competition we have today is the pie eating contest, with thanks to Missus Millicent and her children for their wonderful donation as always!’ He waxes poetic a little, then counts down to the start and flips the hourglass. Queyan, you need to roll above a three to eat the first pie. You have two rolls.”

“No pressure,” Queyan muttered, rolling a five on her first go. The next pie she rolled a six. Then a four. On the fourth pie, she lost her advantage, due to being full. Her fifth pie was a straight roll as well. Aicantar found himself praying for her luck to continue. By the sixth pie, it was a showdown between Queyan and another contestant. Gisela imposed disadvantage on her rolls, roll twice and take the lowest number. Queyan’s first roll failed, so Aicantar used his teamwork ability to force a reroll. She got a six. The other contestant rolled too low and gave up before finishing their pie. Queyan won the competition.

Aicantar hadn’t realized how tense he’d gotten over a fictional pie eating competition until the relief hit. Queyan had leaped to her feet in triumph, only to flush almost to orange in embarrassment. Ondolemar laughed, a genuine laugh. Gisela practically gawped at him before regaining control of her face.

“The Burgomaster presents you with a wooden disk hanging from a blue ribbon. A big number one is carved into it. Then he clears his throat and tells you. ‘I see you are part of a group, it’s not the first time we’ve had teams in our fair’s competitions. If your team does well in the other two competitions, you’ll win the grand prize!’” Gisela had put on a voice for the Burgomaster, whatever that ridiculous title meant, that made Aicantar want to laugh himself. She’d managed to get some very serious people together and playing a game. And they were enjoying themselves.

The second competition was arm wrestling, which Ondolemar offered to take part in. He’d chosen to play a character with a higher feral score, explaining that it would be more valuable to the team dynamic if his character had more brute force to use. So began the matches. The crowd’s excitement was almost palpable in Gisela’s narration, the evocative descriptions of the opponents made Aicantar feel like he was really there. Ondolemar easily beat the first opponent, a nord woodcutter. The second was a massive khajiit, and Aicantar used his teamwork skill again to help Ondolemar win.

The third out of five opponents was equally challenging, and they ended up in a discussion as to whether or not they should take the loss over losing any more chances to reroll. Aicantar found himself wanting to play it safe. Ondolemar saw the benefit in holding back for the time being, and Queyan agreed after some talking down. Her character was still sluggish from the pies, and would probably struggle to make a getaway if Ondolemar went bear-y rage on the competition. They didn’t know how to bounce back from that anyway.

After a few rolls, the Burgomaster declared a female argonian the winner of the arm wrestling competition, and awards the three runners-up with trophies of almost victory. Ondolemar’s eyes glint almost menacingly at that mention, but he doesn’t say anything so Aicantar pretends to have not noticed. Queyan raises a questioning eyebrow at her superior turned teammate.

“You’re plotting,” she said lightly, “Do share with the team, Ondolemar.” Those two had been a lot less casual and familiar with each other, even off duty, before Gisela came. It was nothing short of a miracle in Aicantar’s opinion.

“We are mighty beasts,” Ondolemar said, matching Queyan’s tone, “Do we really need to play by their rules?” Gisela looked as smug as a successful khajiiti swindler. Queyan looked rather surprised.

“How do you mean?” Aicantar prompted.

“There is time enough before the third competition, whatever that will be, to scout out the location of the prize. If we so desired, we could take just it for ourselves.”

“Steal it?” Queyan asked, intrigued.

“Depending on how heavily guarded it is, it may not take more than a distraction and a getaway plan.” Aicantar added, following the obvious path of thought. Ondolemar gave him an approving nod. “Ondolemar could terrify the guards, and if it’s in a locked box you could eat through it.”

“I’m gorged,” Queyan countered, “It’ll be slow work to open a lock box.”

“Then we take the box,” Ondolemar said, “You can open it after you rest and digest.” The three mer sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the possible plan.

“Maybe during the third competition,” Aicantar said, “Everyone will be distracted and we can take advantage of the chaos.” Thus their plans changed. Gisela’s smile never left her face as she described the scenery, having them sniff out the coins quite literally. Several lucky rolls of the dice later, they found the Burgomaster's office, and the safe within. There’s two guards posted, but an investigation shows an unmonitored window on the side of the building.

Aicantar, rather his wolf character, climbed through and into the empty room. It took great effort to move the safe, and used up his third and final reroll on getting it to the much stronger Ondolemar. Well, Ondolemar’s bear. It was becoming rather easy to think of the characters as an extension of themselves. Getting the box out of the window was a challenge, but they managed it without making much noise. Getting out of Janchester was significantly more challenging.

The first opportunity Ondolemar had to use terrorize someone, he took it. Chaos erupted, disguises abandoned, and a merry chase began. Rolls were made, and they found themselves near tears at the descriptions Gisela gave of shaking off pursuers. One guardsman ran straight into a cabbage cart. The merchant’s wail of ‘my cabbages’ even made Aicantar snort laughing.

After a time, they escaped back into the wilderness, and Gisela began to wrap up the adventure. That after they had a chance to rest and recover from the excitement, Queyan was able to eat open the safe and the box inside the safe to reveal the hoard of coins they’d made off with successfully. They would be comfortable and fed come winter.

It was a satisfying ending to the tale. Gisela blushed quite a bit when Aicantar told her so. A delightful way to spend several hours, had it really been that long? It felt like it went so much faster. He and Queyan both left the table, but Ondolemar stayed sitting with Gisela. They were talking in hushed tones, but from the softness in their faces Aicantar had no need to be concerned. Rather, he was pleased that they’d seemed to get over much of themselves and embraced how close they’d grown. Aicantar returned to his Uncle’s study station by Nchuand-Zel with a spring in his step, feeling much happier.

Chapter Text

It was a dreary, rainy day. The scent of petrichor drifted lazily on cool but humid air through Understone Keep. Queyan patrolled the hall on her own, listening for anything that could be considered suspect. It wasn’t a well kept secret that the Jarl still believed in Talos, but there was only rumor and no evidence. Thus, it was up to Justiciars like herself to stay alert.

Jarl Igmund was holding court as it were. Complainants lined up to present their problems to the Jarl and Steward. Today, High Justiciar Ondolemar and Gisela were both sitting in on the session. Ondolemar’s official duties dictated that he be present for at least half of such days, but Gisela’s unique situation lent her perspective that the nord Jarl would not have considered. Queyan had asked how Gisela had felt regarding the place the Jarl was having her fill and received a bizarre answer in return.

“White people have a history of inserting themselves and forcing their mindsets on other cultures. Being asked specifically to do that is a bit uncomfortable because of the negative connotations.” Queyan found it rather confusing.

“White?”

“Pale skinned with ancestors migrating from Europe in the last 500 years. Colonizing and eradicating and oppressing. Things like that.”

Queyan thought it made sense. Gisela was a fragile woman by virtue of being, the anxiety was only one of her many queer characteristics. She’d spent Auri-El knows how long being concerned with such things, and habits do not break easily. Queyan stopped at the doorway, pausing to listen and make the nord guards uncomfortable.

“You have gone too far!” a voice that was undeniably Silver-Blood boomed from the throne room. Queyan smiled, sensing the man’s rage was likely to do with her favorite human.

“Me!?” Gisela shrieked in offense, her voice cracking ever so slightly. “I said nothing about you, but if the glove fits-!” The normally sweet woman sounded so furious that it raised the hair on the back of Queyan’s neck. She wondered what the court was currently arguing about. Gisela was certainly passionate regarding the treatment of laborers, part of her grudge against the Silver-Bloods relating to their status as “fat cats”. Such vernacular was ridiculous on occasion, but it tended to stick in one’s head.

“Elf,” a voice cut through Queyan’s thoughts. She turned around to see one of Nepos the Nose’s servants. Well, not quite servants. Employees. He was the one without facial tattoos, Tynan.

“Breton,” Queyan replied in turn, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a barely there curve. The breton tilted his head to the side where the hold guards would not be able to overhear. One of the guards sneered, likely believing the breton man to be a Thalmor informant. It was unimportant.

The manmer crossed his arm and stared at her stoically. Queyan arched a sharp eyebrow at him. Tynan held out his hand, showing her a wax-sealed letter. She accepted it without a word.

“For your boss’s eyes only,” he said, as though he had any authority over her. The beginnings of a sneer curled her lip, but she schooled her expression into mild disdain. They were silent for a moment, glaring in irritation as a peasant skulked from the throne room.

“The High Justiciar will have it, seal unbroken,” Queyan promised after a time. The reachman nodded. She entertained the notion that they were similar in a way. Dedicated, wary, putting up an air of being impassive and unshakable. Behind her, she heard the solid tapping of a walking stick on stone and heavy footsteps.

“Thongvor, your mother might be so proud.” Gisela was snarling, all bark and no bite. The absurdity of the insult was on par with her history. The Silver-Blood patriarch sputtered, as she’d likely intended. It was an amusing strategy, one could never fully develop a resistance to it. “The way you talk back to the Jarl could be considered treason!”

“I learned to govern as Thane when you were learning to walk!” Thongvor Silver-Blood spat back, “Who are you to judge what I do with my family and my business!?”

“A fucking pleb! A commoner!” Gisela hissed, full of righteous fury, “The shit you scrape off your boot! I have as much right to participate among the ruling class as you do, and the more you question your superiors, the more I question you! Not so nice to be on the other end, ain’t it?” Queyan knew the reasons Gisela was so full of loathing when it came towards the Silver-Bloods, but the open hostility was impressive. She and the Silver-Blood men seemed unable to exist in the same space without becoming incensed, some unstoppable force dragging them into conflict without fail.

B eside her, Tynan cocked his head to the side and his lips curved upward into an amused smile . Queyan wondered if this was his first time seeing the otherworldly woman when she was engaging with his King’s captors. Queyan caught his eye and gave a slight jerk of her head in the direction of the Thalmor headquarters. An invitation. He nodded minutely. Rolling her shoulders, she made for her ranting and raving friend.

“I will not be intimidated into silence by some ineffectual, privileged, effete, soft penis debutant. You wanna start a fight with me, bring it on, but you’re gonna be surprised by how ugly it gets. You don’t even know-!” Gisela make a ‘hurk’ sound as Queyan picked her up by the waist. Just an arm around the tiny woman’s middle as though she was carrying a roll of blankets. Ignoring the squirming, she marched down the hall toward the headquarters. She heard Tynan’s footsteps as he followed behind her, made louder intentionally so that she would not have to look back and see if he was there.

G isela went silent, less offended by the undignified exit than Queyan would have expected. It wasn’t until she was letting the woman down gently that she saw the thoughtful frown on her face instead of a sullen pout.

“We got put in time-out,” Gisela said, dropping onto her bed and kicking off her boots. Tynan found a seat, “We got too loud arguing again and the Jarl tossed us out. Silver-Blood is pissy because I keep fighting him on every suggestion he makes.”

“Even his good ones?” Queyan asked, part curiosity and part philosophically. Gisela scoffed.

“That would imply that he has good ideas!” She flopped onto her back.

“I’ve heard rumors about your legendary arguments with the Silver-Blood brothers,” Tynan said, “But it was more interesting in person. I was surprised at the… Insult towards his virility.” Queyan pressed her lips together, holding back a laugh.

“If he’s going to call me a Thalmor whore in front of the Reach’s nobility, then I reserve the right to insult his prick where the servants can hear. The gossip mill will do the rest. Maybe next time I’ll suggest that his attitude is why he can’t get a wife even with his money.” Queyan couldn’t hold it in anymore, and snorted loudly. Even the stoic reachman laughed.

“I have never met a woman like you,” he said, “I can see why Nepos likes you.” Gisela stiffened.

“I’m doing this to satisfy my own ego,” she retorted, “Not to further his agenda.” With a groan, Gisela pushed herself to sitting. She swayed in spot for a moment, then grabbed the waterskin by her bed and drank deeply. Queyan noticed the evaluating look in Tynan’s eyes as they flicked over her from head to toe. Making his own opinion, or thinking of other things? She narrowed her eyes slightly.

“You’ll need to rein in your temper,” Tynan suggested as Gisela recapped the water skin and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. The woman frowned. “You are doing little to make yourself appear reasonable. No one will want to align with your cause if you are deemed mad.” She groaned and put her face in her hands.

“I know,” she whinged, muffled in her palms, “Maybe I can cast calm on myself or something the next time he implies I’m prostituting myself for a spot in court. Nothing wrong with prostitution, I respect the profession, but these men don’t. If they think I’m a whore they won’t respect me or my causes either.” Queyan felt a pang of sympathy for the human. It was not easy fighting such an upward battle.

“You need them to doubt,” she suggested gently, “You want to discredit the Silver-Bloods, promote peace, you don’t have to sway them completely.”

“You’re right,” Gisela puffed up her cheeks like a chipmunk, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Queyan smiled and shook her head. “Anyway! We were almost done anyway, so Ondolemar should be back soon. Were you going to stay for a bit?”

“No, I am only here to assist Nepos,” Tynan said, “I delivered the letter as requested, and I must be on my way.”

“Ah, gotcha. Have a good one, dude.” The reachman’s brow furrowed in confusion at the words she favored in casual speech, but offered a shallow but polite bow on his way out of the headquarters. Queyan placed the sealed letter on High Justiciar Ondolemar’s desk, and Gisela hummed a melody to herself. Then she mumbled the words to whatever song was in her mind.

I've been runnin' my mouth around the corner
Chasin' it down the street
Cashing my words like I'm a billionaire
But I don't have food to eat
And I keep talkin' like I'm taller than the trees
But my eyes never see much higher than five feet

“ That’s one way to phrase it, I suppose.” Gisela jumped as Ondolemar stepped into the room. She blushed, embarrassed at being surprised, and rubbed her chest.

“Don’t scare me like that!” She pouted. Queyan smiled at the easy interaction between the two, but still, duty called.

“There’s a letter for you, sir,” she interrupted, “I’ve left it on your desk. If there’s nothing else...” Queyan saluted and waited for Ondolemar to dismiss her. At his acknowledging nod, she bowed shallowly and left to continue her rounds.

Chapter Text

Nepos had made indirect contact with the hagravens, the ones in possession of Hrolfdir’s shield. Like one of Nepos’ manservants had predicted, at least according to Queyan’s reports, they were not going to make it easy for them. The horrid beasts were stalling, claiming that they needed to agree on the price that they would demand.

This would not be like treating with the reachmen, where Ondolemar could promise to write his superiors requesting to allow them the freedom of their culture. Distasteful as their worship was, it did not violate the White-Gold Concordant. And besides, Gisela seemed to believe it important. Ondolemar mostly kept his criticism to himself because of her lecturing.

Gisela herself, he noted, had specifically sought out Nepos’ spies among the servants. She’d begun to look for gossip directly from the source, keeping up with the activities of the Dragonborn and the movements of the civil war. Early-Bird-No-Worm had fled the night of the party with his bosmeri accomplice and the prisoner, and reappeared later in Riften. He’d killed the khajiiti agent sent to intercept him, and had not been seen since.

“He’s looking for the thuum, the shout, that the Tongues used to stop Alduin the last time they fought him,” Gisela explained when he asked her what happened next in her ‘story’, “The Greybeards’ Grand Master will send him to look for an Elder Scroll.” And hadn’t that been a surprise. She told him that the peace summit would occur only after Bird had learned the shout and done battle with Alduin, so they still had time. Gisela said that time was running out to solve the Markarth dilemma from within its walls.

Ondolemar leaned back in his seat, glancing at the woman in question. She was sitting at her bed, reading a book that she’d purchased on one of her outings with Queyan. It was a very old story, one that been around since the time of the Soulburst, about the adventures of an Investigator Vale. She was engrossed, and Ondolemar could easily guess at the moods the author had set in their scenes simply by watching her face. Currently, it must be rather thrilling in a more… Romantic manner. Gisela was blushing and shifting in place frequently.

“Good book?” Ondolemar asked, and Gisela startled.

“Yes,” she croaked, then cleared her throat, “Yes, it’s very compelling. She’s in the Reach, and just finished helping Chief Orana of the Spirit-Tale clan. I doubt the author knows anything about actual reachmen culture, but the nature of the ritual scene is...” Gisela flushed dark pink and looked away. Ah, he was correct. “I don’t think they actually do this but I don’t want to ask anyway.”

“Creative liberties seem to be commonplace in works of fiction,” Ondolemar pointed out, “Is it so surprising to you?” Gisela placed a short piece of ribbon between the pages as a placeholder.

“Now that you point it out, I suppose not,” she said. “In a world with things like the internet it’s much easier to do research for any writing one does. We have rules for it and everything.” She set the book down on the table to the side of the bed that she called the night table. “Inaccuracies aside, it’s a fun read.” Ondolemar observed her stretching routine from his peripherals, her bones popping and grinding audibly from across the room. She sighed at the end, and the sound of it made his face and belly warm.

To distract himself, Ondolemar stretched his wrists like Gisela had shown him all those months ago. It had been very good for his wrists with all the writing he did for his work. He’d finished for the day, barring emergencies, and now felt rather at a loss for how to continue. While before the soiree, he would likely have done something with Gisela but after what had happened on the way back… Their relationship felt a little more strained. He felt uncomfortable now, uncertain of himself with the social graces of a mer half his age, and she’d been acting similarly and with less subtlety. Queyan had even been giving him knowing looks, glancing at the otherworlder and back at him with a raised brow.

He noticed Gisela look at him from the corner of his eye, her face drawn. It was rather obvious that she was deep in thought, something having to do with him. Likely the inappropriate display they’d exchanged. Ondolemar wondered if he was imagining the sadness in her eyes. She looked away then, seeming to slip into a mask of relaxed contentment, and picked up the book she used to transcribe the songs she brought with her across the boundaries of the world.

Ondolemar returned to the letter that Nepos’ manservant had brought, having read it too many times to keep track. Nepos was assuring him, and the Thalmor by extension, that he was continuing to try and find a way to appease the hagravens in order to get the shield needed to frame the Silver-Blood family. Nepos also wanted to warn him of the likelihood of said hagravens wanting Gisela to travel to them for a conversation. The thought of bringing her into the heart of an encampment of manmeri savages made him grind his teeth, let alone allowing her to be unattended around such twisted creatures.

No. He wasn’t going to think of the reachmen as savages, Gisela’s repetitive lectures on being respectful of different cultures replaying in his mind. However, Gisela was also uncomfortable with hagravens, despite wondering from a scholarly standpoint on what the ritual to become one entailed. She did tell Ondolemar that it involved the sacrifice of a person and was most likely a horrid affair.

Gisela was still scratching away in her journal, mouthing the song as she committed it to paper. He could make out a few words, but not enough to grasp what she was singing. She glanced up, meeting his eyes, and smiled.

“It’s mostly down,” she told him, “Did you want to hear it?” Whatever sorrows she carried in her heart were hidden entirely now, Ondolemar could not have known it was there if he had not seen it with his own eyes. He smiled at the woman and nodded.

Wooden cage where I lay
Would you let me out to play?
Crystal heart in the graveyard
I think it's time for a new start

Blinded eyes to my surprise
You long to see what you can't find
Flightless bird I know you're hurt
It's not the life that you deserve

The melody was calm, but not sad as the words would suggest. Gisela’s voice was light and cheerful.

And I want you to know that

I'm an unfortunate soul
Unlucky, yeah I've been told
I've still got room to grow

I'm an unfortunate soul
It's just the way that I roll
Cruising the highs and the lows

Gisela smiled wide, straight white teeth shining in the lamplight. Ondolemar could feel her merriment warming inside his chest.

Shattered bones and dead end roads
Faded maps, where do I go?
Stepped on cracks and broken backs
My mother knows I love her so

Ripped up shoes they will make do
There's places I'd like to go too
Daydreaming what could have been
But I know I'm not made to win

The joyful nature of Gisela’s voice contrasted sharply with the self-depreciating nature of the song. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and the overall effect her form and tone had on the words felt surprisingly encouraging.

And I want you to know that

I'm an unfortunate soul
Unlucky, yeah I've been told
I've still got room to grow

I'm an unfortunate soul
It's just the way that I roll
Cruising the highs and the lows

Who says that I can't be tough?
Be a diamond in the rough
That I just can't be loved
I think enough's, enough

Who says that I can't be tough?
Be a diamond in the rough
That I just can't be loved
I think enough's, enough

Ondolemar closed his eyes and leaned his head back, lacing his fingers together. As always, Gisela was able to ease his tension and pull him from the stress of his work. She’d once described him as married to the job, and then she decided to teach him how to exist outside of his role.

And I want you to know that

I'm an unfortunate soul
Unlucky, yeah I've been told
I've still got room to grow

I'm an unfortunate soul
It's just the way that I roll
Cruising the highs and the lows

I'm an unfortunate soul
Unlucky, yeah I've been told
I've still got room to grow

I'm an unfortunate soul
It's just the way that I roll
Cruising the highs and the lows

And I want you to know that…

Ondolemar clapped politely, not as loud or boisterous as Yngvar but just as genuine. Gisela flushed, as she always did when she was praised. She closed the book, setting it down on top of her Investigator Vale novel. She wasn’t meeting his eyes, face pink and smile lighting up her face.

“It’s a wonderful song, is there a reason you decided to sing it for me?” Ondolemar asked, knowing that the best way to get information from Gisela was to ask directly. Her eyes widened, and the lamp made the mead brown of her irises darken to almost black.

“It was on my mind,” she said after a long moment of consideration, looking down instead of at him. It was only his familiarity that let him tell that she was not lying or feeling guilt, she was only embarrassed and uncomfortable. “It always felt like me, you know? That it applied to my situation.”

“I understand,” Ondolemar, having long become used to the way the modern music of Gisela’s world tended to be structured so listeners can find themselves within the lyrics, “You’ve struggled, suffered, but you embraced it and used it to lift yourself up rather than let it keep you down. Am I correct?” Gisela nodded, blush still dark on her cheeks. Ondolemar felt a pang of longing that refused to be smothered easily. She quirked an awkward smile.

“Yeah, something like that.” Gisela let the smile drop. “I also wanted to distract you from the letter. You’ve read it at least a dozen times.” Ondolemar frowned at the open parchment on his desk.

“Yes, well,” Ondolemar began, “Nepos wanted to warn me, warn us that it was likely the hagravens would want to meet you personally as a condition for giving us the shield.” Gisela paled, the lovely warm colors draining from her face.

“Well fuck me.”

Chapter Text

There was a skip in his step as he marched the road that led to Markarth. How often does one get to meet with an inter-planar being? Never! The sheer amount of knowledge that can be shared between such peoples is nigh-infinite and the fact that no one else here’s as excited as him was frankly appalling. He’d heard the rumors coming from the Reach of course, most scholarly types trapped within Skyrim’s closed borders did. Not that many believed it, people came back from Oblivion on occasion but that was nothing new, this is different.

Early-Worm-No-Bird had already met the woman, and had quite a story to tell when he returned to Riverwood. She hadn’t admitted to being the supposed woman from the Void beyond Oblivion, but between her odd behavior, alleged magic accident, and apparent importance to the Thalmor, it had to be her! Bird had said that he’d agreed to see her again at some point! And now he, Lucien Flavus, was going to meet the woman from another world!

Bird and his friend Inigo, a blue-furred khajiit, had agreed that it would be in their interests to go visit the old dwarven city. Both Bird and Inigo had been in the past, and they were in agreement about the towering walls and cliff-faces feeling oppressive, like being in a prison. Considering both men had made comments about actually being in prison, Lucien would defer to their superior judgment. Walking in through the gates of the city, Lucien could understand a little.

The smell wasn’t the best, considering how much of the stink of the Reach’s capital flowed downhill. It There were open gutters and waterways that flowed from a waterfall that fell over the front of the palace at the top of the thousands of stairs. The population was mostly human, nords and bretons, and orc. Many of the bretons had facial tattoos that seemed to be awfully similar to that worn by the forsworn that had tried to kill him and his fellows earlier that week. Much to Bird’s discomfort, there were also a few elves in Thalmor uniformed armor.

They walked into Understone Keep to an argument between a large nord in steel armor and an imperial priest of Arkay held where everyone can overhear. Bird ushered him and Inigo by, avoiding getting in the middle, muttering about people loving to air their dirty laundry in front of everyone. Lucien understood to an extent, but Bird was an exceptionally private person by nature. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize that the argonian was also an exceptionally talented thief. They ascended the stairs into the main hall of the keep, before looking around in confusion.

“Pardon me, miss,” Bird interrupted a breton woman with bold red tattoos on her face sweeping the walkways, “I’m looking for a friend of mine who resides here. Her name is Gisela.” The servant stared at him suspiciously, her eyes making a sweep of his person from head to toe, then did the same to Inigo and Lucien. Then, apparently satisfied, nodded.

“This way, please.” She said, turning to lead them to a hallway on the right. The moment they were close enough to peer down the hall, a high musical voice echoed from somewhere unseen.

I’m in a little bit of trouble

And I’m in real deep

From the beginning to the end

He was no more than a friend to me

“That’ll be her,” the breton woman said, “She sings most days, or didn’t you know that?” There was a sarcastic bite to her tone.

“I met her at a party,” Bird said. The servant rolled her eyes.

The thought is makin’ me hazy

I think I better sit down

Cause like the sweetest serenade

Bet he knows he’s got it made with me

Peering into the room the woman motioned at, Lucien saw the woman responsible for the singing.

Twisting round on a carousel

This speed’s too much to stop

One second I’m thinkin’ I’m feelin’ the lust

And then I feel a lot

There in the middle of the stone room, illuminated by lamps and candles, was a plump breton woman. Her hair was tied back with ribbon, a wild curly puff on the back of her head, and a strange set of thick-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. She was shorter than average, made tinier by the towering lady altmer next to her. The breton was demonstrating an interesting sort of shuffle-like movement, one hand on the back of a chair for stability. The altmer was following along, learning the dance for the song being sung.

Ooh that man is like a flame

And ooh that man plays me like a game

My only sin is I can’t win

Ooh I wanna love that man

Ooh that man is on my list

And ooh that man I wanna kiss

My only sin is I can’t win

Ooh I wanna love that man

“That’s her,” Bird whispered, watching the woman’s bizarre moves, “And the elf sitting down is Ondolemar.” Inigo made a soft, impressed whistle. Gisela switched to an odd stepping motion, her feet kicking up and back and her free arm swinging. Lucien hadn’t even noticed the desk, too distracted by the two women dancing.

Now it’s like I’m on a mission

Headed everywhere

And if it takes a little long

And it feels a little wrong, who cares?

My baby fits the description

And does it easily

A little Gable, some Astaire

When he dances I can hardly breathe

The female altmer was picking up on the dances easily enough, performing them much more gracefully. Lucien couldn’t help but commit the moves to memory, realizing that if Gisela’s claims to being from another plane were true, then it’s a dance from an entire other world!

Someone call a doctor

Need some help to rescue me

One second I’m thinkin’ I must be lost

And he keeps on findin’ me

Gisela looked up and her eyes went wide. She stopped dancing, clinging to the chair with both hands.

“Bird!” She exclaimed, genuinely excited to see the man again. Both elves immediately focused on the group in the doorway. Gisela’s eyes flicked to Inigo, then to him, and her eyes widened further. “Oh! DLC.” Bird hadn’t been joking about her saying odd things. Lucien looked at Bird questioningly.

“Hello, it is good to see you again Gisela.” Bird said, ever the gentleman, “These are my friends and traveling companions, Lucien Flavus and Inigo the Brave.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Gisela said, “My name is Gisela, this is Queyan,” she gestured to the she-elf next to her, “And Ondolemar.” The elf sitting at a large desk sniffed primly and nodded in greeting.

“The argonian and I have met,” he said, “However briefly.” Queyan glanced at Ondolemar, then at their group with suspicion.

“We talked about this,” Gisela said, dragging out the syllables and sitting down in the seat stiffly, “Anyway! Come in, come in! That invitation I gave at the party extends to your friends too!” Bird led the way to the thin wood table and old chairs.

“Is it true you’re from another world?” Inigo asked as soon as he was seated, showing a supreme lack of tact. Gisela laughed.

“Yes, it is true,” she smiled, the plump of her cheeks pink with exertion, “I suppose you found out after all, then?”

“I heard rumors,” Bird said, “But I didn’t want to assume it was you.”

“I’d hoped it was!” Lucien interjected, “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get to meet you!” Gisela blushed.

“Once in ages might be more accurate,” she said as if that wasn’t more exciting, “I assume that’s what you wanted to ask me about? My homeland? We’re currently working on the assumption that the Void that exists outside of Oblivion is in between Mundus and my plane. I’ve been calling it Yggdrasil, for personal reasons.” What an interesting name.

“Incredible! That will change everything we know about the cosmos! Have you had any contact with the College of Whispers or the Synod in Cyrodil? Or the College of Winterhold?” Lucien asked, fascinated.

“Well, I don’t know,” Gisela said, “I have an in-between of sorts, so no direct contact yet. Calcelmo has his connections, and I’m sure the Thalmor do too. They’re the ones handling correspondence, I’m actually acting as a sort of foreign advisor here in Markarth. The study of my arrival is happening on the side.” Three sets of brows rose. “Jarl Igmund has me sit in with court sometimes. I tell him how things were handled in my home country, at least historically, and tell him about the lasting effects it had on the people. I give him an outsider’s perspective, a broader view of the long-term, stuff like that.” As she talked, Lucien could see some of why Bird had wanted to meet her again. She had a way of talking that drew people in, and the way she so easily shared amazing things was dazzling.

“So you were a politician?” Bird asked. Gisela laughed so suddenly she snorted.

“No, that sort of thing requires years of university. I was a peasant, but we call it blue-collar work.” She sounded very proud of her status too. “But I did learn when I had the chance, and I made sure I knew enough politics to argue my own existence to those who believed the socialist infrastructure of my society shouldn’t be wasted on people like me.” There was a sharper edge to her tone then, and her smile shifted minutely into something more primal and savage. Lucien blinked at it was gone. “At the moment, I’m making it my purpose to be a royal pain in the Silver-Bloods’ asses and to argue in favor of the poor and disadvantaged.” Bird laughed loudly, his dragon soul making the sound rumble like thunder. Gisela’s eyes sparkled, indicating that she'd noticed, but she didn’t say anything about it.

“What of science? History? What do you know about your world?” Lucien asked. A servant placed several cups and a pitcher of water on the table, Queyan poured a cup for Gisela, who in turn offered a drink to her guests.

“Ah, thanks,” she took a sip, “And I know some. It’s all very general, nothing specific. We’ve been able to get a rough estimate of the age of my world, and a timeline of the evolution of life itself. My people have barely been around for a fraction of the planet’s life.” And wasn’t that hard to conceive?

“That is...” Lucien trailed off, contemplating, “Vast.” He settled on after a moment of thought. Gisela nodded.

“Calcelmo and I have made educated guesses regarding other interactions between Nirn and Earth. My religion’s mythology has themes that align with the beginning of the Dawn Era and an alarming bit of Nordic culture. Even the name has overlap. Calcelmo is working on finding more evidence that could connect our planes of reality, but all I have is the folklore I remember so it’s a bit slow going.”

“Incredible,” Bird said, “Do you think there’s the possibility of other travelers between our worlds?” Gisela nodded.

“I think so, Calcelmo believes that one of the worlds contained in Yggdrasil – there’s more than one – might be where the dwemer went. I only know some old translated stories, so I’m not entirely convinced, but he thinks the coincidence is too big to be just a bit of overlap in mythology.” Lucien’s eyes went wide.

“Really? Do you really think the dwemer might have traveled across the void? It could be why even the Daedric princes don’t know where they went!” Gisela pushed her spectacles further up her nose.

“Well I wouldn’t really know, like I said, it was just stories where I’m from. Dwarves as they were called, the elves with skin as dark as night living underground, unparalleled smiths and craftsmen who created the treasures of the gods. That’s how the story goes. If Calcelmo thinks that’s where the dwemer went, I assume he’d know better than me.” Gisela shrugged, refilling her cup. “Besides, I don’t even know if any of Yggdrasil is that thoroughly connected to Aetherius, Earth and the rest of Miðgarð doesn’t have magic like you do here.” She lifted a hand and cast a weak healing spell. Her eyelids fluttered slightly, she must have been hurting to induce that kind of reaction.

“Thus being a curiosity, a magical accident,” Bird said, finishing whatever thought process Gisela was following. She nodded. “But you’re learning magic, so it’s compatible somehow.” Again, she nodded.

“Calcelmo told me about Akavir, Atmora, Nedes, and Yokuda. He also told me that no one is really sure where humans actually came from, not like the aldmer and betmer. It’s another one of his theories that the races of men came to Mundus from Miðgarð, and later the dwemer went to Niðavellir. Sort of an exchange between Yggdrasil and Mundus.” Lucien was fascinated.

“That...” He breathed.

“Changes everything.” Gisela finished for him with a wink, her lips quirking into a wry grin.

“Yes.” Lucien said, struck a bit dumb. Did he have a crush? Or was he just really excited to be able to talk about these sorts of things in a casual setting?

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Inigo interrupted, “That song and dance you were doing earlier, that’s from your world, yes? Mid-guard?”

“Oh, yes,” Gisela adjusted her spectacles again, a little flustered, “I’m not much for dancing, but having magic and potions to ease the pain means I can at least try and teach anyone who wants to learn. Queyan has the coordination I lack.” The altmer woman, standing off to the side like a watch dog, preened at the praise. “And singing is kind of my thing.”

“You have a lovely voice,” Bird said, “I heard you before at the party, it was much more intense then.” And that was a risky admission to make in front of two Thalmor agents. Lucien and Inigo tensed. Gisela gave the argonian a knowing look and winked. Ah, an ally!

“Maybe don’t mention that,” Inigo whispered.

“Speaking of, you’ll want to be careful if you’re ever in Haafingar again,” Ondolemar said cooly, not even looking up from his paperwork. Oh. Oh. Bird’s eyes went wide and Gisela snorted again.

“We are aware of your business at the Embassy, Dragonborn,” Queyan added, her tone not dissimilar to making small talk, “Ondolemar has told those of us high ranking enough to be in the know, to not put out the order for your arrest. Consider yourself and your associates lucky.” Bird’s shoulders didn’t relax, but Lucien patted him firmly on the shoulder.

“It’s not like the Thalmor can rule the world if the dragons destroy it,” Gisela teased, grinning at Ondolemar. The elf gave her a flat look, saying nothing, but it made her giggle. “To be serious, though, there’s only a couple agents who know your identity outside of this room. You’re safe here, Bird, I swear on my gods and if it helps I'll swear on yours too. The Thalmor won’t come for you in the Reach, so long as you don’t piss them off.” Bird laughed.

“You have to admit,” he said, “It’s a bit suspicious.”

“Ondolemar is the High Justiciar assigned to Skyrim,” Queyan said haughtily, insulted for her superior, “If he says you are not wanted in the Reach, you are not. In fact, considering the nature of your purpose, we will do what we can to further your cause so long as we-,” she gestured to herself and Ondolemar, “Do not attract the attentions of the Embassy. Nor of the First Emissary.” Oooooh!

“You’re breaking the rules!” Lucien exclaimed, excitedly.

“Shh!” Inigo hissed, while Gisela guffawed.

“You said the nature of my purpose,” Bird said slowly, picking up on things Lucien and Inigo tended to miss as always, “What did you mean by that?”

“Auriel is the chief god of the altmer,” Ondolemar explained factually, “But he is known more commonly among men as Akatosh. Father of dragons, and the deity responsible for creating dragonborn such as you. If you were placed in Skyrim at the moment of the reappearance of the dragons, then it must be Auriel’s will. Preventing you from completing your mission would be defying the god whom the altmer honor above all. I would rather disobey my superiors than my gods.” He picked up the stack of papers and tapped them on the desk to line them up properly. “Does that answer your question?” Bird’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Gisela’s grin reminded Lucien of a very smug Inigo.

“I don’t have much I can offer,” Gisela said, leaning forward to tap her fingers on the table, “But if there’s strings I can try to pull, I will if it means helping you. If you need another perspective, I’ll help. Write me a letter, drop by if you’re in my neck of the woods.” Bird smiled, the feathers of his crest rising a little in pleasure of finding powerful supporters. “I will offer you some advice though.” The group leaned in, eager to hear what she had to say. “Don’t get involved in the war.”

“I was not planning on it,” Bird said.

“Good,” Ondolemar said, “Keep it that way. The Thalmor are deeply involved, and Elenwen’s loyal soldiers will not hesitate to hunt you down should the connection to the theft of the dossiers be made. Neither army will hesitate to utilize your status as dragonborn to demotivate the opposing side.” Bird’s feathers puffed up and he hissed.

“I am not doing this for the nords,” he said, “I am not doing this for Skyrim. Alduin will die because I refuse to let him devour the world. This is for Nirn and all of her people. All of them.” His tone left no room for disagreement. Lucien’s spirit swelled with Bird’s impassioned words, and Inigo too looked on with pride.

“I’m glad,” Gisela said brightly, and Bird’s feathers smoothed down.

“I am wondering,” Inigo said, “You seem very...” He trailed off, flapping a hand as he considered how he was going to phrase his question, “Your stance on the war and the dragons is very strong for someone from another world.” Gisela blinked curiously, then leaned back in her chair again to fidget with the tips of her fingers.

“That’s fair,” she conceded, “I’m a very opinionated foreigner. I’ve already made political enemies for my more socialist and generally liberal leanings.” Her head cocked to the side and she fixed Inigo with a piercing stare that Lucien hadn’t thought her capable of making. “But world-ending threats should probably take priority, yeah?”

“Reasonable, that,” Lucien agreed, not finding the idea of a civil war being more important than defeating an evil dragon demi-god. Though his intuition screamed that there was more to her reasoning that she wasn’t letting on. Also reasonable, considering that she was constantly surrounded by high ranking Thalmor. Though, the Thalmor also seemed to take her side. This so wasn’t his forte. Bird crossed his arms and sniffed.

“Yes,” the khajiit said, “It is relieving to know there are others in Skyrim who can see sense.” Gisela shrugged.

“It’s like catastrophes don’t matter unless it affects one directly,” she said rather sarcastically, “Religious persecution and civil war is currently more urgent than someone’s home burning in dragonfire in another hold. It was like that in my world too, never mind the technology capable of sharing information across oceans in the blink of an eye. ‘If it’s not my problem, then I don’t care.’” Gisela rolled her eyes and rubbed at her forehead. “I’ve always said that people never change, no matter how much time passes and no matter where in the world they are. I’m finding it to be true of inter-planar travel as well.”

“That’s a little cynical, isn’t it?” Lucien asked, frowning.

“Oh definitely,” she said, “But it applies to the good too. How often do you see people scribble lewd things on outhouses by the tavern? Have you ever seen children play and laugh and sing? What about older folks complaining about the behavior of the current generation of youngsters being worse compared to how it used to be? It all persists too.” There was a gleam of delight in her eyes and her voice was warm with affection. Lucien considered the sentiment, realizing that it was another way that her world was similar to his. It was lovely.

“Not so cynical then, point taken,” he replied, “I suppose then that even the ancient cultures that aren’t with us anymore were probably the same? Even if we don’t have evidence in front of us?”

“Now you’re getting it!”

“Fascinating!” Lucien exclaimed, pulling out a small blank book he kept for note taking. He had a lot to add at this point.

“You’re a rather strange person,” Bird said, posture and face relaxed. Gisela laughed.

“I choose to take that as a compliment,” she said, sticking her tongue out, “But enough about me, I want to hear about the three of you and the kinds of adventures you go on.”

Inigo brightened at this, his knack for story-telling and flair for dramatics coming to use. Lucien and Bird sat back, happy to chime in as the cat wove tales of heroism and discovery. Gisela was delighted and charmed by it all. This, Lucien thought pleasantly, is another way cultures don’t change across worlds.

Chapter Text

Gisela stared wide-eyed at Nepos over the piece of parchment he’d given her. She had received a dinner invitation, well – she and Ondolemar both had. Ondolemar had correctly predicted that it was because the old spymaster of sorts had news he preferred to share in person. Gisela had been hoping with her fingers – and toes – crossed that she would not be called to meet with the hagravens in person. Sadly, it was not to be.

“And if they decide they want to take her apart, study her magic from inside?” Ondolemar was asking The Nose, “I will not let the hagravens have her.”

“It would be counterproductive to our efforts,” Nepos replied, “To lose the most outspoken public figure the Reachmen have would produce disastrous consequences. The chieftains will not stand for it.”

“One of the many consequences would be me dying to hagravens,” Gisela chimed in with faux cheerfulness, irritated by the men discussing her future as though she wasn’t there, “Happy as it makes me that you both agree my death is the opposite of ideal, what other options do we have? Getting that shield is our best chance at ridding Markarth of her most powerful Stormcloak supporters and racial separatists. This is the least bloody option, you know that.”

Ondolemar leaned back in his seat, frowning in her direction. The letter Nepos had given her was one of many in existence, a call to the Chieftains of the Reach to meet in the Lost Valley Redoubt. It implied a moot to decide how to approach retaking Markath, and the potential for peaceful resolution to their plight. Ondolemar was vocally against bringing her into the heart of Forsworn territory. Nepos wanted her to go. He assured her that the hagravens who had Hrolfdir’s shield lived at the summit, at the Bard’s Leap waterfall.

“Should you attend the gathering, we can almost ensure our success,” Nepos added, “Retrieving the shield is the most difficult part of the plan. If you convince the chieftains, the hagravens will be outnumbered. They are most clever creatures, and will concede to a majority decision.”

“I did not say that I refused to attend,” Ondolemar said, “I merely stated that I am wary of bringing my charge to the doorstep of the most dangerous creatures in the hold.” Gisela pushed away the sting of Ondolemar’s statement, and slapped the parchment to the stone table loudly.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she hissed, “I am a grown woman and I can make my own choices, Ondolemar.” The altmer was too high society to gape at her, but he certainly looked surprised and a little offended. “Yes I was made your responsibility, but I’m crippled, not helpless. There’s a difference.” Was she over-reacting? Maybe. Would she regret her harsh words later? Definitely.

“I did not mean to imply that you cannot protect yourself,” Ondolemar said carefully, “I only wish to protect you. Will you let me?” His words echoed her confession all those weeks ago on the trip from Solitude to home. Home, when did it become Markarth? Gisela’s chest ached with emotional turmoil, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her expression neutral.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m scared, but that’s no excuse to take it out on you. I need to go to the conference, for the sake of peace. I’ll have you if you’ll go with me.” Ondolemar’s face relaxed, and the slightest of smiles graced his lips as he nodded.

“Then it is agreed,” Nepos said, breaking the two from their distracted moment, “I cannot leave Markarth but I will send a messenger to let the others know that Thalmor representatives will attend the gathering. How many will you bring? You will need more than just the two of you for the journey.” Gisela and Ondolemar looked at each other and Gisela tilted her head.

“I would like to bring Queyan, she’s a good friend and I’d feel safer with her near,” Gisela suggested. Ondolemar nodded.

“That is agreeable. Perhaps we can bring Telomin and her subordinates as well?” He offered, to which Gisela excitedly agreed to.

“Can they be trusted?” Nepos asked, reasonably concerned.

“They answer to me,” Ondolemar said, “If our mission benefits the Thalmor then they will obey without question.” Gisela hid a grimace. She didn’t like the idea of such behavior, the kind of soldiers who followed orders with no thought to morality. It may be working for her in this case, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. Like nepotism.

Gisela picked up the parchment again, looking at the inelegant looping scrawl it was written in. A great conference of chieftains, how long has it been since such a thing happened? Since before the supposed death of Madanach? She worried at her lower lip with her teeth, shifting in her seat. She had political sway in Markarth, thanks to Igmund and Ondolemar, but the Clans of the Reach were an unknown. Winning them over would be difficult, despite her position in court and her blatant pro-peace declarations. Would it be enough to promise them a return of their king?

“There is time to prepare,” Nepos reminded her, “No need to fret, child.” Gisela blushed at being caught in her thoughts.

“Ondolemar, do you think you could teach me to defend myself? Maybe I should learn to use a knife?” She suggested hopefully. The mer frowned.

“It is a wise course of action,” He conceded, “Though I do not like the thought of you needing to use it.” Fair.

“Better to know and not need it, than to need it and not know it,” She pointed out.

“You don’t need to convince me, Gisela,” Ondolemar said, “I will see to it that you are not caught unprepared.” Gisela smiled at him.

“I will commission a small blade from Ghorza,” Nepos offered, “She produces fine steel.” Gisela sat up straighter.

“No, no,” She said hurriedly, “You don’t have to buy me anything! I was just going to find something in the armory-!”

“The weapons in the armory are made to be wielded by those stronger than you,” Ondolemar pointed out bluntly, “You lack the strength to use them effectively, a lighter blade is better suited to your needs.” Gisela winced, but gave up without an argument. It was a very valid point.

“Maybe a stiletto then?” She suggested cautiously, “They’re supposed to be thin and lightweight, easier for me to lift. If it’s on the shorter side I can use it as a bodice dagger.” Ondolemar and Nepos pondered the specifications for a good minute.

“That could work,” Ondolemar said, “If made a little flatter and edged so it can be used with versatility.” Gisela nodded brightly. She wasn’t blade-savvy in the least but she learned a little bit watching blacksmiths work on the television or internet.

The plotting didn’t last much more than a half hour after that point, then Ondolemar and Gisela politely excused themselves and began the trek up the hill to the Keep. Ondolemar was carrying her again, bridal style. She leaned against his chest, which felt so broad and firm and warm in the evening chill.

There was a pang of longing behind her ribs, one that ached something fierce. She could recall with clarity all the moments of near-intimacy they shared, every lingering touch that burned on her skin like fire, all the times they held each other’s gaze. She wondered when it began, she’s wondered since he held her hand on the road to Solitude. Since he wrapped her in a blanket and let her lean on him by the fire. Since he tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Is every member of the Thalmor so brawny?” She asked to derail her train of thought. Ondolemar’s step faltered for barely half of a heartbeat before he recovered.

“Brawny?” He asked, a little disbelieving.

“Figuratively, not beefcakes like nords tend to be, just strong. I know I’ve lost weight since coming here, but I’m still the opposite of svelte. Portly, perhaps?” Yeah, she was rambling. One of the many nervous tics she’d never been able to break.

“I see,” Ondolemar said, “If you’re concerned with wearing me out, it will take far more than carrying one soft woman to exhaust me.” As though to drive his point home, his grip around her waist and thighs tightened. Gisela squeaked, burying her face in his robes to hide her blush. He laughed, loud and deep, and she could feel it rumble in his chest as she pressed into him. Damn him, and damn her too for falling for him.

Chapter Text

Queyan was many things, but a fool was not one of them. She had noticed, likely before the two in question had, the fond gazes and lingering touches between her superior and his charge. Missing such an obvious thing would have been an insult to the many mer who’d trained her. Like the numerous species of brightly colored birds that made their homes in the Summerset Isles, the courtship dance was ridiculously obnoxious and never went anywhere.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gisela was asking a servant. She had been talking at great length of the foods and beverages that she missed from her homeland, and Commander Ondolemar had noticed that several items were obtainable on Nirn. And so, he had imported coffee beans and cocoa from Elsweyr. That is not the sort of thing one does as a whim, nor for anyone one lacks in strong feelings for. Family, dear friends, romantic interests. And so he had stealthily presented her with the coffee she craved.

“Coffee?” He asked, as though he was unaware of what the gesture meant to the woman, “The plant grows well in Elsweyr, and I was curious as to its’ flavor after you mentioned it.” To be an effective Justiciar was to be a practiced deceiver, and Queyan knew that her superior was lying through his teeth. Gisela likely fell for it too, enamored with beverage as she was. Queyan was familiar with coffee, strong and bitter as it was, one of her instructors in the Thalmor academy had been addicted to it after having spent an extended time with the cat-men.

Gisela inhaled the pungent steam and took a sip. The very wanton groan of delight she released when she tasted the coffee made Ondolemar flush from his coat collar to the tips of his ears. It was almost worth the agony of watching them barely flirt and kick themselves for it later, just to have these moments where mere denial wasn’t sufficient. Though, when Gisela glanced up with a wrinkle in the corners of her eyes, Queyan knew that Gisela was aware of the effect she had on the mer.

“If it’s that good,” Queyan said, her tone thick with restrained delight, “Perhaps I should try some.”

“I prefer it sweetened with cream,” Gisela said, motioning to the warm brown coffee in her mug, “But if you’re not a fan of sweet things, then without sugar or taken black is good too as long as the beans are quality. Ondolemar picked a good one.” Queyan walked over to the stoneware jug on the table to pour herself a cup.

“I am glad that you approve,” Ondolemar said, deceptively nonchalant. One didn’t need to be trained in analyzing micro expressions to know that he was incredibly pleased with himself for making her happy. It was sickly sweet, like honey fresh from the comb, Queyan was having to fight the temptation to interfere. The coffee was bitter, as if in spite of the relationship between the two who were sharing it with her.

“So, Ondolemar,” Queyan took a seat at the wooden table that had become a permanent fixture in the room, “Have you heard back from Telomin? Will they be accompanying us?” Gisela perked up. She had reportedly bonded with one of Telomin’s subordinates on their trip to the Embassy.

“They did reply,” Ondolemar said, setting down his cup and picking up a letter, “They are already on assignment and will not return in time to escort us to the Lost Valley gathering.” Gisela slumped back in her pillows.

“Damn,” Gisela muttered, “I was looking forward to seeing Lestelmo again. Is there anyone else trustworthy that you can write to?” Ondolemar sipped thoughtfully at his coffee.

“To assisting in undermining the overall plans of the Thalmor regarding the stability of Skyrim?” He said so calmly that Queyan had to fight a smile, “No.”

“I can secure some horses,” Queyan said, before the woman could pout too much, “We can ride ourselves.” Ondolemar nodded his approval.

“But-” Gisela squeaked, fidgeting, “I can’t ride, I haven’t sat on a horse in over a decade and that was on a lead! Do we have enough time to teach me to ride?” Queyan smiled fondly.

“No need,” She said, “The horses of Skyrim are big and strong. You can ride with us. Three horses should be enough, two for riding and one pack horse.” The sound of footsteps on stone quieted the group and their discussion. At the doorway stood a familiar face, wrapped in comfortable mage robes.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Said an anxious Aicantar, “But I overheard some of the conversation and, you’re not loyal to the Thalmor anymore?” He asked. Queyan set down her cup and stood up.

“Not exactly,” She corrected, “We have doubts about the legitimacy of the Dominion’s goals, but we are not traitors.” Aicantar’s eyebrows furrowed, and he glanced at the three of them in confusion.

“How are you undermining their goals then?” He wondered aloud. Gisela took a long drink of coffee and waved him over.

“The Thalmor want Skyrim and the Empire weakened for the next stage of the war,” She explained in a hushed tone of voice, “They believe in racial superiority, and seek to create a second Merethic era where altmer rule over all. But we,” she gestured at the room, “are trying to make peace between the Reachfolk and the Nords of the Reach. A united Reach will stand better against Ulfric, who believes in a purely Nord Skyrim.” Queyan relaxed as understanding dawned on the young mer’s face.

“So, you just want to be able to… Coexist,” He said as the thought occurred to him, “Where are you going that’s far enough away to need horses?” Curious boy.

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” Ondolemar prompted, likely on edge.

“I want to help,” Aicantar said, “My Uncle has his work and I’m… I’m just in the way. Besides, what kind of person would I be if didn’t help my friends?”

“There’s a conference,” Gisela said before Ondolemar could open his mouth again, “The Forsworn are going to discuss the merits of a truce with the Nords to block the Stormcloaks from the Reach. I’m the most outspoken supporter of peace with access to the Jarl’s ear. I’ve already sown the seeds in Markarth, if I can get the Forsworn’s support we’re golden.” Aicantar sat down at the table across from Queyan, lacing his fingers together on the wood.

“And, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re going to the conference?” Gisela nodded. “And it will just be the three of you?” Gisela nodded again. “Have you considered mercenaries?” She went still.

“We have not, mercenaries can be bought off after all,” Queyan pointed out, “What guarantee do we have of their silence?” Aicantar frowned thoughtfully.

“And we’re back to square one,” Gisela leaned forward until her face was hidden by furs, voice muffled. Queyan ignored her unique phrases and turned back to Aicantar.

“And you can see the problem.”

“At least let me come,” he said. Ondolemar sat up straighter and Gisela bolted upright so quickly she swayed from dizziness. “Another set of eyes could be helpful, and I have a fair bit of magic training.”

“Have you ever seen combat?” Ondolemar asked.

“I-,” Aicantar started, then shut his mouth with a click and shook his head, “No, Uncle Calcelmo would always hire mercenaries to explore ruins.”

“I think you should come,” Gisela said, then looked between Queyan and Ondolemar, “We’re not expecting much in the way of conflict anyway. Forsworn don’t really bother Thalmor groups anyway and they tend to keep standard brigands away from the Reach. What are our odds of getting attacked by beasts? Low, probably. Besides, if the Forsworn at the conference decide to kill us all then we’re doomed anyway. No harm in bringing Aicantar along if he wants to come.” Aicantar paled slightly at the casual mention of being slaughtered, but he set his jaw and nodded. Queyan grinned a little, always amused by Gisela’s morbid sense of humor.

“I would like to, if you’ll let me,” Aicantar said, resolute. Gisela looked to Ondolemar, and Queyan watched the corners of his eyes tighten and his brows pinch slightly. Then he exhaled.

“I'll get four horses then, shall I?” Queyan asked wryly. Ondolemar nodded minutely and Gisela grinned.

“Fantastic!” She said.

Chapter Text

Lost Valley Redoubt was located a fair distance south of Markarth following the river. It would take an estimated three or four days at a clipped pace to reach the “entrance” as it were, at least that’s what the information the Thalmor had indicated. Aicantar didn’t know what their source was, but Gisela was confident that it was accurate. Barring wolves or bears she’d said. He wasn’t thrilled to have been reminded of the possibility of attacks by wild beasts, but Queyan said that Gisela was exaggerating.

“Constant vigilance,” Gisela hissed from where she sat behind Queyan. They had agreed to take turns with the woman as a second rider, to keep the horses from wearing out.

“Animals rarely attack such large groups on the roads,” Queyan pointed out, “Not unless they’re ill or starving.” Gisela pinched her lips and puffed her cheeks.

“Are you disappointed?” Ondolemar asked, a smile in his voice.

“No!” She said quickly, “I don’t want to be mauled, just a little anxious.” There was a moment of silence before she continued. “About everything really.” Aicantar heard the hint of humor in the woman’s voice and laughed. She smiled at him, a bright happy grin.

“So, the last time we traveled,” Ondolemar said, “You mentioned traveling songs. Do you have any you could share with us?” Aicantar sat up straighter.

“Traveling songs?” He asked, “I know a few myself, historical ones from the old days of the first Dominion.” Gisela’s eyes went wide and she gave Queyan’s middle a squeeze.

“We can swap songs!” She crowed, the horse she was on twitching in surprise. “You first!” Aicantar sighed, but nodded.

“This song is a traveling song from Elsweyr, it’s called Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari,” He said, and began to sing.

Dancing through savanna grass

On light feet we glide

Hey, hey, Baandari boy

Tap your heels in stride

Hey, hey, Baandari girl

Swing your tail beside

He swayed with the easy gait of the horse below him, letting the song match the rhythm. Gisela’s eyes sparkled in delight.

Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari

Carrying our world in packs

Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari

Our kingdom on our backs

Home is on the move again

On wagon wheels we go

Hey, hey, Baandari boy

Where the wild winds blow

Hey, hey, Baandari girl

Our caravan in tow

As he began the chorus again, Gisela joined him with a soft and tentative voice. A duet.

Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari

Carrying our world in packs

Val Vijah Va Rhook, Baandari

Our kingdom on our backs

They made eye contact and smiled wide. As he sang the last verse, Aicantar wished he had offered to sing with her earlier.

Walker we can teach the steps

We'll be your guiding star

Hey, hey, Baandari boy

Keep close and we'll go far

Hey, hey, Baandari girl

Our vagabond bazaar

Gisela clapped her hands together in front of Queyan’s belly. The two Thalmor were smiling, so much freer with their emotions out on the road than they ever were in Understone Keep. Aicantar liked spending time with the three of them like this. When they let go of most of their professionalism and relaxed. He wasn’t a superior bred mer like they were, but Aicantar found that it didn’t matter here.

"You’re such a good singer!” Gisela said, “I had no idea! But it makes sense, with a voice like yours.” Aicantar felt a blush warming his face and ear tips.

“I don’t think I’m that good,” He deflected. Gisela huffed loudly as Ondolemar raised a sharp brow.

“You are, promise,” She said, “We should sing together more often.”

“Perhaps,” Aicantar replied, a little embarrassed, “I don’t know any good songs for singing duets.”

“I’m sure our little friend here has a few ideas,” Queyan said smoothly, holding the reins with one hand and loosening Gisela’s tight grip around her middle with the other. Gisela murmured apologies and relaxed her arms.

“Well, of course,” Gisela said, readjusting herself in the saddle. She winced and shifted, likely to prevent a twinge in her back. Aicantar bit back a sympathetic grimace, having discovered for himself so many of the ways that she hurts during their various sessions of healing magic. She hissed slowly and relaxed her body, then put on a smile and continued, “I can think of a few songs that can’t be sung alone.”

“Will you sing them for the Reachfolk?” Ondolemar asked, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. Aicantar wondered if he was going for a full beard or if he was planning on cleaning up the short goatee he favored. Gisela frowned, her brows furrowing.

“I don’t know,” She said frankly, “This isn’t a merry festival, it’s more like a strategic meeting. I’m there to encourage peace, not hold a performance. Aside from the public speaking part.”

“How is that a performance?” Aicantar asked, genuinely curious.

“When attempting to persuade an audience towards your opinion, you must act in a manner that appeals to them. You cannot force them to agree with you, so you cannot speak too aggressively or forcefully. You must to find a way to phrase your point so that it seems like a good idea to those who might otherwise disagree. You cannot lose your temper, must know when to invoke pity or incite rage. It is a difficult skill to master, and one that Gisela has been practicing in court.” Queyan spoke up, her point clear as a pane of glass. Aicantar nodded, understanding. Gisela, however, had paled a bit.

“Thanks Queyan, way to ease the pressure,” She said flatly. Queyan smiled, a quirk in her lips that said the entire speech was for more than just informing Aicantar. Gisela then turned to Aicantar. “So, I talk to a bunch of oppressed, marginalized, and likely blood-thirsty people. I try to make them agree to at least a ceasefire. Then we plant the shield in the Silver-Bloods’ house. Then, after Igmund learns about the Silver-Bloods and Madanach, we push him to try and make peace with the Reachfolk.”

“And the Reach is united against the Stormcloaks and the dragons.” Ondolemar finished. Gisela grinned, showing mostly straight, white, teeth.

“How devious of you,” Aicantar said, smiling in a way that conflicted the serious tone in his voice.

“But of course,” Gisela replied, haughtily, “As if I’d be anything but.”

Chapter Text

They met a group of Forsworn on the road, several hours of walking from the entrance to the Lost Valley Redoubt. The reachfolk were small in number, but the looks in their eyes were that of hardened warriors, war veterans. A lifetime of fighting for the right to exist, as Gisela had worded it, had made its impact. Ondolemar approached the one who must have been the leader, for how the others deferred to him.

“I was told to look for the Thalmor and their female breton ward,” he said, his voice soft, “I take it that you are the ones I am to escort to the great gathering of the tribes.”

“You assume correctly,” Ondolemar replied, “I am Ondolemar, this is my subordinate Queyan, the apprentice to the Court Wizard, Aicantar, and Gisela, the accidental diplomat under my protection.” Gisela was sitting behind him on his steed, so he was able to bodily feel her shaking as she held in her laughter. Accidental diplomat was her own proclaimed title, of course she’d be tickled by his use of the term.

“Well met,” the reachman said, still even-toned and softspoken, “I am Cael, chieftan of the Rudahan tribe. This is my right hand Anu, and my sister Robin.” Ondolemar recognized Gisela’s choked intake of breath, these people were familiar to her. “We do not have mounts of our own with us to speed our journey, but if you could follow us, we will lead you to the meeting grounds.”

Queyan dismounted promptly, taking the reins of her horse in hand. “In that case,” she said lightly, “I will walk.” Aicantar followed her lead then as well. Ondolemar pondered the opportunity to join them on the ground, turning to look at Gisela over his shoulder.

“If you want to walk, I’ll stay up here,” she told him, “I can balance at least.” She pouted at his arched brow and smacked his shoulder. “Go on, you utter git!” Ondolemar smiled and slid smoothly off the horse. Gisela scooted herself forward in the saddle, getting comfortable as he took the reins.

“Lean on,” Ondolemar said, turning back to Chieftan Cael. The man nodded, and began to lead them along the river. He watched from the corner of his eye as Gisela ran her fingers through the horse’s mane. In a softer voice, so that the forsworn would not overhear, he asked “Are you alright?” Gisela nodded firmly.

“Yeah, well, I’m anxious as fuck of course, but other than that I’m good,” she said lightly, a strained smile on her face. Ondolemar glanced at their guides, then back to her. A visible blush rose on her cheeks and sent an ugly feeling through his gut. Ondolemar pushed it down, resolving to deal with it at a later time. “Complicated,” Gisela whispered, “DLC. Later.” Ondolemar nodded, more at ease with the start of an explanation.

“Gisela,” Aicantar said, cutting through the tension he wasn’t even aware was present, “It’s your turn to share.” Ah, yes. They’d been swapping songs the entire trip. Ondolemar relaxed and let the ghost of a smile stay on his face. This was normal, routine.

“Oh!” she covered her mouth with a hand, “I’d totally forgotten!” Ondolemar noted a set of curious glances shared between the reachfolk. “Did you have a mood in mind?”

“I enjoy your ‘battle songs’, as they seem to be,” Queyan said, her tone warm and amused, “They are… Uplifting, inspiring, energizing.” Gisela grinned.

“Works for me,” she said, “Though I personally think of them as ‘bad bitch’ songs. Because they make me feel like a bad bitch.” Aicantar snorted in a very undignified manner and Queyan muffled her own laughter.

“What are you talking about?” One of the forsworn asked, Anu, that’s his name.

“I’m a foreigner,” Gisela said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the saddlehorn, “And all I really have from my homeland is music. I enjoy singing for my friends. Simple as that.”

“A song sparrow, are you?” Chieftain Cael asked, making Robin laugh, likely some sort of reference to Reach culture that Ondolemar didn’t understand, “I look forward to whatever you are willing to share with us from the land of your birth.” Gisela blushed again, only slightly. But she pushed herself back into an upright position and cleared her throat.

Killer for hire, soldier of fortune
Gotta walk through fire for what's important
And the warrior's blood through your veins is coursing
Killer for hire, soldier of fortune

Gisela crooned, her tone and posture screaming cocky and hotblooded. A soft glow of magic lit up her palms and she began to drum a rhythm on the leather of the saddle and clap her hands. While Ondolemar knew it was to keep her from hurting her hands, it almost seemed to enhance the sound of her beat.

The whole world's watching every move
Take your shot, don't act a fool
All you've got and all you'll ever need

Is one arrow in the quiver
Breathe easy, take your aim, boy
Ain't nobody gonna save you
So what you gonna do?
All eyes on you-
One arrow in the quiver
Breathe easy, take your aim, boy
Ain't nobody gonna save you
So what you gonna do?
All eyes on you!

Their forsworn guides seemed to be enjoying the song, Ondolemar noted a gradual shift in their strides. Their footsteps lining up to the rhythm that Gisela set, like a marching song.

Do or die, you're a mercenary
One of a kind, that's your burden to carry
Go and make them proud, do what's necessary
Oh no, do or die, you're a mercenary

Now, the whole world's watching every move
Take your shot, don't act a fool
All you've got and all you'll ever need

As Gisela led into the chorus a second time, Aicantar added his voice to the song. After their earlier conversations, he’d become more confident and needed less incentivising to join in. Even Queyan had sung along once or twice over the days.

Is one arrow in the quiver
Breathe easy, take your aim, boy
Ain't nobody gonna save you
So what you gonna do?
All eyes on you-
One arrow in the quiver
Breathe easy, take your aim, boy
Ain't nobody gonna save you
So what you gonna do?
All eyes on you

Then Gisela threw her head back, and belted out to the sky, her voice echoing throughout the rocky walls of the valley. Ondolemar’s eyes were drawn to how the mass of dark curls fell down her back, and smile on her lips as her eyes closed. She gave her all to the words, as she always did, and it made his heart within his chest flutter.

Now the whole world's watching every move
Still your heart, so much to prove
Fight for all the things that you believe in!
Now the whole world's watching every move
Take your shot, don't act a fool
All you've got and all you'll ever need!

Is one arrow in the quiver
Breathe easy, take your aim, boy
Ain't nobody gonna save you
So what you gonna do?
All eyes on you-
One arrow in the quiver
Breathe easy, take your aim, boy
Ain't nobody gonna save you
So what you gonna do?
All eyes on you-
All eyes on you.

The song ended abruptly, with only the echo of the final line to be heard on the wind along the hoof beats and footsteps. Gisela brushed a bit of hair from her forehead, drawing Ondolemar’s attention to the sweat that glistened on her brow. The use of magic to aid in her rhythm keeping was drawing a bit of strength it seemed. Whether is was all for healing or some sort of method to amplify sound, Ondolemar would need to ask later.

“Good, yeah?” She asked breathlessly, eyes on him. Her cheeks had a soft flush and her lips parted as she panted. “Haven’t gotten that loud in a while.”

“A song sparrow indeed,” Robin said, impressed, “I haven’t heard anything like that before. Where are you from that your songs are like that?”

“Ridiculously far away,” Queyan interjected as Gisela opened her mouth, “It’s only by magic that she found herself in Skyrim.” An incomplete truth, Ondolemar approved.

“Too far to fly home,” Cael mused in what seemed to be his usual volume of speech, “Or perhaps your wings were clipped.” Gisela bristled visibly.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re implying,” she said curtly, “These people are my friends and very important to me.”

“My apologies,” Cael said, before she could get truly riled up, “I did not mean to offer your companions insult. I am prone to wondering aloud, I did not think before I spoke.” Gisela bodily relaxed, though Ondolemar saw in her eyes that she was still irritated.

“No harm done,” Ondolemar said, amused, “Our little siren is quick to bark, seeing as she is not as easily able to bite.” Gisela’s look of outrage made Aicantar guffaw on Ondolemar’s other side.

“Slander!” She declared, “Queyan, he’s being mean to me!” Queyan’s shoulders shook as she tried to reply.

“Do not forget that you have your cane,” Queyan, the traitor, offered, “Perhaps you could show him just how devastating your bite is?”

“Alas,” Ondolemar deadpanned as the handle of Gisela’s wooden cane thumped lightly and painlessly onto the top of his skull, “Betrayed by my own right hand. Whatever shall I do?”

“Perish.”

Chapter Text

The woman was… Unusual. Everything about her was unlike anything Cael had seen before, or read of. She was brash and loud and openly affectionate with her companions. She used words that Cael hadn’t seen in any of his collected books, and spoke phrases that seemed to be complete nonsense, but made her friends laugh. And that’s what they were, a group of high elves who were friends with a human. Thalmor who were friends with a human.

Cael had heard much of Gisela from reports spread among the chieftains. She was reportedly from another plane, but not from any planes of Oblivion. She had a lead on where the dwemer went. She was friends with Dragonborn, and convinced her Thalmor friends to ignore his warrants. She was planning to try and appeal to the hagravens, so she could free the king and bring peace to the Reach. Cael struggled to make up his mind on which of these many rumors were the hardest to believe.

“Oi!” Gisela shouted behind him, exaggerating offense to a jest from the wizard’s apprentice, “I resemble that remark!” There was a snort of amusement from Anu next to him.

“She’s a bit mad, isn’t she?” He said, voice hushed to keep the group behind him from hearing.

“Perhaps,” Cael mused, “But sometimes the most clever of people seem absurd to those incapable of understanding.” His sister snickered, while Anu took a moment to think on Cael’s words.

“Hey!” He objected after a minute of thought. Robin’s muffled giggle turned into full blown guffaws.

They reached the section of river where it was most shallow and the current at its weakest. Cael led the group off of the road to the crossing, and stopped to take his boots off. It would be more comfortable to carry their footwear rather than walk the rest of the way in waterlogged shoes. His closest companions did the same, and the altmer climbed back on their horses. The water reached mid thigh of them, barely brushing the steeds’ knees as they splashed across.

“I haven’t gotten to see as much of the Reach as I’d like to,” Gisela mused aloud as they paused on the riverbank to get their boots back on.

“Because you despise travel of any kind,” The Justiciar replied as he dismounted, “You can’t have both.” The woman wrinkled her nose.

“Damn life and its lemons,” She said, “And fuck making lemonade.” Cael couldn’t begin to guess what Gisela meant with her nonsensical phrases.

“Life isn’t fair, Gisela,” The female altmer added, “As you like to remind me constantly.” There was no resentment or irritation in her voice, though it helped put Gisela’s words into context.

“What in Oblivion are you saying, Songbird?” Anu asked, tying the last knot on his boot.

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” Gisela replied easily, “Lemons are a stupidly sour tasting fruit and lemonade is the juice diluted in water and sweetened. It means making the most of a poor situation.” Cael recalled that she was supposedly from another plane, though he had read about lemons in a book about Elsweyr. It made him wonder about how many things his world had in common with hers.

“I have heard of lemons,” He said, “They do not grow north of Elsweyr.”

Gisela perked up, “Really? They grow in Tamriel too? At this rate I might just want to move to Elsweyr.”

“Traveling,” The Justiciar – Ondolemar – reminded her.

“But importing is expensive!” Gisela whined at him.

“The Jarl is paying for your room and board,” The female elf, Queyan, Cael needed to use their names, added. “And you’ve gotten us enjoying coffee as well, we don’t mind the occasional order.”

“Well aren’t you a pampered princess?” Robin teased. Cael tensed ever so slightly, unsure as to how Gisela would react to jests made by people she didn’t know so well.

“And don’t you forget it,” Gisela said, and Robin laughed.

“We’re approaching the entrance of the Lost Valley,” Cael announced, observing how Gisela’s eyes sharpened behind her spectacles.

“There’s a waterfall, yeah?” She asked, and her lips curved upward slightly when he nodded, “I can hear it.”

“Almost there,” Aicantar said cheerfully, “It’ll be nice to get a few days without riding.”

“Agreed,” Gisela said, “At least you had the option of walking for portions of the trip.” The two devolved into light bickering that the Thalmor ignored with practiced ease. Cael most of his attention to the footpath ahead. This one was less defined than the main road, used only by reachmen and the occasional fool of a nord.

When the mists blowing from the many waterfalls grew close enough to identify, he whistled a signal to the guards hidden around the ruins. He was returning with the gathering’s guest of honor. Time would tell if her reception would be a welcome one, or if she would not be permitted to leave.

“Wow,” He heard her gasp over the roaring of the water. Faces appeared along the path, obscured with heavy-handed applications of warpaint. Weapons drawn, but held in relaxed hands. A warning to their guests that a toe out of line would have consequences. Cael glanced behind him and observed the small group. The Thalmor were holding themselves taught, like a bowstring at tension. Ready to move at a heartbeat’s notice. Gisela had hunched over, looking very much like a hunted doe.

“Be at ease,” Cael offered over his shoulder, “They are not accustomed to… Visitors, like yourself. You are a novelty here. They will adjust to your presence given time.” She nodded, and Ondolemar put a hand gently on her arm. Some of the tension leaked from her posture at the comforting contact.

The climb to the encampment was steep, the horses struggling slightly with the rocky incline. At the midway point, Ondolemar took Gisela into his arms and carried her rather than risk her safety if her steed slipped. She didn’t hide her face in his robes, despite her obvious discomfort with the audience. Cael admired the subtle courage she carried in her frame. They passed under the old stone arches into the large open grounds of the Redoubt. It was filled with tents, representatives from most if not all of the clans gathered in one vast campground.

“This way, a tent has been prepared for you,” Cael said. The tent itself was large, enough to fit the four of them with ease. Gisela wobbled when Ondolemar set her down on the grass outside the tent, holding on to her walking stick with white knuckles. It was only now that Cael realized how small she was, even for a breton.

“Is any kind of meeting planned for today?” She asked him, and Cael shook his head.

“No, you have today to rest and recuperate from your journey.” He said. Gisela visibly brightened.

“Marvelous!” She said cheerfully, “Are you and your companions camped nearby?”

“We are,” Cael replied, tilting his head slightly to the side. He was a little curious as to why she would ask. “That tent there.” He pointed it out.

“Would you mind if I came to you if I had questions?” Gisela asked, “The reverse is fine by me, people always have questions.” Cael was quiet for a moment, thinking over her request. He was a little surprised that she found him so approachable, but also pleased that she would prefer talking to him over any of the other forsworn present.

“You are always welcome,” He said, and meant it. Perhaps he would be able to learn more about the dragonborn, or her culture. Cael looked up over his head, and frowned when he saw Robin and Anu looking at him smugly.

“Thank you!” Gisela said, smiling wide and open, “I’m going to put some tea on and help unpack. I’ll see you around, Cael. It was nice to meet you.” Cael couldn’t help but smile gently in return, her cheer infectious. He bid the rest of her companions a temporary farewell and turned to walk in the direction of his own small camp.

“She’s cute, isn’t she?” Robin asked when they were safely out of earshot of the sharp hearing of the altmer. Cael gave his sister a playful shove, and Anu laughed.

“Is our boy smitten, Robin?” Anu asked, louder than necessary.

“I am not,” Cael said firmly, though he knew that neither of them would let up now, “I am simply looking forward to learning from her.”

“Same thing!” Robin laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulder and grinding her fist against the top of his head. Cael shoved her off.

“Robin, this isn’t the village,” He scolded, “I must at least appear to be respected as Chieftain here.” His sister simply stuck her tongue out at him in reply.

Chapter Text

The observation of different cultures in order to learn about them was a passion of Aicantar’s. The interest began with his uncle, and was encouraged as he grew. He loved studying the lost civilization that was the dwemer, but there was only so much one could learn from fragments. Sitting in the center of a massive encampment of forsworn - of reachmen - Aicantar’s adoration was thriving. On a short walk alone, he observed traditional recipes being cooked, household prayers and rituals practiced, and children playing games Aicantar had never heard of. Before meeting Gisela, whom he could confidently declare one of his closest friends, he had thought that it was only the lost dwemer society that held his interest. Now he knew better. She had taught him about her culture, and in doing so, showed him a world of what she called anthropology. The study of people, of society, and how cultures develop and evolve. It drew him in more than his magic studies had.

“People who study existing cultures sometimes live with them for years at a time,” Gisela told him, “Cultural immersion is the best way to learn about how people exist.” And wasn’t that part of what he was doing now? It was certainly how Gisela was learning about Nords, and had been since that strange magic dropped her almost on his lap. Of course, their chance to learn about the reachfolk wasn’t quite the same, they weren’t as immersed as they could be, but it was enough for now. With luck, Gisela’s mission would open opportunities for learning later on.

One of the most immediate observations, which he jotted down in a notebook for later compilation, was the sheer diversity of the reachfolk. He had been under the impression that they were almost exclusively of manmeri blood. What Aicantar found instead was a people with a massive display of mixed heritage. It was common knowledge that a child will almost always be of the same race as the mother, with obvious half-bloods being uncommon. To Aicantar’s amazement, he saw a wider range of traits than what nords claimed forsworn had. From slight points to the ears, golden or dusky hues of skin, sharp teeth, large merish eyes, heights ranging from bosmer small to nord tall. There was more mixed blood in one camp than even the most populated cities.

When Aicantar returned to the tent he shared with the Thalmor and Gisela, he talked about his findings until his cup of tea had gone cold. Gisela listened with attentive eyes and a smile, before warming his mug with a handful of flames.

“You found your calling, I think,” She said, “You could probably write a book on the culture of the Reach. The real one, not the views of some scholar in a city.” Aicantar liked that idea.

“You think?” He asked. Queyan snorted.

“With how excited you are,” she told him, “I would be surprised if you hadn’t already started.” Aicantar blushed, his ears and face warming. The notes he had compiled, while disorganized, already had the bare bones structure of a compiled guidebook. The woman’s spy training undoubtedly sussed him out.

“Don’t tease him,” Gisela chided, though the mischief in her smile was plain to see. The hypocrite. “I’d love to read any book you wrote, Aicantar.”

“If I may point out,” He quipped, “As my friend, you are obligated to say that.” Gisela’s grin was bright. Her humor had certainly spread among them, like a disease. Gisela hummed and removed the leaves from her fresh kettle of tea.

“Perhaps,” She said, refilling her mug, “I can always help with the gathering of information if you want. I’m hoping to learn more about the music of the Reach. And the religion, but perhaps that could wait until there isn’t a war looming.” Ondolemar glanced at her with a slight furrow between pale gold brows.

“Maybe that Chieftain will trade songs with you like Yngvar does,” Queyan offered.

“Cael?” Gisela asked, “He certainly seemed interested in talking more.”

“Do you plan to go alone?” Ondolemar asked.

“Why not?” She asked, “It’s not far.” Ondolemar frowned at her.

Aicantar sensed the beginnings of tension forming between the two and spoke up before it could set in, “I’d go too. Gisela’s penmanship is horrific, I’ll need to write my own notes.” Ondolemar’s shoulders relaxed, even as the woman in question squawked her offense. “Besides, Gisela. You really oughtn’t be left unattended.” Gisela opened her mouth to object, but after a long moment she gave up and pouted.

“Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you should say it,” She said petulantly. Aicantar flicked his eyes towards Ondolemar and Gisela’s eyes widened minutely in understanding. Her mouth formed a silent ‘o’ and she took a sip from her mug to conceal the silent conversation when Ondolemar came to pour himself some tea.

His ears picked up the sound of footsteps on the hard earth, and a moment later, there was a knock on the wooden post of the tent’s entrance. A woman stood there, her skin a light cool brown and her hair black and closely shaven in a style similar to Ondolemar’s. She was dressed in a leather and fur skirt, like most other reachfolk, but the staff in her hand and assorted trinkets hanging on leather thongs from her neck gave her the appearance of a shaman. Aicantar averted his eyes quickly when he realized she wore no covering on her upper body besides her ornamentation, breasts bare.

“You must be Gisela,” The woman said after evaluating them each in turn with piercing black eyes, “Nepos wrote highly of you.” Gisela sat up straight, then waved her over.

“Ah! Come in, come in!” She said, anxiety laced through her tone, “I don’t know your name, Nepos never said. Please, sit! Would you like some tea? It’s my preferred blend. I’d offer bread and salt but...” The woman’s lips quirked in a smile and her features softened as she gracefully accepted Gisela’s slightly frenzied hospitality. She rested her staff against the tent wall and sat between Gisela and Aicantar, taking the mug with slender fingers and the movement of a practiced spellcaster. A shaman or a witch then.

“I am Allonine,” She said, holding the mug to her lips but not taking a sip, “I am the medicine woman of the Frostfeather Clan. It is my chieftain, my matriarch who called the moot.”

“Will I meet them? Your chief?” Gisela asked, her fingers paling from the grip she held on her cup.

“You will,” Allonine said, “Soon, but not now. The chieftains meet first without you, then they will meet with you. After that, they will debate and decide.” Aicantar noted that she still hadn’t drunk any tea.

“It’s not poison,” He said, “Gisela practices guest right. She will never harm anyone while acting as hostess.” The witch’s eyes locked onto his, and he felt like she was looking through his skin at his very soul. When she finally looked away, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“My apologies,” Allonine told Gisela, “It is not my intent to offend. It is simply...” She trailed off, brow creased as she picked her words carefully, “Difficult to trust herbs blended by a stranger.” Gisela set her cup down, then took the mug gently from Allonine’s hands and took a long and obvious drink from it. She swallowed audibly, and offered it back, wiping her lips on the back of a hand.

“I hope that perhaps, one day, there will be trust between peoples. Unlikely to happen in my lifetime, but...” Gisela smiled at the woman, “I can try and start.” Allonine smiled, and then she sipped it.

“A worthy endeavor. Many would consider it hopeless.”

“There is a story that is told often in my world,” Gisela said. “A man walking on a beach at low tide comes across a child. The child is picking up starfish and tossing them gently back into the surf. He asks the child what they are doing and they reply, ‘Throwing starfish back into the ocean. The tide is out. If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.’ The man looks at the child and says ‘The beach is many, many miles long, and there are a thousand starfish on the sand. You cannot possibly make a difference.’ The child looks at him for a while, before picking up another starfish to throw back, and they say ‘I made a difference for that one.’” The tent was silent as Gisela told the story, and it was silent when she finished. She drank her tea, letting it sink in.

“An interesting tale,” Allonine said, “I assume there is a message behind it? One on making a positive change, no matter how small?” Gisela smiled, straight white teeth showing behind the rim of her mug.

“Precisely. It is of a calling of duty, and of making an impact on every life you touch. Whether it is a good impact or bad is up to you.” Gisela set her mug down, empty now, and interlaced her fingers with a loud crackling sound.

“What is your duty, Gisela? What impact is it that you want?” Allonine asked, and Aicantar realized the political intent behind her visit.

“I’m soft, weak, far too compassionate,” Gisela said, “But I’m also petty and angry and eager to make my enemies suffer.” Aicantar bit his tongue to keep himself from interjecting in the sudden clash of wills. “I see my duty as being to right wrongs and I have the privilege needed to pull the strings to do so. My goal is to see the Silver-Bloods in rags, digging in the name of the Jarl in their own confiscated mines. I want to see Madanach returned to his people. I want Ulfric Stormcloak banished from the Reach, and I want to see a unified people keeping him out. War is coming, Allonine, on many fronts. The Great War is only on standby, Alduin is growing fat on the nord dead in this civil war, and Markarth is too divided to stand strong.”

There was magic in Gisela’s voice, Aicantar realized, lending weight to her words. A glance showing realization in the eyes of both Queyan and Ondolemar. Allonine seemed to see it too. Instead of being angry, she seemed impressed at the display of power Gisela was unknowingly showing.

“You speak true, little one,” Allonine said, “I feel the strength of your conviction. Nepos may have written well of you, but I needed to see and hear it for myself.” She set down her cup and stood. “I thank you for your hospitality, I will speak to you again soon. I will tell my matriarch of your honesty and intent, I can feel change in the wind that followed you here. Enjoy the rest of your day.” And she was gone. Despite the sudden silence left by the witch, all Aicantar could feel was a restless sort of anticipation. He had faith in his friend. The starfish she threw back into the ocean would make ripples, ripples that were going to change the world.

Chapter Text

Gisela had a plan. Sort of. She was spreading word of the Dragonborn’s quest and cautioning any Forsworn who got close enough to not interfere. Or to assist. She made sure to describe what Early-Bird-No-Worm looked like, and that he was working with an Akaviri and Imperial based organization to do so. Which led her to the representatives of the Clan at the Karthspire. They mentioned some old ruins that didn’t seem Nordic, and had a dragon’s burial mound nearby.

“Might be an old Blades headquarters,” Gisela said, “They used to serve the Dragonborn of old, helped kill a lot of dragons. That was before the Empire, and the Dragon-blooded emperors though.”

“Interesting,” mused the older breton, “If the Dragonborn is looking for information on killing this World-Eater, he might come looking for that place then?” Gisela nodded, pleased that her side-quest was bearing fruit.

“I worry that he or his companions might be expecting a fight and take a stealthy approach to getting the upper hand,” she confessed to the reachman. He suggested making a few signs to post around the perimeter of the camp, detailing that the Dragonborn is welcome. Gisela liked that idea, and told him so.

Internally, she hoped that all the camps would agree to allying with the Dragonborn. His mission was hard enough already. As the various representatives for the camps and clans within the Reach discussed how to word the signs that they also planned on posting, Gisela met the eyes of Aicantar and grinned.

“I was hoping you’d be willing to tell me about the day to day life in your clan,” he was asking an older woman with facial tattoos, “I’m hoping to write an unbiased book on Reach culture and your contribution would be appreciated.” He’d taken her anthropology suggestion and ran with it, like he was made to learn. Aicantar seemed to be thriving in his study, and it made Gisela’s chest swell with delight so warm and great she could choke on it.

“Gisela,” A soft voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned around to see Cael standing behind her, and gave him a smile.

“Cael,” She replied, patting the bench she was sitting on, “How are you?” Small-talk wasn’t her favorite thing in the world, but she could stomach it for the sake of new friends. He sat on the bench next to her, a respectable distance between them. Aicantar was near enough to be considered a chaperone, which would satisfy the jealousy that Ondolemar had displayed. Something to consider when she had more time alone with her thoughts.

“I am well, thank you for asking. How are you?” Cael said, his full attention on her.

“Good,” Gisela said, “Everyone has been kind, and we’re learning so much about your people.” Cael smiled, pleased with her answer it seemed. “I do recall your generous offer to answer any questions I might have.”

“And that I could ask you questions in turn,” He said, “But yes. Go ahead, I will answer to the best of my ability.” Gods, this man is so poetic by nature. It’s hard not to want to liken him to old Greek philosophers. Something to chat about perhaps.

“I had been wondering,” Gisela began slowly, “About the music of the Reach. What instruments do your people favor, do traditions vary from clan to clan, do you sing stories or emotions more?”

“You have many questions,” Cael observed, and Gisela’s face burned with embarrassment.

“Well, I-,” She stuttered out. Cael just laughed.

“I can only answer one at a time,” He said, “First, we use many of the same instruments the nords do, flutes and lutes and drums, but we also incorporate rattles and instruments made of bone.”

“Do you use horse jawbones as instruments?” Gisela wondered aloud, “People in some cultures back home do.” Cael nodded.

“We do,” He confirmed, “And each clan often sings of the accomplishments of the Reach Kings, but also of our owns accomplishments. Not every Reach hero is a hero to all of us, but often to a particular group. That group will keep their legends alive.” Gisela nodded, noticing Aicantar’s frantic note-taking from the corner of her eye. “And we sing mostly stories and in worship.” That made Gisela perk up.

“You pray to your gods with music?” Cael nodded.

“For good fortune in hunts and in battle,” He said, “Do your people do the same?” Gisela smiled.

“We do, many of our religions do. Both monotheistic and polytheistic.” She said, “My religion is a bit too scattered to fully agree on how to pray, but I personally like to use music in worship.”

“Perhaps we can share songs, like you do with your friends.” Cael suggested, ever in that soft and polite tone of his. Gisela’s smile widened and she nodded.

“I would like that.”

“Pardon the interruption,” Aicantar piped up, “Would you mind if I wrote these down?” Cael shook his head.

“I have heard what you intend to do,” He said, “Many are cautious, outsiders often see us as savages, but you have been respectful so far. Do not mistake our generosity for compliance.” Aicantar paled ever so slightly, and Gisela impulsively swatted at Cael’s shoulder.

“We are all here to learn,” She told him, “Don’t be mean.” To drive home her teasing attempt at scolding, she stuck out her tongue childishly. The quirk of Cael’s lips was proof he understood her meaning and took no offense.

“Of course,” He said, then turned to Aicantar, “I do not mind, but for all of our sakes, elf, I hope you are honest.”

“I would not do your people such an injustice,” Aicantar promised.

“Then I will start with something simple.” Cael said, “You wanted to know more about the music of the Reach, so I will share Red Eagle’s Song.” And he did. Aicantar recorded the words, and Gisela listened with wide-eyes as he recited the song. She would never tell anyone, but she had heard people cover the song on YouTube. Trying to explain that website would be complicated.

There was a small group gathering around them, drawn in by a song they all were familiar with. A couple people brought out instruments, and an impromptu circle formed. Aicantar hung back, writing furiously, but Gisela sat with them, wondering what kind of song they would like. The reachfolk were singing about their heroes, about their gods, and for luck on hunts. Gisela knew many songs that they would relate to, but did she want to sing a war song about injustice or a song of joy and celebration?

When the circle of expectant eyes turned to her, Gisela felt a pull towards a certain song, one she felt her audience might like. She asked for a drum, and set a rhythm on it. She focused her magic into the air around her, amplifying the sound waves. Her knowledge of physics and sound waves was limited to an awareness of their existence, but it was enough for the magic within her and of the world around her to bend to her will.

When I die

I don’t want to rest in peace

I want to dance in joy

I want to dance in the graveyards, the graveyards

And while I’m alive

I don’t want to be alone

Mourning the ones who came before

I want to dance with them some more

Let’s dance in the graveyards

The sound of the drums multiplied, others picking up the beat with their own instruments. Gisela pumped more magic into the air, warping ambient noise into a melody. She could see the softest glow of magicka around her hands and body, evidence of her manipulations of reality.

Gloria

Like some other name

We kept on calling ya

And waiting for change

But I belong

To all of your mysteries

And all of us

We’re meant for the fire

But we keep rising up

And walking the wires

So when we go below

Don’t lose us in mourning

Aicantar, familiar with her tells by now, caught her eyes. She made a motion, asking him to join. He smiled, opening his mouth to sing the chorus with her. The reachfolk with good recall lifted their voices as well.

‘Cause when I die

I don’t want to rest in peace

I want to dance in joy

I want to dance in the graveyards, the graveyards

And while I’m alive

I don’t want to be alone

Mourning the ones who came before

I want to dance with them some more

Let’s dance in the graveyards

Woah-oh!

Let’s dance in the graveyards

Woah-oh!

Gisela stopped the beat, though the melody her magic created rang out with her voice. She looked across the group, catching Ondolemar’s eye. He’d likely come to see what was going on when he first heard the music. Her heart felt swollen and tight in her ribs, full of emotions too jumbled to name.

Oh my love,

Don’t cry when I’m gone

I will lift you up

The air in your lungs

And when you reach for me

We’ll dance in the darkness

She picked up the drumming again.

And we will walk beyond

Our daughters and sons

They will carry on

Like when we were young

And we will stand beside

And breathe in their new life

By this point, everyone who could remember the chorus joined in. Those who didn’t and had no instruments danced in the circle. The energy was palpable, feeding the magicka Gisela was expending to fill out the music.

‘Cause when I die

I don’t want to rest in peace

I want to dance in joy

I want to dance in the graveyards, the graveyards

And while I’m alive

I don’t want to be alone

Mourning the ones who came before

I want to dance with them some more

Let’s dance in the graveyards

Woah-oh!

Let’s dance in the graveyards

Woah-oh!

The last whoop and drawn out note faded before the melody and beat did. Cheers sounded, and people clapped each other on shoulders and backs. The looks in their eyes had dropped from wary and cautious to open and welcoming. Gisela felt accepted. The suddenness, along with the bumping of bodies against hers in a show of camaraderie left her feeling off kilter.

“Who knew all it took was a song?” She asked Cael, a little strained and confused.

“We all have lost someone to the senseless violence between us and the nords,” Cael explained in his feather light tone, “You gave us a song about honoring them with celebration and of life continuing. It is… A happy song, but full of sorrow as well. It is obvious that you have felt much the same. Having lost a loved one. Having lost everything, but continuing with their memories.” Gisela couldn’t help the sting in her eyes and tears welling up on her lashes. She wiped the damp off on her cloak and sniffled softly.

“Yeah,” She croaked, “I suppose I have.” The swell in her chest ached, and she made eye contact with Ondolemar again. She gave him a slightly teary smile.

“I’m sorry,” Cael said, noticing her wet eyes and choked voice, “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.” Gisela shook her head, and smiled.

“I’m fine,” She said, “Well, that’s a lie. But I will be. You’ve heard about where I’m from?”

“The briefing all the Chieftains and Matriarchs received said you are from another plane, but separate from Oblivion.” He said.

“It’s true. I don’t know how to get back, if it’s even possible. We don’t know what brought me here either. As far as I know, I’ve lost everything. My family, my friends, my culture, my gods.” Cael frowned at that, his brows furrowing. Gisela interrupted him before he could say anything. “But I’ve been bringing bits of home back and surrounding myself with new friends. The others, they listen when I talk. They find ways to bring me things that remind me of home. It hurts, I don’t think it will ever stop hurting, but it hurts less. They’re precious to me. I’m afraid of losing them to this damn war, and I’ll do everything in my power to keep them safe.”

“They’re doing everything in their power to keep you safe,” Cael pointed out. Gisela laughed.

“That they do,” She agreed, smiling wide and eyes still prickling with tears of joy and sadness, “That they do.”

Chapter Text

The matriarchs and the patriarchs and the chieftains gathered around the altar to discuss the outsiders, and the most outsider of them. Boudica wrinkled her nose, several of them reeked of magic beyond their ken. They were the ones who’d held proximity to the curious morsel, Boudica knew. A tantalizing puzzle that one, with her pretty honey eyes. She wondered if they would taste of honey too. Boudica had watched from her perch above the fall, heard the music and laughter on the wind over the roar of water. So curious.

The otherworlder wanted a trinket, the one given to Boudica and her sister those many years ago. A great round shield of wood and steel, a trophy of conquest by the reachfolk that lived in the valley below. The ones that worshiped Boudica and her coven. The pretty meat from the great other; beyond the black, beyond even the reach of Sithis. A curious little thing to be sure, Boudica pondered, as the leaders of the men and mer conversed around her workplace. Many a sacrifice bled, many a warrior becoming more, many a morsel consumed. The great altar she prayed at.

Boudica looked to her sister, Gilda, who bared her teeth is a fearsome grin. The shield of a worthless ruler for knowledge from beyond the beyond. A worthy trade, weighted heavily in Boudica’s favor as all things should be. That was why she became what she became, after all. Magic, power, longevity. Especially the power.

“The pretty flesh should be allowed to speak with us,” Gilda decided aloud, halting the conversation. Boudica had spoken to meat, man and mer, who disagreed with the ways she and her sister spoke of them, but the forsworn and clans of the Reach were used to it. “She has things we want, and we will decide if the exchange is worth it.”

“And of a ceasefire?” A matriarch asked, Boudica did not know her name nor did she care, “A treaty?”

“We care not of disagreements between meat,” Boudica assured, “Do what you want. We will talk to the one from the Beyond after.” Satisfied in the general disinterest of Boudica and Gilda, the chieftains returned to their discussions on peace and other meaningless ventures. Boudica listened with one ear, but she was more interested in the idea of a thing from such a distant plane.

The talks were long, and the chieftains spoke each other in circles. Boudica was, though she was loathe to admit it, nosy. She did want to know what the untouchable flesh would decide eventually. Gilda had gone to preening herself, tidying her feathers as to better impress her beauty and greatness upon the strange girl they would soon meet. Boudica did not mind that her sister was the prettier of the two, she did not, for Gilda would reluctantly admit that Boudica was more clever than herself.

“Bring in the girl,” A chieftain said, “We will hear her out.” At last.

The nibble was short and fat, with chubby cheeks and a round face. Boudica wanted to pluck out her eyes from behind the glass and savor them. She looked tiny next to her minder, a tall and lean gold-skinned elf in dark robes with a hood. She smelled of herbs and tea leaves, masking the sweet scent of pain and distress. And wafting, laced through all of that, Boudica could taste her magic. It was foreign, the scent of honey wine and the air before a storm. There was a heaviness that loomed over the girl’s shoulders, a sense of violence and anger. The child was watched by something bigger than any of them knew. From the corner of her eye, she knew that Gilda could feel it too.

“My name is Gisela, and I have come with an offer,” The morsel said, “A way to return Madanach to his people and see his captors stripped of everything they hold dear.”

“For what reason?” A matriarch of more ink than skin asked, “You are as foreign as one gets, sparrow. What would you want from us in return?”

“What I want is a united Reach, even for a few years,” Gisela, a fine name for a sweet little thing, replied, “That is my reason and that is what you could give me. The Jarl of Markarth’s ear is mine, his court is considering trying for peace at my behest. My allies and I have a way to bring the Silver-Bloods to ruin, but it will take your cooperation to do so.” How interesting.

“So the meat claims,” Gilda said, mirroring Boudica’s own opinions on the matter. Sure they cared not for the politicking, but a tale of man’s suffering was a delightful way to pass time.

“We would hear your plan first, before we would come to any decision.” An old man said, “Trying to even meet with the nords to make the treaty would be risky. The risk must be worth it.” At the prompting, the tall mer in the dark robes stepped forward.

“With the shield of the Jarl’s father, the late Hrolfdir, we would plant indisputable evidence of Thonar Silver-Blood’s involvement in the attack that supposedly killed him and Madanach. I have it on good authority that he keeps a journal with him that details his various plots, it likely contains notes regarding his orders on various Forsworn maneuvers.” The altmer explained, composed and elegant. Boudica loved and hated him for it.

“So you plant the evidence,” A chieftain said, “And then what?”

“I am the high justiciar assigned to Skyrim as a whole,” And then the mer smiled, a wicked little smirk that tugged one side of his mouth higher than the other. It looked delicious. “I can order a raid on him for Talos worship. If we discover… Other illicit activities… It would be child’s play to turn the evidence over to the Steward.” The woman from beyond Oblivion grinned, baring her teeth like an animal would. Such straight white teeth, Boudica wanted them for a necklace.

“Having the shield among the Silver-Bloods’ possessions would implicate a greater plot. An assassination perhaps? Conveniently framing the people of the Reach for his own gain,” A softer-spoken chieftain said, following the trail.

“Kill the Jarl, capture the Reach King, control the Reach from the shadows,” The mer said smugly, simplifying the plot so that even the dullest of the gathering would understand, “And Igmund would not let that stand. Gisela has his ear, and she will advise as she always does.”

“Lady Gisela, what would you advise him to do?” A matriarch asked. Boudica leaned forward, fascinated.

“Such treason in my homeland would be punished with a very long prison sentence. Perhaps he might find himself in Cidhna Mines, chipping away at silver for the rest of his life.,” The morsel said, “His holdings would be seized and redistributed. Releasing Madanach would be a good start to trying for peace again. Even temporarily. Stormcloak cannot be allowed to take the Reach. That is what we propose.”

The mer and manflesh were dismissed shortly after their proposal. Boudica grew weary quickly of the bickering of her lessers, the chieftains repeating the same words in different ways to make their minds known. It was exhausting. She longed to lounge in her nest again, the eyeball and marrow stew she’d left to simmer dished up in generous helpings. Cozy on her bed of straw and hide, next to a warm brazier. She wanted to speak with the nibble, without the boring and unimportant politicking. Boudica wanted to know her magic, inside and out.

Chapter Text

Gisela didn’t want to be alone with the hags, that much was clear. Ondolemar had aided her in proposing their plan to the convened rulers of the Reach, and it at least appears to have been well received. The calculating looks on the chieftains’ faces suggested as much. The hagravens, however, had focused exclusively on Gisela. There was a gleam in their beady black eyes that had Ondolemar on edge, and loathe to allow her to meet with them alone.

The woman in question was jittery, pacing until her legs ached and her head grew light, then sitting and fumbling and fidgeting with anything within arm’s reach until the cycle began anew. It was exhausting just to watch her, so Ondolemar instead focused on how to get himself between Gisela and the hagravens. Hagravens were not known for their appreciation of diplomacy, and while his skills in such endeavors were notable, they may not be enough. Not for this.

“Tea?” Aincantar offered, holding up Gisela’s favorite teapot to make a point, “I have chamomile.” Gisela’s lips quirked up, her hands wringing and the overly strained joints popping.

“Please,” She said, voice soft and slightly strained. Ondolemar softened, weak to her distress.

“I won’t let you go alone,” He promised. Gisela leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. Her brows pinched together, and Ondolemar longed to be able to smooth down the wrinkles in between them. She looked down at her hands and drew her magicka to them.

“I’ve been learning more magic,” Gisela said instead of a reply, “Trying to bring my silly neo-pagan practices to Nirn.” A small ball of energy appeared in her palms and grew to the size of her fist, not a magelight spell, but something different. “This is called a ‘psi ball’. Back home, they’re metaphysical only, but here...” The psi ball shifted colors from pale gold to pink to blue. Then she held it up. “Cup your hands.”

Ondolemar cupped his hands as she’d instructed and she held it out, letting the orb drop gently into them. It tickled and buzzed against his palms, like a magicka potion on his tongue, but filled with a nervous energy. A condensed ball of pure psychic magic, he realized. Gisela’s magic and emotion in one.

“It’s an exercise for young neo-witches. Practitioners of metaphysical magic. But brought here, it becomes physical, tangible in more ways than it is on Miðgarð.” She plucked the ball from his hands and he watched as it became smaller and smaller in her grip until it vanished. Absorbed back into her body. “I’ve found that my vague knowledge of physics in general has made it possible for me to mimic things with magic, like sound. It’s just vibrations, ripples in the air. My only limit is my mana pool and my endurance. I conjured music the other night.”

“It’s not a use of magic that I’ve heard of before,” Ondolemar admitted, “And it was very impressive. Casting and singing at the same time takes focus, and it’s quite difficult.”

“It’s exhausting,” Gisela confirmed, “Ah- Thank you.” Aincantar offered her a mug of tea, which she accepted gratefully. “Good practice, though. But the thing is, I really don’t want to get the hagravens too interested in physics. Regardless of how they tend to oppose natural order in favor of power, I don’t really want them to get any ideas.”

“How much physics do you know?” Aincantar asked. Gisela stiffened, a bit caught off guard.

“I’m an idiot,” She grumbled, pushing up her spectacles to pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t know nearly enough to make them dangerous about it.”

“I guess being uneducated pays off?” Queyan teased from where she was writing a basic report. There was much being left out, and gaps in the information needed to be well concealed to avoid charges of treason. She laughed when Gisela made a rude gesture at her.

“I think you’re smart,” Aincantar chimed in, smiling at the relaxing atmosphere of the tent.

“Friendship with Queyan ended,” Gisela grinned, “Aincantar is my best friend now.”

“Oh no,” Queyan sighed wistfully, “Whatever shall I do?”

When the time came to go see the hags, the tent was visited by a briarheart warrior. He was elf-blooded, by the slight point of his ears and gold tinted skin, taller than many of his kin and broad of shoulder. His eyes, like the few briarhearts Ondolemar had seen, were black at pitch. The beating of his briar seed heart in an open chest was disturbing to look upon, creating a very intimidating figure.

“Does it hurt?” Gisela asked softly, as she hobbled along the path up the slope. She’d insisted on walking as far as she was capable, despite the ache in her limbs. The briarheart was quiet for a time, and Ondolemar wondered if he was going to ignore her until he nodded.

“Yes, that is the price I paid for my people’s protection,” He said, his voice low and deep. Gisela frowned, a thoughtful wrinkle on her brow.

“Was it worth it?” She asked then, though she asked quietly and with no pity in her tone.

“It was,” The warrior confirmed. She smiled, eyes soft and warm.

“Thank you for telling me,” Gisela said. The warrior turned his dark eyes on her and frowned, confused.

“You understand?” He asked, eyes flicking from her face to her legs to her cane.

“I understand pain that never stops, and without reason or purpose,” She told him gently, “I may not understand making the choice to hurt so much, but you feel that it was worth what you gained. That, to me, has significance. Were you expecting me to judge?”

“People often judge that which they do not understand, or would not choose,” Ondolemar said.

“I’m better than that,” Gisela retorted airily, putting her nose in the air. The briarheart huffed a laugh, then laughed louder when Gisela peered sideways at his chest and suggested fresh peppermint to repel insects.

The walk was nicer after that, with Gisela’s ‘breaking of the ice’ tactics landing with great success. The briarheart, named Morvoch, was less tense and more free with conversation. He loved his clan, and enjoyed play-sparring with the children. Reachfolk did not just worship daedra and older gods, Ondolemar learned, for they also favored Kynareth and occasionally, Mara. Morvoch’s clan, in accordance with Mara, held childcare as a revered and sacred duty. It was valuable information, the kind he knew that Gisela would report to Aincantar once this accursed meeting was over. If she wasn’t too shaken up, that was.

When the path grew steep, Gisela’s pride gave in to her pain and she requested to be carried until they reached level ground again.

“Oh no,” She said dryly when Morvoch teased her for not being able to climb a hill, “Gentle slopes. My only weakness.”

“There there,” Ondolemar soothed in a snarky tone, relishing the gasp of mock offense she gave him in return, “Not everyone can be blessed with functional limbs.” She knocked him weakly on the shoulder with a clenched fist for his audacity.

The summit, Bard’s Leap, was less populated than the redoubt below. The resident clan’s witches lived in stationary tents of bone and hide, with various animal bones and pelts as decor. Spriggan taproot hung near standing basins of old blood, swarming with flies. He’d observed the area on the way to and from their audience with the chiefs, but there was less of a rush now and more time to look. Gisela clung to the front of his robes, shying away from the realization that they were almost to the altar again.

“They know they are not to harm you,” Morvoch assure her, and by extension, him. “I will be nearby to remind them of that.”

“Thank you, Morvoch,” Gisela said in a small voice. She swayed on her feet when Ondolemar set her down on the level ground, leaning heavily on him for support. She have a hysterical bark of laughter, “I’m sorry, I’m so nervous my legs don’t want to work.”

“I’m here with you,” Ondolemar said, offering his arm to her, “You are welcome to lean on me, physically and metaphorically.” Gisela smiled weakly, then took the proffered arm and gave it a light squeeze.

“Okay,” She said, “I’m ready.”

Chapter Text

Hagravens are, by nature, beings of corruption and decay. They pervert the natural order merely by existing. Gisela couldn’t recall very much on the lore of hagravens from her previous playthroughs of Skyrim, but this bit in particular came to mind. Perhaps it was the foulness of the air and land around her. Granted, that could be a result of rotted flesh and rancid… Things… That hags seemed to be fond of that decorated the place. Gisela pressed close to Ondolemar. She was walking on her own two feet, gripping her cane with whitened knuckles. A phantom chill crawled up her spine, bone by bone, and made her shiver.

“It will be alright,” The mer murmured to her, and she shakily drew her lips into a smile.

“If you’re wrong, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life,” Gisela promised, quiet but firm in her conviction.

Morvoch ushered them soberly to the stone table the chieftains had gathered at. Gisela couldn’t see the hags, but their clutter was strewn across the rock. Her eyes were drawn to the word wall, and she wondered if the Dragonborn would have to kill the hags here to access it. Would they let him in? What word was on that wall again? She couldn’t remember. Well, what she did know served her well enough so far.

The hags weren’t there yet, or were lurking out of sight when Morvoch walked away. It was a short distance, out of earshot but not line of sight. If needed, he would intervene, like he’d promised. That was nice of him. Gisela was pleased that Briarhearts without free will like in the games were a significant minority. She let go of Ondolemar’s arm and limped to the altar. Unprocessed pelts were thrown across the stone like a professional decorator tossing fur throws across a sofa. Tools of some manner, made of carved black stone and rusted red metal, sat next to a bowl of fly-filled gore. Human and goat skulls sat next to each other, with taproot and soul gems wedged into their jaws. Gisela was horrified, but morbidly curious. At the center of the table was an old, worn shield.

“Does the pretty meat admire our collection?” Gisela startled, whirling to face the hag that had stepped out from behind the word wall. “We worked so hard for it.” The woman was tall, despite the hunched back that seemed prominent in hagravens. Her skin was sallow and wrinkled, hanging limp from her bones in places. Her thin black hair was shiny with oil, strands long and loose. The woman’s legs were long and bird-like, with scaly skin and talons. Her body was covered with rags and feathers, the plumage in better shape than the rest of her.

“It does!” Crowed the other, who emerged from the other side. She looked similar to the first, but her hair and feathers were styled differently, and glossier.

“It’s...” Gisela trailed off, unsure of how to act with two hagravens honed in on her, “It’s very nice. I actually wanted to ask you about one of your items.” Ondolemar planted himself next to her, angled so he could defend her more easily.

“Yes yes,” The first hagraven rasped, her voice low and filled with more gravel than a driveway, “We know all about your desire of the shield. But if you want us to give you the shield, we want something in return.”

“What do you want?” Gisela asked, “What do I have that I could give you?” She worded her reply carefully. She doubted that hagravens could hold someone to their word the way fairies in Irish legends could, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful anyway. The first hag grinned, teeth bared like a predator coming in for the kill.

“You stink of strange magic,” She said, “We want to know it.” Gisela swallowed.

“Strange how?” Gisela asked, as anxious as she was genuinely curious.

“A drunkard,” The second hagraven said, voice higher pitched than her sister’s, “Out in the rain.” Gisela blinked, puzzled. “Reeking of mead and damp. Your magic is thick of it.”

“Mead and rain?” She asked, a sudden ache forming in her chest as the connection dawned on her. The spot in her chest that warmed and cooled as she spoke to her gods grew heavy as she silently mouthed a name.

“What is it that covers you like a mantle?” The first hagraven asked.

“Thor,” Gisela croaked through a tight throat, chest aching. “My patron god, Thor. Of thunder and strength and protection.”

“You carry his protection like a mantle, your magic tastes of it. Of a foreign divine,” The first hagraven hissed, taking a step closer. Ondolemar took a step forward, pushing Gisela behind him.

“Keep your distance,” He warned. Gisela’s heart pounded in her throat, strong enough to make her tremble.

“My gods are here? In this plane?” She asked, pressing forward despite Ondolemar’s arm in front of her. The hagraven coughed out a cackle.

“Who knows?” She laughed, “They have not sent a sign. They might not be on Nirn, but you carry a blessing, so their reach extends far. But enough,” The hag turned serious, beady black eyes fixated on Gisela. “I want to learn spells from your world.” Gisela’s heart sank, and she panicked slightly.

“That may be difficult...” She said slowly, “Spells in my world are completely different to spells in this one.” The hagravens exchanged looks, eyes narrowed.

“Explain,” The quieter hagraven growled.

“It’s mostly rituals, blessings, herbs, candles, and crystals.” Gisela said, “Divination with runes or cards or tea leaves. But I don’t have anything like that here. My magic has been… A lot stronger, since I arrived on Nirn. I haven’t tried them.”

“Then do it,” The first hagraven demanded. Ondolemar was rigid, and Gisela allowed herself to be nudged further behind him again. She squeezed her eyes shut as she thought as hard as she could, scrounging memories of halves of rituals, of the meanings of runes and tarot cards, of casting bones. Bones!

Gisela stood up straight and whirled around to the table. “I need to borrow some of your collection.” She announced, and picked up the bowl. She tipped it out into a pile on the altar and began to grab odds and ends. A tooth, a dried eye, a gemstone, a small taproot, several bone fragments. All went into the bowl. From her own person, she took a cloak pin, a worry stone, a key with a leather cord, and added them to the bowl as well. She looked over the small pile, eyes flicking from item to item as she rapidly assigned meanings to them. Then she held up the bowl to the hag.

“Ask your question to the bones,” She said, cool and serious as the grave. It wasn’t her own osteomancy set, but it would suffice. The hagraven met her stare and narrowed her eyes.

“You have been asking the forsworn to aid this Dragonborn on his quest. Will he succeed?” The hag’s head twitched to the side in an unnervingly bird-like manner. Gisela wondered if the hag was humoring her or was genuine about her methods. Gisela looked at the bowl and tightened her grip on it.

“Norns, gods, strands of time, hear me!” Gisela spoke aloud, following the pull of her heart. What felt right. “What does the future hold for the Dragonborn?” Then she tipped the bowl. Everyone watched the odd collection of items scatter on the bare packed earth, some bits moving almost unnaturally in certain directions. Gisela stared hard at the assortment, tilting her head to one side. Ondolemar and the hags had stepped back, giving her room to work her magic. Each item pinged in her mind, the meanings she gave them and the directions they fell creating a pattern. She stepped more lightly than she had in months, circling the space. She didn’t speak until she came back to the start.

“Travel, lots of it,” She mused, starting with the items closest to herself, “And dangers in the dark. Riches beyond belief buried deep deep down.” It’s interesting, Gisela thought to herself, how the impromptu set of ‘bones’ was retelling the story even without her foreknowledge. “A battle writ in stone. A crown made of bone.” That part was interesting, was Early-Worm-No-Bird going to pick a side in the civil war? Before or after capturing the dragon in Whiterun?

“A crown of bone?” The hagraven asked. Gisela flinched, having been so focused that she forgot about her audience. Instead, she pointed the end of her cane to the circle formed in bone fragments. The pointed edges faced outwards, similar to the points of a crown drawn by a child in crayon back on Earth.

“The crown is after the battle. Even a baby could tell what that means,” Gisela snarked. The hag snarled at her in return.

“Cheeky thing you are, sweetmeat,” The hagraven said. A glance was passed between the two witches, and the hag turned back to her, “But your methods intrigue me. You will teach it to us, and we will give you the shield.”

“Done.”

Chapter Text

Gisela was gone for a long time. Queyan devoted herself to busy work, some of which she had to create for herself, simply to keep from fretting. Aicantar was the same way, though he spent his focus on the Clans relationships to hagravens as a whole. Writing reports could only do so much, and Queyan found herself becoming introspective as time went on. As the sun set, she wondered when the human woman had wormed into her heart so deeply.

It was dark when her compeers returned, Gisela pale but the set of her shoulders firm. She was walking on her own two feet at least, supporting herself on Ondolemar’s arm. On Ondolemar’s other arm was an old and battered shield. Gisela’s story was… Difficult to believe. Queyan knew of the existence of prophets and fortune-tellers, of course, but Gisela herself possessing a gift of divination? It was difficult to believe.

Queyan kept her doubts quiet until Gisela dropped into her cot, then motioned ever so subtly for her superior to join her outside. Ondolemar followed, one silent look at the resting woman before doing so. When they were out of potential hearing range and had surveyed the area for eavesdroppers, Queyan spoke.

“A Prophecy?” She asked. Ondolemar shook his head.

“No, too vague,” He said, “But there was something to the method. I felt the magic, but I am not familiar with its like.” Queyan frowned, thoughtful. “She mentioned a crown of bone that comes after a battle writ in stone.” That was something that Queyan recognized. Both sides of the nords’ civil war were vying for one, the Jagged Crown. That was unlikely to be something that Gisela could have heard of in Markarth, where the war effort was comparatively minimal.

“The argonian will find the Crown?” Queyan asked. Ondolemar’s head tilted to the left marginally. He wasn’t sure. “But he will survive the battle at least. ‘Writ in stone’ implies the prophecy of the Dragonborn, Gisela is saying that he will defeat Alduin.”

“That seems likely.” Ondolemar confirmed. Queyan sniffed, thinking over the information present. “And she taught this method of sooth-saying to the hagravens.” He sighed, weary.

“The information it produces is vague enough that it will be unlikely to encourage them causing significant damage,” Queyan advised cautiously, “No more than they do already.” The tension in Ondolemar’s shoulders lessened some.

“And she earned the shield,” Ondolemar said eventually.

“And she earned the shield,” Queyan agreed.

Aicantar was sleeping as well as Gisela by the time the two Thalmor returned to the tent. The moons were high and the hour was late, so Queyan began her evening ablutions. As she brushed her teeth, she considered the possibility of Gisela experiencing the divine acknowledgment all Thalmor craved. Could crossing the Void like Gisela suspected have brought the attention of the Aedra, or perhaps the Daedra? Was a god responsible for Gisela’s apparent gift? Queyan was uncertain, and that made her nervous.

She glanced at the sleeping woman and wondered why it made her so worried. That was something Queyan had been doing more often, doubting and questioning what she had once been so sure of. Was it because prophecy so often was a gift from daedra like Azura, or because knowing the passage of time was Auri-El’s domain? Was it because Gisela may have brought her gods with her to Mundus?

Queyan sat down on her own cot, and just looked at the sleeping otherworlder. The woman looked harmless, her face mushed into the pillow. There was a wrinkle between her brows, as though her troubles followed her into sleep. Queyan reached out and gently brushed a lock of curls away from her face and frowned. Such a small, frail, creature. What brought her to them? Who?

She turned away from Gisela and slipped her boots off, setting her worries aside for the time being. There was time, she would find the answers to the questions she had. When she pulled her blanket up over herself and closed her eyes, Queyan’s plan solidified. She doubted that Gisela would object if it gave them both what they wanted.

Chapter Text

A day in the life of a reachman often begins just before the rising of the sun. Embers are stoked into fires, the prior night’s stew pots placed on the coals to warm for breakfast. The guards change, mugs of hot drinks placed into cold, stiff fingers. Those late to bed are roused by friends and lovers. It reminds Aicantar a bit of home.

He nursed his own stoneware mug of coffee, sweetened, but without milk. The flavor was bold and acidic on his tongue, and brought him gently into awareness. He was not the first of their group to wake up, but not the last. By nature of her illnesses, Gisela was almost always the last one to rise. Behind Aicantar, Ondolemar helped the woman sit up. Her hair was wild from sleep, half flattened against her face and half riotous mass of frizz.

“Sleep well?” Aicantar teased as she sipped her morning coffee. Gisela’s reply was a wordless jumble of syllables, as it usually was before she’d completely woken. She squinted at him as she tied her hair up into a poof of a ponytail, her expression amusing despite the obvious fact that she could not really see him at this distance.

“Fuck you,” She managed a moment later, awake enough to speak. Aicantar muffled a snort of laughter into his coffee. She was back to normal after the chaos of yesterday. It was a relief. The morning trudged on, and the conference reconvened without the input of anyone in their group.

When Gisela had woken up enough, he sat with her on small magic lessons. She told him a little about the magic of her world, or metaphysical practices at least. The theories that she knew and such. The way her world knew of the sciences and how it affected how she cast. She managed to create sound, the air visually distorting at the source and lighting up into a soft glow. Her magicka pool was getting bigger quickly, the more she cast, and her endurance built up as well. It was alarming how much she improved at these simpler, though no less incredible, feats of magic. More complicated spells? Not as much. Aicantar watched her fingers flex, another layer of sound harmonizing with the other ones.

“What else could you recreate from your world?” He wondered aloud. Gisela’s fingers curled, a simple but twangy string melody joining a simple drumbeat ringing from the air between her palms.

“I dunno,” She mumbled, the music fading as her focus wandered, “A hologram, maybe?” Aicantar did not know that word.

“Hologram?”

“It’s an image of an object from all angles, a visual recording.” Gisela explained.

“A projection?” Aicantar asked. Gisela’s eyes lit up.

“Yes! You have those?”

“Yes, though they are expensive to produce,” Aicantar said, “Recording the image and sound for later playback on a special crystal. They’re very rare these days...” Gisela hummed, thoughtful.

“I have an idea,” She began slowly, “But I don’t think I have the skill or power to make it happen.” Aicantar tilted his head.

“What are you thinking?” He asked.

“Water vapor in the air, like mist, shaping or freezing it to catch light in such a way that it creates a solid image,” She said. Aicantar considered the idea. Creating ice was very low skill destruction magic, but that particular utilization of the spell would be significantly more complex.

“Light and mist?” Aicantar mused, “With your vibration technique to create the sound. It’s much more complicated than the recording crystals, but theoretically sound. I’ll need to experiment.” Gisela grinned wide.

“If anyone can figure it out, it’s you,” She said, confidence dripping from her every word. Aicantar’s face and ears warmed, and his chest puffed with pride. He couldn’t help feeling pleased, especially when faced with the solid wall of friendship and affection Gisela radiated at him. He’d never in all his years met someone so free with their love.

“At least once of us thinks so,” He quipped. At her sharp look, he put his hands up in surrender and corrected himself, “I can make this work.” She smirked, clearly satisfied.

“Good, manifest that shit.” Aicantar had heard her use ‘manifest’ in that manner before, and he was admittedly fond of the concept. Of bringing an idea into the world through belief. Willpower and confidence and ‘elbow grease’. He didn’t like that turn of phrase as much.

“An interesting theory to be sure,” Another voice added. Aicantar turned to see Queyan approaching.

“Ah, come to join us?” Gisela asked. The mer nodded, sitting down on Gisela’s other side.

“I have. I also bring some theories of my own to test.” Aicantar leaned forward, curiosity peaked.

“What kind of theories?” He asked.

“Gisela, last night,” Both Aicantar and Gisela stiffened, “Ondolemar said that he felt some kind of power. Something different. Do you know what it could have been?” Gisela chewed her lip, brows pinched.

“I can only guess,” She admitted, “My technique for divination involves calling on higher powers. I follow my instinct on how to do so. Last night, I called upon the Norns, gods, and on time itself. I left it vague, really vague.” Aicantar frowned, his head tilting.

“Who, or what, are the Norns?” He asked.

“Goddesses,” Gisela said, “They care for the World Tree and know all that was and will be. They’re said to control destiny itself.” She pulled her woolen shawl tighter around herself and tilted her head to the side. “Since Early-Bird is involved in a prophecy, it made sense to ask Destiny themselves how it’s going to end, yeah?”

“It does,” Queyan allowed, “But they’re goddesses from your world. Could they have reached you from this World Tree? Throught the void?” Gisela’s nose wrinkled and she warmed her coffee mug with magic before sipping from it.

“I have no idea. I cannot even think of a way for me to have ended up here without some sort of Divine intervention. The only question is who.” Queyan frowned thoughtfully, leaning back to look at the clouds in the sky.

“If you asked,” Queyan said eventually, “Would they tell you?” There was a subtle hint of bitterness to her tone, as though she was resentful of Gisela’s possible connection to a mysterious deity. Aicantar took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Queyan wasn’t the type to take out her negative feelings on others, but he would keep an eye out. Just in case.

“It might be worth a try. There’s methods, but it’s really up to them to identify themselves. And only if they want to.” Gisela huffed, “All I can do is get myself some decent divination tools and ask. See if maybe they send me omens or dreams. If they don’t, then they don’t.”

“Well,” Aicantar said, “That’s frustrating.” Gisela snorted.

“Oh, you have no idea,” She said with a laugh, “But I’ll see what I can do. Hopefully they don’t ask too much of me. I don’t know how to do cult stuff.” That make both Aicantar and Queyan laugh along with her.

“You’d make a good cult leader,” Aicantar teased. Gisela shoved him playfully.

“Don’t you start,” Gisela warned him, a grin on her face. Aicantar smiled, and Queyan laughed again.

Aicantar leaned back, watching the various small encampments of reachfolk moving about their late morning routines. A few waved at him or Gisela, many short greetings and ‘good morning’s were exchanged. Aicantar admitted to himself that he would miss this when it came time to return to Markarth. Where uncle Calcelmo was too absorbed in his work to let him participate in anything. Where he was just Calcelmo’s nephew. He felt more like his own person here than ever before.

Perhaps in the future, he’d spend more time with friendly clans. Work on that book that he and Gisela talked about. Something to think about. But in the meantime, he would experiment with magic.

Chapter Text

It was the last night before Gisela and her group left to return to Markarth. As such, the members of the various clans who’d voted in favor of peace were putting together a farewell feast of sorts. Hunters brought back prey, that were now roasting slowly over the fires. Instructions were shared to Aicantar, since he could remember better than she could, on how to get in contact with the different clans for letter writing. Gisela had been playing with her magic, attempting to recreate the layering of instruments in music back home and making some progress.

Home. It was only by reflex now that Gisela still called her old world home. Markarth was home now, rather, the people in it were. Understone Keep was temporary, when the ceasefire gathering was arranged she would probably leave with her new family. Aicantar would most likely come with her, Queyan and the other Thalmor definitely would, and Ondolemar… Ondolemar. He was still coming to terms with that crush of his. Gisela wasn’t a fool, at least most of the time she wasn’t.

Ondolemar was… He was fond of her. That was the best way she could describe it. She knew what those glances of his meant, and of the looks Queyan and Aicantar and the others gave them when they performed this dance. His casual touches that lasted a heartbeat too long to be platonic, his grip a hair too tight when he lifted or carried her, it was like he didn’t want to be parted by any distance. Gisela despaired over the Georgian and Victorian era styles of pining, she was new to politics and the subtle nature of every little action was driving her to tear her hair out. She liked him back, how hard could it be to get past this hurdle?

Her first impulse was to grab him and plant a kiss on his stupid face. She shoved that thought aside, knowing him well enough that stealing a kiss would likely break him. Gisela spotted Queyan from the corner of her eye and resolved to ask the woman for help. This was a mer out of her league, at least she believed he was, and that’s enough to make it true. Besides, perhaps being flirted with in altmer fashion would be enough to break him from his spiral of distressed pining. However, before she could go talk to Queyan, she noticed someone else approaching their tent.

“Cael, good evening!” She called. It was still bewildering to her, discovering with time which of the Skyrim mods she played with appeared on Mundus. Inigo, Lucien Flavius, and now the Skyrim Romance mod. Though if that mod’s main character, Bishop, used those bodice ripper novel lines on her, she’d whack him with her cane. If she met him, at least. Was Kaidan or any other of the popular follower mod characters wandering around?

“Good evening, Gisela,” Cael replied, in that soft voice of his. Oh how she’d wished she could have romanced him in game at least once, but that mod hadn’t finished before she was isekai’d. Besides, she didn’t actually know him as a person, not well. Her crush was just that, a crush, and she wasn’t about to act on it. She cared far too much about Ondolemar to entertain another person in that manner.

“What brings you to my humble abode?” Gisela asked, disguising her wandering thoughts with lighthearted small talk.

“I wanted to visit,” He said, blunt and straight to the point as ever, “You will be leaving soon, I confess that I will miss our conversations.” Gisela felt a slight pang in her chest.

“We can still write,” She offered with a small smile, “My handwriting is terrible, but it would give me a reason to practice.” Cael huffed a quiet laugh, but the smile on his face was warm.

“I would enjoy that,” He said, “Though I will miss getting to hear the songs you sing in your own voice. It’s lovely.” Gisela blushed, from her chest to the ends of her hair. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably and waved off the compliment with an awkward flap of a hand.

“Uhm,” She said, “I- Thank you.” No self-depreciation in this house, no sir. “You’re very kind.”

“It is the truth, but I will accept the compliment,” Cael replied, “I heard you practicing your new magic. I am unfamiliar with some of those instruments. What are they?” Gisela perked up at the obvious change in topic.

“It’s called a piano,” She said, “It’s a sort of string instrument that uses little mallets connected to keys to make the sound. The wires ring with the impact.” Gisela pulled magic to her fingertips and focused on the memory of a piano. The soft tones of the beginning of River Flows In You rang clearly from her hands, rich and deep. Cael listened with clear fascination and delight. She didn’t keep it up long, only a minute give or take a few seconds, the gentle piece always made her feel like tearing up. When she dropped the spell, it took her a moment to compose herself.

“It’s beautiful,” Cael said, “I can see why you might favor it.” Gisela rubbed at her face to try and hide the dampness of her lashes and smiled.

“It’s a sweet song,” She said softly, “But it usually makes me cry. I want to perform something from my home later, during the feast. Something bigger, but concentrating on so many pieces of the music is a challenge.”

“I have faith in you,” Cael told her, “You’ll do something incredible.” Gisela looked down, then away.

“Thank you, Cael,” She said, “For believing in me.” She inhaled, considering a composition with only a few instruments to use as practice. There was the sound of footsteps behind her, but she didn’t turn to look.

Gisela focused again on her recollection of the music, a plucking of strings flowing through the air. When she began to sing along with the light twang of violin strings, the chime of a music box joined her in melody.

Come little children

I’ll take thee away

Into a land of enchantment

Come little children

The time’s come to play

Here in my garden of shadows

As she sang, she twisted her hand like she was a conductor of an orchestra, a sound almost like the ghost of a voice crooning along with her own in harmony.

Follow sweet children

I’ll show thee the way

Through all the pain and the sorrows

Weep not poor children

For life is this way

Murdering beauty and passions

Hush now dear children

It must be this way

To weary of life and deceptions

Rest now my children

For soon we’ll away

Into the calm and the quiet

She began to croon along with the other voice, dragging out of the waves of her own voice to create overlapping layers of almost howling. She glanced to the side to see Cael’s mouth open in wonder and awe, along with several other reachfolk. Queyan and Ondolemar and Aicantar among them. This was the first time she had tried this sort of magic, and of course, there was an audience for it. Might as well make it stunning.

Come little children

I’ll take thee away

Into a land of enchantment

Come little children

The time’s come to play

Here in my garden of shadows

She drew out the last notes, bringing back the echos of her own voice to warble until the last string was plucked. When she finished, there was an extended silence.

“If you sing like that later tonight,” One older woman said, tattoo ink painted across her face in bold strokes, “You’ll find yourself courted by half the folk of the clans.” Gisela’s face burned and she mumbled her gratitude. The whisper of a breeze against the back of her neck alerted her to the presence of someone behind her.

“I hope they will not be too disappointed when she declines,” Ondolemar said, making himself known. Part of Gisela balked at him speaking for her in such a manner, another part writhed in delight as his possessiveness.

“I’m a city girl through and through,” Gisela added with a small grin, “Camping doesn’t agree with my back.” The old woman laughed, teasing her about her frailness. Gisela wasn’t offended, leaning forward against her cane. She was getting ideas.

Chapter Text

The energy in the camp grew more fervent as the sun sank towards the horizon. Kegs of mead and ale were tapped and tankards filled the moment it kissed the mountains. It was preemptive perhaps, the celebration. An excitement that was growing like the humming of the bees whose honey made the mead they drank. Gisela even had a tankard, though she preferred other beverages, and kept her sips small and infrequent to keep her head clear. She was in the thick of things, perched on a section of log that someone had brought for her. The promise of calmer times ahead may have been just that, a promise, but it was enough for a people who desired to live peacefully on their own ancestral lands.

“We did this,” Gisela said to Ondolemar, over her shoulder as he stood behind her. Her expression was soft as she watched the celebration around them, “We gave them this hope.”

“Hope does not stop wars or age-old grudges,” Ondolemar reminded her, keeping himself realistic.

“No,” She agreed, “It can’t bring back those who were lost or bind wounds, but it heals the soul and keeps us from giving up in the face of adversary.” Ondolemar smiled, basking in her wisdom and her compassion.

“True,” He said eventually.

“Besides,” Gisela continued, “It gives us a good excuse to party. Much better than that stuffy thing Elenwen hosted.” She sipped her mead, shuddering at the alcohol’s strength.

“They only start out that way,” Ondolemar said, “There is a good reason that Razelan is not allowed to drink when he attends. Besides, once everyone has imbued at least some wine, people say things that they might later regret.” Gisela’s eyebrows wrinkled as she considered that. Then she slumped.

“Damn,” She swore, “And if we commit treason against the Thalmor, I’ll never get to see it!” Ondolemar thought it was adorable that she considered herself one of them to the point that she even could commit treason. She was only a citizen of Skyrim and the Empire on a technicality. That loyalty to the people that she considered ‘hers’ flagged his justiciar training as a weakness ripe for exploitation, but to be one of her people made his chest warm and tighten in turn.

“If?” He questioned, “I already have.” Their conversation ended abruptly as a dirt encrusted child ran up, presenting Gisela with a small fistful of mountain flowers. The child said nothing to either of them, sprinting away with shrieks of delight as the other children pursued. Gisela smiled, corners of her eyes wrinkling, as she tucked the flowers into a pocket sewn onto the breast of her apron dress.

Ondolemar berated himself for not noticing anyone approaching them. He knew not all the clans wanted peace, nor truce. The bloody Reach was not just nord propaganda, some of the nastier clans would likely delight in the chance to point the finger at Gisela for the loss of their war. The Forsworn with an axe to grind, who were not ready to drop their crusade. His human’s outspoken ways had already earned her political enemies. Who knew when they would start sending assassins?

“Hey, none of that,” Gisela’s voice pulled him from his musings, “Worry later, okay? It’s a party.” Her smile was a balm on his soul in that moment, but he couldn’t shelve his concerns entirely. She is simply too high profile for that. But for now, he could focus his efforts elsewhere. Just for the night.

The music was in full swing, booming through the valley. Combined with the sounds of conversation, laughter, singing, and the waterfalls, it was difficult to hear anything. Queyan had assured Ondolemar that she too had placed herself in the mindset of an undercover bodyguard for their free-spirited human. She’d also brought him food and wine, the wine being no better than vinegar but weak enough to keep his head clear if he drank sparingly.

His charge was engaged in loud conversation, her cheeks flushed from drink but her eyes were bright. Ondolemar had lost the plot of their discussion some time ago, both she and the reachman she was talking to following a trail of quickly changing topics and leaps of logic that he could not follow.

“That reminds me of-,” The man said, which set them both going on about something new. It was dizzying, truly. Ondolemar had no idea what was going on in their minds, nor was he sure how any of the topics were related. Gisela had explained her thought processes once, how there was a connection, but how they happened quickly enough that “normal people” might not realize how many steps were skipped.

Gisela’s fingers brushed over the wilting flowers slumped across her chest. Her fingertips began to glow softly with a pale green light, the flower petals perking up and stems firming again under her touch. She didn’t seem to be aware that she had even done it, acting only on instinct. Ondolemar felt his chest warm, and a twist in his belly. Her cheerful demeanor, that youthful energy and stubborn determination to dig through the rot and shit in the world to find the good within. He was too old, too jaded, for such things. But like her magic did to the flowers, it felt like she was bringing him back to life.

“Ondolemar,” Gisela said, her eyes shining in the firelight, “No worrying!” Her ears were red, as was the rest of her face, but her ears most of all. She looked so vibrant.

“I did promise,” Ondolemar said agreeably. His heart tugged him towards her when she smiled. He couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn to her mouth. She laughed and threw back her head to sing to the melody the musically inclined reachfolk were playing.

“Sing!” Someone called, and Gisela lit up. The air around her was suddenly alive with magic, the sound of strings. It kept a rhythm that she sang to, strumming and slapping, before she added a second, deeper string instrument.

I’m missing all those summer nights

Running with the fireflies

Dancin’ in the rain, countin’ every single plane

That’s flying by

The musicians had paused, listening instead to Gisela. She’d stood up, and Ondolemar offered her his had as support when she went to climb onto the stump. She was sparkling, the magicka wrapping around her like a cloak.

It’s not a place you go to

It’s more a place you travel through

It doesn’t look like much, but it’s way more than enough

It fits me right

Another instrument joined the assortment, then another. The piano she had shared before, and a drum beat.

And you can take me far away

But you can never take this part of me

You can take me far away

But some things never change

With a flare of drumbeats, it all went silent, then picked up together in a swell. Gisela squeezed his hand as the wind pulled at her hair. She was shining as she sang.

When I see clouds, I see faces

When I see roads, I see places where we could go

When I meet strangers, I say “hello”

I come from where the wild wildflowers grow

When I hear thunder, I sing along

‘Cause I’m the daughter of where I’m from

A starlit sky will always guide me home

I come from where the wild wildflowers grow

The musical accompaniment fell away to the strings and drums, the metallic percussion of a tambourine.

I miss my parents’ living room

A little mud under my shoes

And though I’m feelin’ blessed, I get weary in my chest

From time to time

When she reached the bridge, the piano rejoined the sounds ringing out over the crowd. The magic felt like a warm breeze over his skin. Ondolemar couldn’t look away from her.

And you can take me far away

But you can never take this part of me

You can take me far away

But some things never change

When I see clouds, I see faces

When I see roads, I see places where we could go

When I meet strangers, I say “hello”

I come from where the wild wildflowers grow

When I hear thunder, I sing along

‘Cause I’m the daughter of where I’m from

A starlit sky will always guide me home

I come from where the wild wildflowers grow

The buzzing sound of an electricity based instrument hummed the melody she had sung in the beginning.s

I come from where the wild wildflowers grow

The music faded, leaving only Gisela’s voice. The magic still saturating the air, making her shimmer.

When I see clouds, I see faces

When I see roads, I see places where we could go

When I meet strangers, I say “hello”

I come from where the wild wildflowers grow

The song ended to cheers and toasts. Shouted compliments blended into each other, but Ondolemar had eyes only for her. It seemed like Gisela felt the same, looking down at him from her perch, lips parted as she caught her breath.

She was taller than him like this, Ondolemar realized, though only a little. He was still holding her hand. He loosened his grip, but she didn’t let go. Instead she placed her other hand on his shoulder so they faced each other fully. Gisela’s eyes locked on to his with such an intensity that he couldn’t look away.

“Kiss me you fool,” She told him, before pulling him bodily towards herself and pressing her lips against his.

Chapter Text

She’d broken him. Gisela didn’t regret her impulsive decision, despite the hooting and hollering of the people around them. She’d kissed Ondolemar, she’d gotten drunk, tossed her inhibitions out the window, and kissed him. His eyes had gone wide, mouth agape slightly as he processed what she had done. While she was still a few inches taller, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tucked her face into the crook of his neck.

“I got tired of waiting,” She mumbled, still self-aware enough to realize that maybe her timing was… Poor. Ondolemar slowly lifted her arms to hug her back.

“Oh,” He said, and nothing else. Gisela lifted her eyes to see that while most reachfolk had already tired of the spectacle she’d made of herself, Queyan simply smiled and nodded. Well, that’s one person who approves of the situation that she created. Gisela drew back, meeting Ondolemar’s eyes.

“I’m not sorry I kissed you,” She told him quietly. His eyes searched hers then, looking for any signs of insincerity, “I’ve wanted to for a long time.” Ondolemar took a deep breath and he pulled her in tight again.

“So have I,” He confessed, his breath tickling her ear, “But you deserve better than me.” Gisela tried to pull away again, but he held on.

“Stop that,” She hissed at him, “Don’t say things like that.”

“I am too old for you,” Ondolemar said, voice weary, “I have done such horrid things.”

“Hush,” Gisela said, pressing another soft kiss to his cheek, silvery stubble rough under her lips, “Logic later.” Ondolemar’s breath puffed as he huffed a laugh into her neck.

“Will I be able to convince you later?” He asked, quiet but amused by his tone of voice.

“Probably not,” Gisela said, moving so that their foreheads pressed against each other’s. She closed her eyes and relished the closeness and warmth of his body. The scent of his skin. Her heart fluttered in delight, jumping with the butterflies in her stomach.

“You deserve better,” Ondolemar tried again, a whisper.

“Mister Sandman,” Gisela sang to him, slowly and quietly, just for him, “Bring me a dream, make him the cutest, that I’ve ever seen. Give him two lips, like roses and clover. And tell him that his lonely nights are over.” Ondolemar laughed again, a low sound in his chest that made heat sink into her belly.

“And I am he?” Ondolemar asked, less self-flagellating and more entertained by her antics.

“I dunno, do you want to be?” Gisela asked. She leaned forward a little, head tilted slightly. An invitation. Ondolemar accepted after a moment, gently pressing a kiss to her lips. A soft, chaste kiss, that made Gisela want to squeal and wriggle about like an overexcited ferret.

“I would like to be,” Ondolemar murmured against her mouth.

“I’m glad,” Gisela said, quiet but firm. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He wrapped his fingers around her generous waist and braced his elbows at his sides before lifting her down from the stump she’d been standing on. She leaned on him when her feet touched the ground, not for a lack of stability, but for the closeness. His arms were around her again, and she felt safer for it.

“Are you sure?” Ondolemar asked hesitantly. Poor guy thought so badly of him self, didn’t he? She’d need to work on that. Gisela’s fingers found his side and she pinched him viciously until he flinched.

“Yes!” She hissed at him, “So what if you’re not a good person? You’re making the choice and effort to be better! You’ve identified what parts of yourself you want to improve and taking the steps to do so!” She hugged him around the middle and squeezed him tightly. “In this story, there is a character who asks, ‘What is better, do be born good? Or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?’ You can’t help how you were raised.”

“I-,” Ondolemar said, cutting himself off suddenly, “Thank you.”

“So you’re a fixer-upper,” Gisela continued, “So am I.” She looked up at him, feeling especially small from where her face tucked against his sternum. He smiled, his face soft and the tension gone from the line of his shoulders.

“I suppose we are both imperfect?” Ondolemar teased.

“We can be imperfect together.” Gisela replied.

The night wound down slowly, people succumbing to sleep by choice or drink. People disappearing into tents with their families, or their lovers. Gisela had sung herself hoarse with the others, the songs of the Reach that she had learned and was still learning. Ondolemar stayed by her side all night, as he had done before. Now, though, the invisible barrier was gone. Gisela pressed herself into his side and he relaxed against her instead of tensing. His arm rested over her shoulders, tucking her closer into his warmth.

“Finally,” Queyan said, when she brought tea and wine to the two of them. Gisela was embarrassed, but when Ondolemar’s grip tightened, any retort she was about to make vanished from her throat. It set a flame in her belly, one that sent the butterflies in her stomach aflutter.

“Is that sass I hear?” Ondolemar asked, a mild yet warning undercurrent to his tone. Queyan only smiled at them, self-satisfied and smug as the cat that got the canary. Gisela laughed. Good to know that she wasn’t the only one tired of the wait.

“Thank you for your blessing, Queyan,” Gisela croaked, interrupting whatever power-play her friend and her… Boyfriend…? Were starting. Were boyfriends a thing in Tamriel? Were they called suitors? Gisela makes a mental note to speak with Ondolemar to figure out what vocabulary she should use for their relationship. Or in general. She swallowed and rubbed at her sore throat.

“You sound terrible,” Queyan said bluntly, “Drink your tea.” Gisela obeyed without question, taking a sip of her hot leaf juice. It was the perfect temperature, and the mug bled heat into her freezing hands. She rasped her thanks, voice already smoother for the drink. Gisela already knew she was going to sound horrid tomorrow, and possibly a few days afterward.

“Worth it,” Gisela said hoarsely, muffled by the mug. The steam fogged up her glasses, and made it impossible to see what she just knew was a look being exchanged between the two mer. Spend enough time with the same people and you start to become the same people.

“Thank you, Queyan,” Ondolemar sighed as Gisela used her woolen cloak to wipe the steam from her glasses, “I see now that I was not as subtle as I had previously hoped.”

“Aicantar owes me 5 gold septims,” Queyan said in lieu of an answer, obviously pleased with the outcome. Gisela was both surprised and not surprised that her friends were betting on them.

“What did you bet on?” Gisela asked in a croak, missing a few syllables with the ache in her throat.

“Whether or not alcohol would be involved in the confession,” Queyan replied. Gisela blinked. That was… Fair.

“Oh,” She said with a shrug, the sound barely audible. Granted, that had been a few hours ago and she had sobered up since then. The liquid courage did help.

“Queyan,” Ondolemar began, ready to deliver some kind of scolding, before Gisela elbowed him in the ribs. The air left him in a ‘whoosh’, and he raised a questioning brow at her.

“Let them have their fun,” Gisela said huskily, “I was getting sick of the pining too.” She took a long soothing drink of her tea.

“...I see,” He said, “At least my subordinate won the bet, I taught her well it seems.” Queyan laughed, an airy sound.

“My pleasure, Ser,” Queyan said, bowing with a flourish. Gisela barked a laugh that turned quickly into a cough as she choked on her tea. Both mer patted her back while she wheezed swears and oaths that would have turned heads had they not been used to her by now.

Chapter Text

Early-Bird-No-Worm was tired. He was a sneakthief, a pick pocket, not hero material. But he was the Dragonborn, a legend of Nordic mythology. A deity in mortal skin. And that meant working with the Blades, ancient dragon slayers and protectors of the dragon-blooded emperors, to figure out how to defeat Alduin. Getting out of Riften left he and his companions bloody, and he in particular now possessed fewer feathers than he’d had when he’d arrived. At least the old nord got along well with Lucien. He also got on well with Kaidan, a massive bulwark of a man with an Akaviri heirloom that he had rescued, and a grudge against the Thalmor larger than Tamriel.

They trudged into Riverwood to the background chatter of the two scholars, Inigo offering the weary argonian a comforting pat on the back. Bird was not looking forward to seeing Delphine again. She was imperious, she talked about how the Blades were meant to serve the Dragonborn, but she ordered him around as easily as breathing. Despite the near-extinction of the order, she still acted like a Grandmaster, it didn’t matter to her that she had no Blades to command.

“Well, now that we have a Blades’ loremaster,” Inigo offered, “We’re that much closer to killing Alduin.” Bird heaved a loud sigh, but nodded regardless.

“And you won’t have to deal with Delphine again,” Kaidan added, having been informed prior to Bird’s dislike.

“I look forward to it,” Bird said flatly.

He pushed open the door to the Sleeping Giant, ready to shed his gear and rest for a while. Away from the pomp and circumstance that came with a title as heavy as his. He, Inigo, Lucien, and Kaidan stood back quietly while Delphine and Esbern had their tearful reunion. Bird lowered his feathers and spines, silently dreading the moment they turned to him.

“Well, you made it safe and sound, good,” He heard Delphine say, “I have a place we can talk. Orgnar, hold down the bar for a minute, will you?” As if it wasn’t suspicious for a group of six in a small settlement to disappear into a single room in the inn for an extended period of time. Still, he followed dutifully, his friends with him. It wasn’t like the entire village didn’t already know who exactly he was. The gilded cloak beneath which the thief hid.

The moment the door hidden in the closet closed, Delphine opened her mouth to speak. Only to be barreled over in conversation like she was struck by a giant’s club.

“So, do you know–.”

“Oh yes, Dragonborn, indeed,” Esbern said, “Yes, this changes everything of course. There’s no time to lose.” The old nord began rummaging through his satchel and pulling out the books he had taken from his hole in the Ratway. “We must locate – let me show you – I know I had it here somewhere.”

“Esbern,” Delphine groan, already looking drained by the chatter. Bird knew the feeling all too well, a scholar on an educational tangent. “What–?”

“Give me just a moment. Ah! Here it is,” The nord said, before triumphantly pulling out a very old looking tome, flipping quickly but carefully through the pages. Lucien drew closer, craning his neck to look. “You see right here, Sky Haven Temple! Constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps during the conquest of Skyrim.”

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Delphine asked the room at large. She was ignored, Lucien and Kaidan focused on the book and Bird and Inigo not needing to feign their own fascination. Besides, the latter two were all too used to the scorn of a scholar interrupted.

“Shh!” Esbern shushed, before returning to his impromptu lecture, “This is where they built Alduin’s Wall, where they wrote down and stored all their accumulated dragonlore. A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries. A wise and foresighted policy, in the event. Despite the far-reaching fame of Alduin’s Wall at the time, one of the wonders of the ancient world, the location was lost.” Esbern stepped away from the book, allowing both Lucien and Kaidan to step closer and carefully look over the book’s worn pages.

“Esbern,” Delphine tried again, “What are you getting at?”

“You mean–,” The old nord started, “You don’t mean to say you haven’t heard of Alduin’s Wall? Any of you?”

“I have,” Lucien replied, not looking up, “In passing. I only know that it exists. But what I think Esbern is trying to say is that the ancient Blades knew more than just the prophecy of the Dragonborn. And if they recorded all of their dragonlore in Alduin’s Wall...”

“They must have written down everything they knew about it.” Kaidan finished Lucien’s thought aloud.

“Indeed!” Esbern said, delighted to have others capable of following along with his theory.

“But the location is lost,” Bird pointed out, “You said so yourself.”

“Not lost,” Esbern replied with a broad grin, flat teeth showing in his happiness, “Just forgotten. The Blades’ archives held so many secrets, I was only able to save a few scraps. One of those scraps was the location of Alduin’s Wall.” Lucien’s eyes went wide, sparkling with scholarly delight. It was a sight that Bird had started to enjoy. The happiness in the people close to him, particularly.

“So you think that Alduin’s Wall holds the key to defeating Alduin for good?” Delphine asked, the last to reach the obvious conclusion to the lecture.

“Well, yes.” Esbern said, making it clear that it was obvious. “But there’s no guarantee, of course.”

“Sky Haven Temple it is, then,” Delphine declared, ever the leader. “I knew you’d have something for us Esbern.” The man in question visibly preened, and Bird didn’t doubt that this was the friendliest conversation he’d had in decades. Then Delphine turned to him. “I know the area of the Reach that Esbern’s talking about, near what’s now known as Karthspire, in the Karth River Canyon. Are we meeting you there, or traveling together?”

The Reach. Where Markarth was, and the ever shining foreigner from another world. He knew that High Justiciar Ondolemar had promised that he was safe from Thalmor influence there, but Bird didn’t know if the mer extended that same courtesy to the Blades. Perhaps his presence would make it safer for them.

“Together,” Bird decided out loud, “The Thalmor of the Reach and I have a truce. You won’t be bothered if you’re with me.”

Both Blades and Kaidan turned to look at him in undisguised shock.

“A truce? With the Thalmor?” Kaidan asked, dumbfounded and slightly betrayed.

“There’s a woman in Markarth,” Inigo explained, “She’s under the protection of the High Justiciar. She’s somehow convinced them to basically commit treason by allowing us to move freely in the Reach. Even though the Ambassador is calling for our friend’s head.”

“Don’t be mad with me for not believing that,” Kaidan said, his brows furrowing tightly as his frowned. Bird was well versed in the facial language of flat-faced races at this point, “What could convince a High Justiciar to turn their back on their orders? Just a woman?”

“Not just any woman,” Lucien chimed in, “A woman from outside the Void. Have you heard the rumors?” Slowly, the three nodded. “Well, they’re true, or at least she seems to be legitimate. She’s got an incredible perspective of the whole wars and treaties thing by the way, a very charming lady. She’s even working as an advisor in the Jarl’s Court. Perhaps we can stop by and say hello.” Kaidan tensed visibly.

“We don’t have to!” Bird added quickly, watching as the man’s shoulder’s relaxed, “If you don’t want to risk their attention then we won’t. I think you would like Gisela, the woman. She’s very kind, friendly, knows a lot of stories and songs.”

“Perhaps,” Kaidan said, “I’ll think on it.”

“Regardless,” Bird continued, “High Justiciar Ondolemar assured us that he and his subordinates would do what they could to make it easier for me to battle the dragons, at least in the territories under his command. He made no promises for Haafingar, and the First Emissary herself sent the agents that came for us in Riften. At the very least, he’s prevented the orders for my capture to be spread.” Kaidan still looked uneasy, but he nodded his acceptance.

“Even without having to worry about the Thalmor, we still have the Forsworn to deal with,” Delphine pointed out.

“Then we deal with them as we go.”

They spent that day and the next resting and collecting some supplies for their journey. The nag that Bird had purchased some time ago, an old silvery gelding that came with the name Heimdall, was laden with provisions that one would not be able to find on the road to the Reach. They planned to all travel north to Whiterun, and take a carriage to Markarth. From there, they would walk to Karthspire. Bird wondered to himself whether or not he should pay the Keep a visit, and before or after they went to Alduin’s Wall.

Inigo used his charms in Whiterun to convince the lead carriage driver to give them a discount in exchange for acting as protection for the caravan. For the journey, it meant sleeping in shifts and fending off any bandits that thought the wagons and people easy pickings. Bird himself fought the urge to give in to his instincts, the inner dragon that grew in potency the more souls he consumed. It wanted him to use his voice, the thuum, to utterly dominate those who dared to attack him and his. But he didn’t want the attention, even if his soul purred at the near worship he received from the nords who knew who he was. Especially those from Whiterun, where he was best known.

Once they passed the checkpoint into the Reach, attacks dropped to nothing. No bandits set up camp in Forsworn territory, but there were no raids either. There were sightings, movement on ridges, but no arrows rained from the sky. No battle cries, no attempts at extortion. Were they viewed as too risky for a raid? Or was something else at play? Bird hadn’t lived as long as he had from being complacent, and something in his scales and spines said that there was more to the situation than could be viewed from the surface. Still, commonfolk on the caravan, and the drivers grew more relaxed as the days went by without trouble. Bird expressed his concerns to his friends, and to the Blades. They all agreed with his judgment. Something was afoot.

The caravan reached its destination with no difficulty, and Bird untied Heimdall’s lead from the wagon they’d ridden in. They all parted with the agreement to resupply quickly and set out for Karthspire that day. Bird didn’t tell them until after they’d left Markarth that he took the opportunity to send Gisela a note. He assured them that he was vague, only telling the woman that he had Dragonborn business in the Reach and that he hoped he’d have the opportunity to visit once it concluded.

“She has Thalmor looking over her shoulder!” Kaidan seethed, understandably distressed considering what the Thalmor had put him through.

“They still have spies that know my face,” Bird reasoned, “They would know I’m here regardless. Telling them it’s about this Oblivion-damned quest we’re on is a sign to either help us or to leave us alone!” It stung when Kaidan kept his distance for the journey to the canyon, but Bird understood. It was a slap in the face, knowing that your friend and savior, the person holding your life debt, had an agreement with the enemy.

However, nothing could have prepared them for what they found approaching the Spire. A large wooden sign posted a good distance from the camp, offering sanctuary for the Dragonborn and his allies.

Chapter Text

Kaidan watched as Early-Bird-No-Worm inspected the sign closely, and pondered the strange happenings that had occurred since they arrived in the Reach. First, the Forsworn that had previously delighted in raiding nord caravans had watched, but not attacked. Second, the wooden sign posted near an ancient stone bridge, that promised safety for the Dragonborn and their companions. He knew, they all knew, that something was missing. The question now was what?

“Ho!” A voice rang out, startling the lot of them into drawing their weapons, “Hold your blades, we mean no harm!” From behind a rocky outcropping, several Forsworn stepped out. They were armed, but their weapons were stowed. They had no intention of fighting, that much was obvious. Kaidan gently brought the string of his war bow to rest, stowing the arrow in his quiver, but didn’t completely relax.

“You’re the Dragonborn, aren’t you?” One of the Forsworn asked Bird, “Brennan said you might come by, something about the ruins inside the mountain.”

“Yes,” Bird said slowly, his body looked relaxed but to a trained eye like Kaidan’s, he was wound tight and ready to battle at a moment’s notice. “I do not know this Brennan. How did you know I might come for the ruin?” A woman elbowed the man who had spoken before.

“He doesn’t know,” She said, and Kaidan resisted the impulse to bristle, “There was a conference held, a gathering of the clans. The otherworlder spoke of your quest there, between the peace talks. She asked everyone to assist you. After all, if that World-Eater wins, we won’t have a Reach to be the people of.” The Forsworn woman laughed, a genuine one from her chest. “The chieftan will want to meet you. Come.” And she turned with confident steps towards the camp.

“What if it’s a trap?” Kaidan asked Bird under his breath, watching as the entire scouting party turned their backs with ease.

“They mentioned Gisela by title,” Bird replied, voice low and steady, “And I would not be surprised if she somehow managed to extend her influence.” Then to the group at large, “We follow, but be cautious. Do not show our hosts disrespect.” And he walked towards the camp.

Kaidan had fought Forsworn before, but he’d never seen a village when not under attack. It was alive with activity. Men and women and children and dogs, living lives that seemed on the outside to be similar to small argonian villages in Blackmarsh. They had great stone carved pots with fires built around the sides to cook food. Crafters worked on their crafts, and parents cared for their children. The reachwoman leading them and their other guides greeted the people they passed by name.

“You’re tall.” A child told him frankly, and Kaidan would deny his surprise for the rest of his life.

“And you’re very small,” He told the kid, noting with some surprise that the child had features that were almost elven in appearance. The child ran off when their mother called.

They were led to a tent higher up on the Spire, one larger and more ornate than any other. The woman asked them to wait outside until called in, then ducked under the hide ‘door’. It hadn’t been very long before she stepped out with a smile. “Chief Yldren will see you now.”

Bird nodded his thanks, then stepped through the entryway. Kaidan followed just behind him, ready to defend the argonian at a moment’s notice. The tent was decorated with furs and bone and pottery, carved beads and feathers on cords hung from the roof and lanterns gave the space a cozy glow. Sitting on the floor, on a furry cushion with a pipe in hand, was a man wearing a ceremonial looking helm made from sabercat skull. His face was inked in Reach custom. Behind him, with crossed arms, stood a fearsome looking warrior, tall and slightly gold-hued with the smallest of points on the tips of his ears. The gaping hole in his chest was proof that he was a briarheart, though the green herb sprigs pressed into it was not a behavior Kaidan recognized.

“Welcome, Dragonborn,” The seated man said, “I am Yldren, chief of the River’s Tooth Clan. This,” He gestured to his bodyguard, “Is Morvoch. Be seated, friends, I have been hoping I would have a chance to meet you.” They sat, watching Chief Yldren puff on his pipe, the air thick with the scent of tobacco and peppermint.

“I erect the spines of gratitude,” Bird offered in turn, sitting down. All but Kaidan sat, and it became clear that he was acting in the same role that Morvoch was. The briarheart met his cautious stare with a small smile and nod of acknowledgment.

“No need for such formality,” The chief laughed, “You are an honored guest.”

“Then if I may be so bold,” Bird said, “Who is Brennan and how does he know the otherworlder?”

“Brennan is one of mine,” Yldren said, “I was told that she had been talking to members of various clans regarding your quest, and asking that we of the Reach let you be. The Dragonborn is a hero in nord legend, yes, but the return of the dragons has far reaching consequences. It is not only the nords who are affected.”

“And how did you come to expect us?” Delphine interrupted.

“The otherworlder said that the Dragonborn was working with the Blades. That the Blades had always existed to serve Dragonborn. Brennan remembered the dragon burial mound nearby, and the strange ruins within the Spire. It is locked to us, it always has been, but he suspected it might have something to do with the past efforts to remove the power of the dragons in Skyrim. The otherworlder told him that if it was a relic of the Blades, that the Dragonborn would likely seek it.” Yldren was not visibly bothered by the breton woman’s disrespect, even though Bird tensed. Kaidan had come to understand why the argonian didn’t like her.

“This otherworlder knows a lot, more than she should,” Delphine said, turning a narrow eyed stare at Bird. Kaidan did bristle then, but Bird held up a hand and he stopped.

“When Inigo, Lucien, and I visited Gisela in Markarth, we told her about our adventures. The woman is curious, she loves stories, she’s also quite clever. The Blades were mentioned, in that they suspected the Thalmor of knowing about the dragons. She must have sought to learn more. I suspect you would like her, Esbern.”

“Ah yes, Thalmor,” The chief mused, “They escorted her to the gathering. Not in any official capacity mind you, but as her supporters. They have some marvelous plans, if I do say so myself. To undermine the nords’ war and strengthen the Reach. Morvoch, you actually met them both. What did you think of the otherworlder and her elf?” Kaidan was curious, in spite of himself. This strange woman’s reach was surprisingly far and diverse.

“She is very kind, soft hearted. It would be a great weakness, had she not her protector,” The briarheart said, his voice a low rumble, “I was tasked with her safety when the time came for her to bargain with hagravens.” Bird, Inigo, and Lucien all tensed at that. “I would offer to protect her, should I be given the chance again. She is the one who suggested the mint,” Morvoch gestured at the cavity in his chest, “To keep the pests out.” Kaidan couldn’t help a chuckle, and he swore the elf-blooded man’s tar pit eyes flicked towards him.

“She is alright?” Inigo asked.

“The hags did not harm her,” Morvoch assured them, “The exchange was decided and agreed upon. All involved were satisfied… You came up in the conversation too, in fact.” He looked at Bird.

“How so?”

“She invoked many powers to learn your future.” Kaidan’s heart sank, of course the otherworlder woman was a witch. “She foretold travel, of treasures and dangers alike deep in the dark. Of a great battle, and a crown made of bone.”

“The Jagged Crown?” Esbern asked, bewildered. The briarheart shrugged.

“I know not. She insists that you will succeed. Gisela believes in you, Dragonborn. And she begged the Reach to believe in you too.” Bird’s shoulders sank by fractions of a finger-width. Kaidan knew that Bird despised the weight of his title.

“I knew she could cast spells,” Bird said, “But fortune-telling is new. I suppose a visit is in my future.” There was a slight puff of Bird’s feathered crest, and the tip of his tail twitched once. Twice. He found something amusing, probably the joke he’d made. Kaidan wasn’t looking forward to it personally.

“I do think she has much to share with you,” The chieftain said with a smug look, “There have been many recent development in both your lives, it seems.”

When the pleasantries and conversation ended, Chief Yldren sent them with Illia, the woman who had escorted them to the camp in the first place. She gave them a bright, crooked toothed grin, and led the way into the Spire.

“I hope he didn’t tease you too much,” Illia said cheerfully, “He likes to act mysterious and all, especially with strangers. He’s a bit like everyone’s grandfather here.”

“He knows more than he said,” Delphine said, a bit grumpy after the meeting. She didn’t seem pleased to hear about any kind of Thalmor colluding, even in unofficial capacity, with the reachfolk.

“Chief must have been awfully smug then,” Illia laughed, “He always is when he’s holding gossip close to his chest.” They walked through the stone ruins, which Esbern confirmed to be Akaviri in origin, until they reached a dead end with several stone columns. The kind that tended to rotate. Lucien and Esbern lit up.

“These pillars must have something to do with that bridge.” Delphine said.

“They do,” Illia confirmed, “We know how to open the bridge, but the way beyond is trapped. We keep the bridge up to prevent children from wandering in.”

“The symbols are Akaviri.” Esbern pointed out, once again in lecture mode as Illia turned the columns. “That one is the symbol for ‘Dragonborn’. The others stand for ‘king’ and ‘war’.” When all the columns displayed the Dragonborn symbol, the mechanism groaned to life and the bridge lowered.

“It worked,” Delphine seemed impressed.

“If this fortification was built when the Blades followed a dragonslayer, it makes sense,” Bird pointed out.

The room that led to was covered with floor plates, placed too closely together to step in between. “This is the trap,” Illia said, “I’m told it’s a fire trap, I’ve never seen it go off but none of us ever got past it.” Indeed, there were ancient corpses some ways in, burnt to cinders.

“The symbols on the floor,” Esbern pointed out. Kaidan looked, and it was same symbols from the columns.

“If the key was Dragonborn before, would it not still be Dragonborn?” Inigo asked. Everyone looked at each other warily, trying to decide who should be the one to try it.

“I’ll go,” Bird sighed at last, “Just be ready to extinguish me, Lucien.”

“Right-o!”

And Bird placed a careful foot on the plate with the Dragonborn symbol on it. The plate creaked at it sank, and a collective sigh of relief was exhaled when nothing happened. The further along Bird crept, the tenser the audience got, until he tugged on the chain across the far room and all the plate sank.

“I think it’s safe,” Illia said, stepping on a ‘king’ plate. Nothing happened. “It’s safe.” They followed the slope up, climbing deeper into the Spire until they reached what must have been the peak. A huge natural cavern, roof open to the sky. The natural light illuminated a massive face carved into the far wall, and a series of circles engraved into the floor. Kaidan thought it was a little spooky.

“Wonderful,” Esbern breathed, walking ahead, “Remarkably well preserved… Look, here’s the blood seal. Another of the lost Akaviri arts. No doubt it’s trigger by, well, blood. Your blood, Dragonborn.” Bird slumped again as Esbern continued on his lecture spree, pointing out the massive head as Reman Cyrodil.

As the old nord talked, Kaidan watched Bird draw a small dagger from his thigh, and roll his sleeve up. Lucien was quick to join him with a healing spell when Bird made a slice across the meat of his forearm, letting the blood drip down into the center of the seal. The moment the first drops splattered onto the stone, it lit up with magic and the disc and rings of began to rotate.

“Esbern, look!” Delphine gasped, “It’s coming to life!” The visage of Reman Cyrodil lifted inwards, revealing a long series of stairs carved into the mountain. “You did it, the entrance. After you, Dragonborn.” Kaidan looked at his friend, his leader, who stood with a stony face and took a proffered torch from Inigo. Then he turned to face the Temple and led the way up into the dark.

Chapter Text

Gisela was terribly excited to receive word from Early-Bird-No-Worm, the argonian legend of Nordic mythology, that morning. She kept much of the lizard’s secrets, though Queyan suspected she knew more than she let on, and simply passed on the word that he was in the Reach on Dragonborn business. Queyan, as Ondolemar’s second-in-command, learned of arrival in the city shortly before Gisela did, and details about his companions as well. She was also aware of dragons in the area, and kept track of the sightings in case the Dragonborn came. Queyan allowed herself a slight smile at her internal pun.

When she reported the details of the Dragonborn’s group to her superior, it was easy to read Gisela’s reaction from the corner of her eye. Ondolemar followed her gaze, and watched the woman tense slightly. Queyan raised her brow, Ondolemar gave a slight shake of his head. Gisela knew something, but Queyan did not have the authorization to know. Not yet. It stung a little, to be left out. As sentimental, possibly pathetic, as it was, she wished that Gisela would confide in her.

“Is there anything else you need?” She asked Ondolemar, waiting to be dismissed to continue her duties.

“I think we should tell her,” Gisela said, “She deserves to know.” Ondolemar’s shoulders fell, not out of disappointment but out of weariness.

“I will not stop you if that it what you want,” He told her, then turned to look Queyan in the eye, “Knowledge is a heavy burden. Once you know, you will never be able to un-know.” The way Ondolemar said it filled Queyan with a sense of dread, but she didn’t want to back down.

“Does this have to do with the secrets that you have been keeping from me all this time?” She asked instead of committing to a decision. Gisela’s answering nod only hardened her nerves. “Then I want to know.”

And Gisela talked. And she talked. She spoke of the past, of legends and choices and branches of fate, of a story where you can decide how the pieces fall. She told Queyan of a future that could come to pass. And as Queyan’s heart sank low in her belly, she understood why Ondolemar warned her the way he did.

“This is why you know so much about the prophecy?” She asked.

“Yes, and why it’s so important that Bird succeeds. Alduin is real, he’s back, and if he’s not stopped he’ll devour everything,” Gisela said, stressing the last word, “And when the Summit is called, we evacuate from the Reach, in case it is handed over to Stormcloak. If the story goes as it is meant to, Ondolemar will be killed, and I refuse to let that happen.”

“It won’t,” Ondolemar assured them both, “We have warning enough that it is possible. Besides, I intend to go to this Summit myself. I will order an exodus from the Reach the moment it happens, if it happens.”

“Right, right,” Gisela said, smoothing her clothes out in a nervous fidget, “Butterflies and ripples and all that. Things are different now.” Queyan sat down next to Gisela, watching her anxious tics grow more intense.

“Go to the Summit,” Queyan suggested, “The both of you. You can represent the Reach itself, rather than the Empire or Rebellion. Fight for it.” Gisela’s misted over eyes snapped to her, stress visible in every joint and limb.

“I–,” Gisela started, voice cracking as she fought the spiraling anxiety. She swallowed and tried again, “I can ask Bird if he’ll let me. When the time comes. He has so much to do still.”

“What does he need to do?” Queyan asked, planning her own participation in the current scheme. She’d already assigned agents to plant evidence in various places within the Silver-Blood properties, she could assign more for the sake of the Dragonborn. Akatosh’s – Auri-El’s – chosen. Gisela took a fortifying breath and began to explain. And Queyan plotted. Ondolemar met her thoughtful gaze with a knowing smile. He knew her so well after all these years.

“Travel,” Gisela said, a wobbly smile on her own face, “First to the Greybeards, then to the College of Winterhold. From there, he needs to go to a Dwemer ruin, then back to the Greybeards. It’s a lot.” Queyan huffed.

“‘A lot’,” She said, “That is putting it lightly. If he stops by before he leaves the Reach, then perhaps we should offer him mounts, to help reduce the time it takes to travel. I’ve already set the pieces in place for our first scheme, I have some time to prepare another.” Gisela laughed, and her nervous disposition eased.

“Thanks,” Gisela wiped at her eyes, “I’m going to enjoy having you in the loop.” Queyan ignored the turn of phrase, as she usually did when the woman made such foreign statements.

“Of course, your beloved would not be half as efficient without me carrying out the necessary preparations.” Queyan replied haughtily. Ondolemar scoffed, but she ignored her superior. He also didn’t say anything contradictory.

“So, the Silver-Bloods?” Gisela asked, clearly seizing a distraction from her nerves with both hands.

“Evidence has been planted and whispers placed in the right ears. In a week or so, we will be ready to inform the Jarl. Do you want to be the one to tell him?” Gisela jolted.

“Me?”

“Of course, you have been speaking with Thanes and members of the Court outside of designated meetings. You are known to do so. It only makes sense then that you might have overheard something.” Gisela waved her hands frantically.

“No no no,” She objected, “It can’t be me. I’m known to be openly aggressive towards them, if I was heard talking about the proof, they’d assume it was slander. You do it, tell him that you wanted him to know because the move would destabilize the economy.” A reasonable assessment. Gisela did have her intelligent moments.

“Fair enough,” Queyan sighed, feigning a put-out attitude. “Perhaps Nepos would relish the opportunity.” Gisela perked up at the idea.

“Nepos would probably be delighted,” She agreed. Another task added to the mental list Queyan kept. She’d send word to the Nose, through one of the reachfolk servants in the keep. The Thalmor were not the only ones with agents about, after all. So much to do, but there was time.

“If I may be dismissed, I believe I have a letter to write,” Queyan said, taking a more official posture, one suited for an agent of her rank. Ondolemar smiled and allowed her to leave, and she prowled the halls with the altmeri grace bred into her every fiber. There was work to be done.

Chapter Text

It took roughly a week and a half before Queyan came to warn Gisela that the Dragonborn was, heh , coming. He had recently passed through the city gates with the two from before, plus three more . The two who were definitely the Blades, and a third who sounded like another mod’ s follower character she remembered . Kaidan. So half of them knew and liked her, and the other half were going to be distrustful at best and hostile more than likely. Gisela’s anxiety must have been obvious, since the mer rolled her eyes and gently knocked her knuckles against her skull.

“You will be fine,” Queyan said, “They’d only hate you by association with us.”

“...You understand,” Gisela replied slowly, “How that is in no way any better than them hating me for me?” Queyan ignored her melodrama with a practiced air and Gisela contemplated pretending that she wasn’t waiting for Bird at the door like a dog before deciding that she’d rather settle at the table and request refreshments. A servant was setting down a large tea pot and a platter of nibblings when the group was led to the room, Ondolemar and Queyan dressed more casual ‘civilian’ clothing taking up their usual places at their desks.

Bird and Inigo had picked up a few more scars, and the two of them plus Lucien all looked much more worn and tired. Delphine was shorter than the rest of the group, older and blonde and dressed in Blades armor. A power play if Gisela had ever seen one, and she was thankful to see a distinct lack of boob-plates on the chest. Esbern reminded her a little of her grandfather, at least before time bent his back, crowfeet in the corners of his eyes and a similar pattern of balding. It was the sixth and final member of the party that scared her most, a massive man with tanned skin and a red tattoo on his face, and some impressive looking spiked gauntlets. The blades and the Akaviri man stared down the altmer at her back, and tension built until Gisela made the executive decision to break it with the grace of a bull with a bee sting.

“Bird!” She shouted, loudly enough for her voice to ring against stone, “How have you been, loca?” The reference is definitely lost on everyone here, but it gets their attention and cuts through the growing tension.

“Gisela,” Bird greeted diplomatically, “I have been doing as well as can be hoped I suppose. Though, I learned from a mutual friend that you have been quite busy since we last spoke.” Gisela wasn’t sure how to read argonian body language, but he seemed a little irked to her. And there’s a lot that he could have learned from Reachfolk. She felt the skin on her face, neck, and back start to burn and her grin went a little strained.

“Well, uhm,” Gisela started, “There was so much I didn’t want to risk in letters. I can start from the beginning, though? Inigo, Lucien, it’s good to see you too! And new friends!”

“We’re not friends,” Delphine said, finding a spot to lean against the wall. A defensive position. Lucien and Inigo dropped into the chairs next to her eagerly, along with Bird. The man who must be Esbern took a seat nearest to Delphine, and Kaidan sat next to him. Away from her. Gisela pushed back the slight hurt, reminding herself that just because she knew them didn’t mean they knew her.

So she poured tea and offered food and told them about how the violence between the Reachfolk and Skyrim was made worse over the years by machinations of greedy men and that she was opening communication on both sides to push for peace. She told Bird about the questions she’d asked and the books she’d read and how she learned about the Blades’ history. Delphine openly questioned why a Thalmor would know so much about the Blades and Ondolemar made an insulting remark about understanding your enemies to better arm yourself.

“No fighting, children, the grown-ups are talking,” Gisela snarked, wit cutting the potential snit off before it really began. Queyan barked a laugh and Delphine gave her a downright murderous look but said nothing.

“There’s that humor I missed,” Inigo teased, grabbing a sweetroll, and Gisela grinned with all her teeth.

“It doesn’t translate properly to writing, does it?” Gisela sighed, “But I had a feeling that Lucien at least would see the wisdom in looking at the history of the conflict between the world and the dragons as a source for a solution. We planned accordingly. It was easy enough to mention you in conversation, the united Reachfolk at least have no intention of doing anything to make your life harder while you are within the Reach.”

“And the magic?” Bird asked, “Morvoch said that you read my future. How?”

“You met Morvoch’s clan?” Gisela perked up, “How is he?”

“He smells like mint,” Bird replied in a deadpan and Gisela almost choked on her tea, “What did you do, Gisela?” His voice was even, his tone firm. Oh, he definitely didn’t like what he’d heard. Gisela cringed slightly.

“Nothing detailed,” She said quickly, “The hagravens wanted to see magic from my homeland, and it was the only thing I could do with what I had on me. I grabbed some trinkets, assigned them meanings, and tossed them onto the ground with a question. The way the trinkets fell is meant to give an answer, but the question I asked is ‘What is in the Dragonborn’s future?’. And it said you’ll win. I saw a battle written in stone, followed by a crown of bone.” Bird’s reptilian eyes stared her down and Gisela held her breath.

“That’s all?” He asked.

“The bone came after the crown, chronologically,” Gisela said, “It means that whatever the crown represents, it’s not going to happen until after the big fight. I choose to believe that it means you’ll win.” Bird accepted that answer, and sipped his tea. Finally letting his guard down. Inigo and Lucien combined to tell her about how their trip has been going since they last met, and about the Wall.

“You were attacked?” Ondolemar asked, when Inigo mentioned a fight in the Rift, “They were likely Elenwen’s agents. I have not authorized any actions against you and such directives should have been sent through me.”

“Really?” Delphine drawled, clearly looking for a fight, “Do you read the papers that you sign thoroughly?” Ondolemar snarled, offended and rising to the bait.

“Hey!” Gisela snapped, “You can’t tease him like that! Only I can tease him like that! Get your own mer!” Several of her guests almost snorted into their teacups, and Lucien’s tea came up his nose. “You were saying, hon?” The affectionate shortening of the word ‘honey’ had Bird, Lucien, and Inigo tensing as they connected the dots.

“Well, dearest,” Ondolemar replied easily, and Esbern choked a cough as the realization struck him too, “I was about to explain that either those mer were Elenwen’s personal troops or she went behind my back. If she suspects something, then it means I may not be able to retire from Herself’s command as suddenly and spectacularly as we’d originally planned.” The hope being Elenwen didn’t notice and Ondolemar was going to tell her she could go fuck herself in front of the peace talks in High Hrothgar.

“Dearest?” Lucien choked out with a laugh.

“Ah yes!” Gisela said with a beaming smile, “I got tired of waiting and kissed him at the conference! We’re courting! But it’s less proper courtship and more like what we do in my world called ‘dating’.”

“That explains why the chieftain was so smug,” Bird said, “He knew and he knew that I didn’t know.” Gisela tilted her head but didn’t push for an explanation when Bird didn’t offer one.

“A Thalmor,” Kaidan spoke up in disbelief, “And a human?” Gisela shrugged at him.

“I’m very charming,” Gisela said, “And persuasive.”

“Do not forget humble,” Ondolemar said fondly, stepping up to the table to press his lips to the top of her head.

“That too!” Gisela leaned up into the affection like a house cat.

“Congratulations are in order!” Inigo said, “I am glad you found happiness, especially in these troubled times.”

“Thanks Inigo,” Gisela smiled at him. Bird and Kaidan were exchanging looks that she couldn’t decipher, but she didn’t need to. He’s not the follower mod she once downloaded, there was no life debt plot point in real life. He did not owe her a single thing, especially not his friendship, and she wouldn’t ask him to give her anything.

“So, I heard you are getting better at magic?” Lucien changed the topic as subtlety as he could. When Gisela mentioned that she was trying to use it to recreate technology from her home-world, he grew giddy with excitement.

“I’ve seen some of the dwemer stuff,” She explained, “And what we have, it’s similar in a way. There's no souls involved. But we’ve automated a lot of the processes needed to make it easier for the arts and entertainment to thrive, which means it’s harder for prospective creatives to break into a saturated environment. It’s complicated. But in short, I miss the music, so I’ve found a way to bring it to life here.” And she did, she missed the electronic notes, high and low. So she found a way to make her own.

“And is the music of your homeland really so different?” Esbern asked, curious and fascinated alike, and Gisela smiled.

“We found ways to use our technology to create music, synthetic instruments and ways to alter the sounds of physical ones too. I wonder how many sounds we've created that the dwemer made too?” She mused aloud, twisting the vibrations in the air until they became tones like the soft chime of an electronic bell. She flicked her fingers and it twisted into the chest-rumbling notes of a bass guitar, before releasing the magic.

“You’ve...” Lucien started, “You’ve gotten better really quickly. Your magic.” Gisela blushed.

“I had good teachers, and an unorthodox background to pull from,” She waved off his praise. A wadded up handkerchief collided with the back of her head, courtesy of Queyan. “Thank you, I worked very hard.” She corrected herself. Gisela heard a couple snickers at her friends’ training methods, but shrugged it off with ease.

“The words of your songs are interesting enough, the ones we’ve heard at least.” Inigo said, “The music that accompanies them must make them more so.” Gisela nibbled at some buttered bread with cloudberry preserves. Turns out, the native flora was comparable to plants found in Scandiwedgia back on Miðgarð.

“Is that all you do with your magic, make music?” Kaidan asked, faux-casually. Gisela would have been fooled if she didn’t remember his sour past experiences from playing his quests. She paused, though. She knew that Bird, Inigo, and Lucien all knew the gist of her conditions, and she didn’t mind talking about it, but did she want the Blades to know? She was on their side, the side that wanted Alduin out of Nirn, but she was also aligned with soon-to-be former Thalmor. Delphine especially, who refused to allow for second chances.

“I heal myself more than anything else,” Gisela explained quietly after a long considering moment, lips pursed. “I don’t know if the others told you, but I have a… A defect of the body, it’s not visible on the surface but it leaves me dependent on potions and restoration magic to function on the daily. I can’t be cured, it’s not something that can be fixed, but I manage alright.” Kaidan frowned, the wrinkles on his brow deepening as she talked.

“If I might ask, what happened?” He asked, his voice softer now. She could hear the concern, but also the pity. It made a bitter feeling crawl up her throat, and she tightened her grip on the stoneware cup.

“A series of unfortunate events,” Gisela replied, a little clipped, “Besides, I’m used to it. Lucien, you’ve been studying magic too, right?” Lucien nodded, going on to speak about what he’d learned throughout the journey. She was grateful for the change of topic. Pity made her irritable.

“I am going to be blunt,” Esbern said when Lucien’s discussion petered out, “Why did you change your mind?” His question was directed at Ondolemar and Queyan, which made sense to Gisela. They’d been on edge the entire visit thus far, and both were of a highly respectable rank.

“I’m afraid you will have to be more specific,” Queyan drawled.

“To turn against the philosophy you’ve followed your entire lives,” Esbern clarified.

“Simple,” Ondolemar said, looking up from the book he had left open on his desk, “I was shown a new perspective.” Delphine scoffed.

“Is that really all it took?” The breton woman raised a sharp brow.

“That’s dumbing it down a bit, isn’t it, love?” Gisela said with a wry smile.

“A new perspective led to questions, questions led to unsatisfactory answers, and unsatisfactory answers led to disappointing conclusions,” Queyan continued, “Once the flaws in the system are pointed out, it becomes rather obvious.”

“Humans are not less, for not being mer,” Ondolemar finished the train of thought, “Simply different.”

“Hmph,” Delphine grumbled a bit, arms crossed over her curiass, “I suppose you people are capable of learning.” Well that was as much approval as the woman was capable of giving, so Gisela would take it. Inigo cleared his throat, pulling everyone’s attention to him.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask. Would you teach Lucien your technique? That way, we could have better music on the road.”

“I could try, it’s a matter of experimentation, really.” Gisela babbled a bit, “Find the vibrations in the air. Energy is in all things, and it’s expressed in many ways! Light, heat, movement, and the most important here, sound. Then you just tweak it until you get what you want.”

“Care for a demonstration?” Bird asked, a little sly. Ah, he wanted a song. And Gisela would be happy to oblige. She reached out with her magic, several threads humming in harmony to create the chords of an electric keyboard. The tapping of a drum joined it. She sang to the melody she created, voicelessly at first, then with words, joined by the plucking and strumming of guitar and bass strings.

All the right friends in all the right places

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They got all the right moves in all the right faces

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

She smiled, beginning the performance in earnest, the movement of her hands and fingers reminiscent of the conductors she used to see at orchestras. Gisela knew she was the main act, but she wasn’t anxious with all the attention. She stood, standing next to the chair in case she lost her balance, but she needed to be dramatic.

Let’s paint the picture

Of the perfect place

They got it better than what anyone’s told you

They’ll be the King of Hearts

And you’re the Queen of Spades

Then we’ll fight for you like we were your soldiers

She added the strings, a humming from the draw of a magic bow. Ondolemar had told her that she gave off light at the party in the Reach wilds, and now that she was looking for it, she could see the ambient glow her magic gave off.

I know we got it good

But they’ve got it made

And their grass is getting greener each day

I know things are looking up

But soon they’ll take us down

Before anybody’s knowin’ our name

The chorus had the feeling of a call and response song, so when she called she layered her own voice over itself to create a chorus of another kind to join in. The harmonizing effect made it sound like she was singing with other people, but was all her. A skill that took practice, and was showing in her efforts.

They got all the right friends in all the right places

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They got all the right moves in all the right faces

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say everybody knows,

Everybody knows where we’re goin’

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say everybody knows,

Everybody knows where we’re goin’

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

The waltzing melody and tempo made her wish she could dance, or at least focus on trying to to dance whilst singing. Ondolemar had metaphorical hearts in his eyes when she turned to direct the beginning of the second verse to him, and she softened. Even with all her theatricality, she couldn’t help herself.

Do you think I’m special?
Do you think I’m nice?
Am I bright enough to shine in your spaces?

Between the noise you hear, and the sound you like

Are we just sinking in an ocean of faces?

It can’t be possible

That rain could fall

Only when it’s over our heads

The sun is shining every day, but it’s far away

Over their world instead, they got –

They got

All the right friends in all the right places

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They got all the right moves in all the right faces

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say everybody knows,

Everybody knows where we’re goin’

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say everybody knows,

Everybody knows where we’re goin’

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

Gisela swayed in place as though drifting in water, singing the melody along with the electric guitar’s mournful strumming. Echos of her voice joined her, drifting like ghosts.

It don’t matter what you see

I know I could never be

Someone that’ll look like you

It’s don’t matter what you say

I know I could never face

Someone that could sound like you

The other instruments faded out, the drums and guitar the focus of the chorus.

All the right friends in all the right places

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They got all the right moves in all the right faces

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

Once again, the music swelled under Gisela’s fingers and magic. She knew she was probably glittering at this point, glowing like a firefly. Or a torchbug, in Skyrim at least.

All the right friends in all the right places

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They got all the right moves in all the right faces

So yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say everybody knows,

Everybody knows where we’re goin’

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say everybody knows,

Everybody knows where we’re goin’

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

She repeated the violins, and sang as though she was calling out for someone to answer. And her echos answered back in sync.

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

All the right moves, hey

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say all the right move, hey

Yeah, we’re goin’ down

They say –

And the music faded to silent. Gisela panted, a little out of breath but pleasantly sore. Like the aftermath of a good workout, from before her physicians had told her that anything more strenuous than stairs was a bad idea for her heart. The light faded when the sound did, leaving her with the feeling that the room was slightly dimmer than before. Queyan had begun clapping first, then Ondolemar, then Lucien and Inigo and Bird. Team Dragonborn had stars in their eyes, the amazement and incredulity of being faced with something so impossibly new.

“Incredible,” Esbern breathed, clapping now too. He was a little awestruck, from the looks of him, “Is all music from your world like this?” Gisela laughed, still breathing hard. She dabbed some moisture from her hairline with the handkerchief Queyan had thrown at her.

“Not at all. We have music genres like books have genres. Some are as different from each other as a rabbit is to a slaughterfish.” She grinned, “If you visit again, remind me to introduce you to a purely instrumental piece called Sandstorm.”

Chapter Text

A culmination of effort from a variety of peoples had led now to this moment. Ondolemar had written to Nepos, the Forsworn spymaster, informing him that the trap was ready to be sprung at his leisure. Nepos had replied, assuring them that the Jarl would act when he was ready. The reachman had decided that discretion was the better part of valor, an idiom that Gisela had quoted when informed of the update to their plan.

Ondolemar was already well aware that Jarl Igmund had Faleen gathering strength in preparation for the arrest of the Silver-Blood family. The Housekarl had requested the assistance of the Thalmor if any of the corrupt guards were to engage. Two of Nepos’ agents were primed to take over the Treasury House to smooth the way. The reachfolk servants in the Keep were on edge, well concealed but visible to a trained eye.

It was a court day, and Gisela was visibly buzzing with nervous energy. Ondolemar was not concerned by the lack of subtlety, it was not uncommon behavior for her with her ever-shifting energy levels. It was a high energy day, and she was anxious. Her fingertips curled into the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles blanching white with the strength of her grip. The wooden cane tapped against the cobblestones, echoing in the stone hallway more clear and sharp than the ambient sounds of the Keep when awake.

“I have a feeling about today,” She said lowly, her voice soft like the shuffling of her leather boot soles against the floor.

“Do you?” Ondolemar asked, taking satisfaction in her vague statement. It wouldn’t do for the wrong ears to overhear. “What sort of feeling?” Her head tilted to the side, flyaway curls swaying with the movement.

“Court is going to be rather intense, I suspect,” She said after a moment’s consideration, “It always is. Keep close? My heart feels like it’s pattering quicker than a rabbit’s.” Her anxiety was bad today, and it was because of the plot. Ondolemar nodded, patting her hand where it nestled in the crook of his arm.

“I shall be right behind you,” He assured her, “If you need to leave, we shall.” Gisela’s smile was small and wan, her face slightly pale in the torchlight. A quick look around confirmed that they were alone, and he pressed his lips softly to her forehead. “It will be alright,” he murmured against her skin. Gisela let out a shaky breath and nodded. Ondolemar watched as she rolled her shoulders and shifted her posture. The nervousness was concealed as she donned a regal mask of confidence. Head up and shoulders back. Even her footsteps sounded bolder.

Court had not yet begun when they arrived, Gisela’s usual chair across from Nepos’ empty. The nobility, advisors, and politicians were gathered around the sides of the room, with common folk furthest from the Jarl’s throne. As Gisela settled, Ondolemar behind her, he caught Nepos’ gaze. The elderly reachman had a certain twinkle in his eye, though Ondolemar only saw it for a fraction of a moment. It was the day. Ondolemar gave Gisela’s shoulder a soft squeeze and felt the tension in her muscles increase. She understood.

“Order, order!” Raerek boomed, his voice muted with the bodies crowding the hall. And Court was in session. The common folk presented their problems that could not be solved without the Jarl’s aid, the courtiers offered their opinions and advise, and decisions were made. As it always was. Ondolemar’s sharp eyes spotted more Thalmor agents than usual in attendance, Queyan included. She was near Faleen, Igmund’s housecarl, ready to spring the trap at the Jarl’s order.

Then he noticed a nord woman his agents had reported as an Imperial spy, one interested in Cidnha Mine. He had mentioned her to Nepos, who’d in turn said that the Silver-Blood family wanted her dead and out of the way. Madanach had ordered her death, but Nepos had not passed the order on. From what Gisela had mentioned of the “quest” in the story, the assassination would have been the first step in the fall of either Madanach or the Silver-Blood family.

“Now for the next order of business,” Raerek announced, and Ondolemar fought the instinctive urge to smile in satisfaction. Too well trained to slip. “Guards, bring in Thonar Silver-Blood!” And the crowd erupted into gasps and shouts. Thongvor’s bellow of rage and disbelief was heard above all. Two guards pressed the well-dressed and rather ruffled looking nord into the room, his hands shackled in steel before him.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Thonar shouted, furious, “I have committed no crimes!”

“Shut up!” One of the guards snapped at him.

“Thonar Silver-Blood,” Raerek continued, eyes flicking between the parchment in his hands and the man in chains, “You stand accused of ordering the assassination of Jarl Hrolfdir, of stealing his shield, and of treason against the city of Markarth.” The court quickly devolved into shouts of rage and clamoring before Igmund roared an order for silence.

“Well, Silver-Blood? What say you in your defense?” The Jarl demanded, his voice tight with fury and his eyes flashing.

“Not guilty!” Thonar shouted back. Faleen stepped forward to stand with the guards.

“We present the evidence of his guilt!” She called, “The shield of late Jarl Hrolfdir!” She took the old steel shield from the guard who had retrieved it from the Treasury House and presented it to Igmund for inspection.

“This is my father’s shield,” He confirmed, “I have not laid eyes on it in twenty years.”

“We also present Thonar’s journal, written in his own hand,” Faleen continued, “In this journal, he wrote that he took Madanach, self-proclaimed King of the Reach, and has kept him in Cidnha Mine for the last twenty years. He has been using leverage over the Forsworn to order attacks on his business rivals, and many of the mines of the Reach in order to obtain them for himself. This includes ordering the assassinations of Markarth citizens and financially supporting Ulfric Stormcloak!”

“My brother did no such thing!” Thongvor shouted over the clamor of outrage, “He’s been framed!” Ondolemar hummed to himself softly. They had not done very much, in truth. Staged a scene a little. The journal was all they needed, really, Thonar had damned himself with his actions.

“Perhaps you were in on it!” Someone accused, and several guards had to rush to restrain the furious nord before he could start swinging.

“This journal alone is enough to warrant an execution, Silver-Blood,” The Jarl said darkly, hand gripping his axe with white knuckles, “Now tell me why I shouldn’t see if your blood is as silver as your name suggests here and now?”

“I confess that I have kept that damned forsworn ‘King’ in the mine,” Thonar said, sounding panicked as it dawned on him that he wasn’t going to get out of this. Not anymore. “I never took the shield! I didn’t order your father’s death, I swear it!” Thongvor was thrashing in the guards’ tight grip.

“Thonar Silver-Blood pleads guilty to ordering the assassinations of numerous innocent citizens of the Reach and of treason against Markarth!” Faleen shouted to the assembly.

“I didn’t take the shield!” Thonar cried out, desperate.

“My thanes, my advisors, what punishment fits this crime?” Igmund asked the mob.

“Kill him!”

“Take his head off!”

“Throw him in the mines!”

Over a dozen voices began screaming over each other, each demanding a consequence for his actions both rightly accused and framed. Ondolemar put his hand on Gisela’s shoulder, feeling her tremble with the stress. Her hands had gone to her ears, the screaming becoming too much for her nerves. He brought his face to the side of her head, motioning towards the door. She shook her head, she wanted to see this through to the end.

Meanwhile, Raerek managed to quiet the furious citizens, prompting them to speak one at a time. It was only then that Nepos made a suggestion, one that Gisela had proposed months ago when they first began to plan. Dishonor, seize the Silver-Blood’s properties and assets. Arrest his associates until investigations can be completed, and return what was taken by force to the victims and next of kin where necessary. Put the man in his own prison, to mine what used to be his own silver with his own uncallused hands. Igmund seemed to like that idea, many of Thonar’s now former allies appeared to as well. Others made their own suggestions, of course. And the sentence was passed.

Guards were promptly dispatched to seize the Silver-Bloods holdings. Thonar was taken away, screaming and shouting. Thongvor too, was dragged off. As a member of the family, he was under suspicion as well. All the Silver-Bloods were. Even their employees. Ondolemar considered offering to assist with the investigations, but he felt Gisela’s body sag with relief and decided that he would wait until asked. He wanted to relax and spend some well earned time with his love.

Chapter Text

With the Silver-Bloods paying for crimes of which they were obviously guilty, it became a question of what to do with the Forsworn. The ones in the wilds of the Reach had ceased their raids, and a rumor had reached Igmund’s ear that it was his resident troublemaker at the heart of that decision. He would not be surprised, she’d made her opinion known often enough that whatever spies in Markarth would have to be fools not to know about it. She’d left for several weeks, a trip he was now wondering around, a month prior, and returned satisfied. Her elves too.

Igmund sat in the dwarf made throne, on the dais, in his throne room. On his left was Uncle Raerek, on his right was Faleen. They were attempting to determine how to handle the so-called King In Rags currently held in the prison mines. It was a challenge, yes, but no self-respecting nord would back down from a challenge. But Madanach had been a martyr, and he likely knew it too. He would demand reparations, and they would be difficult to negotiate with the long sitting animosity between them. He needed representatives. Both from the Forsworn and from his own court.

“Uncle, I would ask you to get the High Justiciar, Gisela, and anyone else involved in their scheme. I want them here for this discussion, as it is their fault we must have it.” Raerek forced an attempt at a smile, and walked off to find the problematic group. Faleen leveled him with a look, one he knew well.

“You’re going to make that woman your diplomat, aren’t you?” She asked. Igmund grinned.

“I discussed it with Raerek already,” He said, “She’s abrasive, but if we are right, then she’s worked with the Forsworn before. We will have more success with her than with anyone else.” Faleen snorted.

“The woman is clever and convincing, but she can be disagreeable and condescending,” She pointed out, “And you want her to help figure out what you’re going to do next?” Igmund shrugged.

“If you have a better idea, then I’m willing to hear it.” He turned his head when he heard the rhythmic tapping of the wooden cane Gisela used.

“My Jarl?” She asked when they turned a corner, gripping the arm of Ondolemar for support. The elf had changed in the many months since her arrival. Igmund still didn’t trust him, but he mistrusted him less.

“Come, we have a problem and I suspect you are at the heart of it.” The woman blinked, eyes going wide behind her spectacles. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, a telling motion.

“… It’s about the Reachfolk, isn’t it?” She asked. Igmund nodded. Her shoulders drooped slightly in resignation, “What happened?”

“More like what hasn’t happened,” Faleen corrected, “They haven’t raided in weeks, after you went on a trip with an unknown destination. It seems too convenient for a coincidence, doesn’t it?”

“We were wondering when you would ask,” Ondolemar said, a smile on his golden face, “We did meet with representatives of the Clans on that trip, and discussed opening avenues for peace. Our motivation was easing the way for the Dragonborn to do his work, but also to keep Stormcloak from establishing a military presence in the Reach.” Then Gisela picked up where he left off.

“We had learned that our contact to the Reachfolk was still receiving orders from Madanach, that his leash was being held by the man who owned the prison.”

“Thonar Silver-Blood,” Igmund said. Gisela nodded.

“Exactly. He was using the Forworn as a knife, undermining your efforts to keep the peace in the Reach. I confess, my Jarl, I went behind your back to try and see if it was possible to open an avenue to making peace possible.” At her confession, Ondolemar’s expression tightened, and it was clearly not something he appreciated her saying. Curious.

“The moment you confirmed meeting an agent of the Forsworn, you admitted to what is essentially treason. But you did it for the sake of the people, my people. For that, I can forgive you. Only once. Do not abuse my goodwill again.” Gisela’s face was serious, her body tense, but she promised him. Igmund hoped that she would keep her promise.

“Who is your contact?” Raerek asked, and Ondolemar took over before Gisela could speak.

“Their identity will remain hidden until they choose to make themselves known,” He said, “But I will ask them.”

“It has been long overdue that Madanach is released,” Igmund said, “The crimes which I believed him to be guilty of were the work of another, but he will demand reparations from me. I need representatives to smooth the way to a treaty between our peoples. Gisela, many would say that this peace is the result of your efforts. As such, I would assign this duty to you.” The woman jumped slightly, not expecting the assignment. It was charming, in a naive way.

“It would be an honor, my Jarl,” She said, and Igmund knew she meant it.

“Good, now tell me what was discussed at this conference I was left ignorant of.” Ondolemar led the woman to a seat when it seemed like she was beginning to sway and she began the tale.

They had spoken to their mysterious contact, talked about a way to pave the way to peace, and said contact had reached out. There was a gathering of the Clans, one that had not been hosted in decades. Representatives and chieftains from across the Reach had gathered at one location, to share stories and food, and the chiefs had met and spoken with Gisela and Ondolemar together to hear their proposal. They had promised the Reach chieftains that they would work to uncover the Silver-Bloods’ treachery, and Faleen was surprised to learn that they had helped the mystery informant gather the information to start her investigation.

“Baseless accusations are just that,” Gisela said, “Baseless. Would you have believed us if you didn’t already have the proof in front of you?” Igmund would have ordered an investigation himself, but the woman was known to be antagonistic towards the brothers. He would have held doubt for that reason alone. “Exactly. Better it come from the person already sitting on the information anyway. It was a cathartic experience for them.”

“So you played us like puppets,” Raerek said, clearly displeased by the manipulation of their justice system.

“No no,” Gisela waved her hands a bit frantically, a grimace on her face, “I mean – Just a little bit. A few breadcrumbs for a trail, a bit of a push.” She slumped back in the chair and Ondolemar gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Damn, I have no way to say this that doesn’t sound terrible.”

“I’ve already pardoned you for this,” Igmund reminded the ridiculous woman, “I am a man of my word.” She frowned, but found a way to phrase it after a moment of pause.

“...We had the pieces of the puzzle ready to be assembled, but believed it would be better if it was your people who put it together. So we used anonymity to aim them, to bring light to a filthy old secret. It was underhanded, but if we thought there was an easier and more open way to act we would have taken it.” Gisela pursed her lips, rapping her blunted nails on the stone table, “I’m not truly one of your people, my Jarl, I’m new. An outsider. But I can’t go back, I have too many ties to Skyrim now to just leave. Even if it was possible, I wouldn’t. Markarth has become my home, the people have become my home. If I have to do bad things to protect it, to make it better, I will. I did. It doesn’t change that I went under your nose to do it, and I will keep things above the table from now, but this has been my intention the entire time. To reduce bloodshed and keep a known racist from another slaughter. To keep a culture alive. To keep him from following through on any grudge he may have against the city and against you.” She reached up to tangle her fingers in Ondolemar’s, an intimate and comforting gesture.

The throne room descended into silence, as her little speech sunk in. She had been a near constant presence in the Keep for almost a full year now. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Gisela had not always been there, despite how prevalent her foreignness always was. Her singing voice and strange music based magic that frequently echoed in the halls, scent of the bitter coffee her group purchased from the khajiit, and the bizarre phrases she’d say that people eventually stopped questioning. She was never officially made a resident of Markarth, of Skyrim, but it was clearly where she belonged. Igmund took a deep breath, contemplating where to go from there.

“Perhaps it is long due for you to have a title among my court, official liaison to the Forsworn perhaps?” He offered wryly, “Chief diplomat for the Reach?”

“Trying to make a politician out of me?” She asked, a smile on her lips, despite the anxiety in her shoulders.

“You made a politician of yourself,” Ondolemar pointed out with ease.

“I’m a busybody; there’s a difference.”

“Yes,” Faleen agreed, “It’s called authority. The Jarl is offering you the authority to make more of a difference. Above the table, as you promised.”

“I did accept,” Gisela pointed out, “But now there’s going to be a fancy title and everything. My imposter syndrome is reeling.”

Chapter Text

Ondolemar sifted through the stacks of reports that covered his desk, patiently ignoring the muttered oaths and swears of his… Intended? Lover? Across the room. Gisela was slowly improving her penmanship with a quill, ink staining her fingertips and flecks sprinkled across her face like constellations. She was progressing well, but she worried about her writing lacking legibility. Her brows pinched and her nose crinkled as she attempted to keep the flow of the pen smooth.

Whilst they all agreed that being able to write with a feather quill and ink was an important skill for someone in her position, it was a task that was made more stressful with the impending retrial for the King in Rags. Gisela had drafted a rather professional sounding invitation to several clans, courtesy of her birth world’s schooling, and was on her third attempt to write the final copy. The first try, she didn’t move the pen quickly enough and ink pooled and smeared and stained her fingers. The second, the pen was flicked too fast and she splattered little droplets all over the parchment and herself. Now, she seemed to have found her rhythm. Once she managed to control the ink output, she could improve the script.

“I am in misery,” Gisela muttered in a sing-song, then hunched over with a groan. Ondolemar consulted his personal calendar, and made a request of a servant to fetch Gisela’s monthly tea. It was that time, and she seemed to be fond of that single line from a song she’d never sang in its entirety, most often when she in excessive pain. It was one of those telling little quirks of hers.

“Dear,” Ondolemar said, catching her attention, “How are you managing?” She looked up, a new smudge of ink darkening the skin on the side of her nose. Ondolemar pushed to his feet and made his way over to the table as she seemed to ponder how best to answer his question. When he took out a handkerchief to dab at the ink on her face, her expression scrunched cutely.

“I am… Holding together?” She offered, “My lower back keep pinching and there’s only so much that magic can do for that.” Gisela looked down at the letter and blew on the ink gently. “I’m almost done with this letter, though. I want to finish it before I take a break.” Ondolemar rubbed at the ink stain on her face and smiled.

“Very well. It is good that you've improved so quickly, I can still see the Mage on your face here,” And he gave her cheek a light pinch. She laughed with such suddenness that she snorted, much like a pig, it was adorable.

“Stooop,” Gisela whined through her giggles.

“I don’t believe I will,” Ondolemar replied, equally playful. He glanced down at her penmanship, the letters and curves sharp and edged rather than looping and flourishing as he’d been trained. Her signature was much the same, finished with her new title. The court had been divided on the proclamation, the foreigner being the official liaison to the Reachfolk, and a diplomat. However, no one argued that she was not a citizen of Markarth at this point, Ondolemar at her shoulder likely kept them slightly cowed at least.

One of the servants swept into the room, a manmeri woman who had run letters for Nepos before. Her tray held the pot of tea he had requested for Gisela, the raspberry leaf that she drank for cramps. The woman placed the cup down, with a slip of paper peaking out from under it. Gisela’s eyes flicked to it, and she thanked the servant before dismissing her. When Gisela lifted the cup, Ondolemar picked up the note.

“Thank you, babe,” She said as he unfolded the paper, “For thinking of me.” Ondolemar found that particular pet name a bit odd, but her attempts to explain the meanings behind it certainly endeared him to it. “Is the note from our old friend?” Old friend, a code of sorts for Nepos. A jest at his age.

“It is,” Ondolemar said, skimming the note first before rereading it more thoroughly. “He congratulates you on your promotion, and is recommending specific clans to invite to the retrial. He’s willing to send the letters out for you.” Gisela perked up visibly.

“That’s helpful, and appreciated.” She commented, blowing a bit of ice magic over her tea to cool it enough to take a sip. Wasteful by his standards, but clever regardless. “Any overlaps?”

“Yes, most of them.” Gisela’s smile was bright and toothy.

“Wonderful!” She said, a gentle clap of her hands punctuating the cheer. “Who else should I write?” They went over the list and made a proper count of how many clans and how many letters Gisela needed to write out. She groaned and rubbed her wrist, but did her stretches, rubbed healing magic into the carpal ligament, and grabbed a new sheet of parchment.

Ondolemar returned to his reports, trying to gauge whether or not Elenwen was freezing him out of his position. He was concerned by her actions regarding Early-Bird-No-Worm, assigning agents to find him in Riften should have been Ondolemar's prerogative. Unless she felt that there was now a feud, that it was her own territory that Bird had so thoroughly despoiled. He reread her most recent communications, despite the careful wording and controlled hand he could see the signs of Elenwen’s rage. The way the ink seeped in lines slightly too bold, a hint of a near pool of ink where she’d held the pen too long to the parchment. A minute wobble in a stroke. She was getting stressed the longer the Dragonborn eluded her. Ondolemar, in a small fit of pettiness, had explained the legend behind the title. The stories that Gisela had requested of Yngvar the Singer managed to describe the prophecy, and Gisela knew the wording better than most skalds’ songs. He proposed that if Bird was truly, the Dragonborn, he had a Divine Duty that the Thalmor should allow to play out. Elenwen had been fuming, her reply short and wording politely rude. If this was how Gisela had felt antagonizing the Silver-Bloods prior to their arrest, he could understand why she kept at it for so long.

Gisela was humming when he looked up, the pained pinch in her face smoothed over and the flick of the quill indicative of another finished letter. Her lips moved, forming soundless words that he could not read. Either the words she was scribing, or the song currently sounding in her mind. Turning his eyes down to his own parchment, he dipped the quill and began to write the letter to Elenwen informing her that Markarth would be contributing more to the Empire’s war efforts. He hadn’t told Jarl Igmund that he was not a true Thalmor agent anymore, not at heart, but he still needed to keep up appearances.

“Love?” Gisela called, making Ondolemar look up, “Are you alright? You seem worried.” He softened immediately at her concern.

“Report for Ambassador Elenwen,” He explained, and from Gisela’s grimace he knew she understood. “I do not believe she suspects me of anything less than a perfect example of a Thalmor agent, but she is taking unusual risks in her pursuit of the Dragonborn.” Gisela frowned.

“She wants revenge?” She asked. Ondolemar tilted his head.

“I suspect. She likely views his ability to avoid her agents as a direct attack on her capabilities.” He mused. Gisela’s lips quirked to the side.

“So, it’s personal.” She said, then huffed, “How likely is she to monitor letters going to the Dragonborn?”

“Considering the nature of the Courier’s Guild?” Ondolemar hummed wonderingly, “Doubtful. They do not take to meddling well. It might still be best to be indirect, in the case of private information. Did you hope to inform Bird of this development?” Gisela heaved a long sigh and sipped her tea.

“I believe it would be wise to tell him the Thalmor Ambassador has a vendetta, yes,” She said, “If someone had it out for me like that, I would want to know.” Ondolemar laughed.

“Would you really?” He teased. She pursed her lips.

“Maybe. I want to know if I should be careful, but I don’t know if I could live with that kind of anxiety.” Gisela smiled.

“Then I won’t tell you,” Ondolemar said, teasing. Her eyes snapped to his and he watched several emotions play across her face.

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing, dear,” Ondolemar smiled and watched as she tensed before picking up on the playful tone.

“Oh, away with you!” She muttered, pouting. She picked up another scrap of plant based paper and a charcoal pencil to work on drafting a new letter. “I think I can use my new position of power to get sensitive information to Bird through the Steward of Whiterun. Probably.” Ondolemar frowned.

“The Steward?” He asked.

“Less presumptuous of me than posting a letter to the Jarl,” Gisela pointed out, “And equally likely to get the information to Bird safely.” Ondolemar pondered the tactic.

“It would work,” He allowed, “Though it might draw attention to you and your position in the Reach.”

“I don’t mind drawing political attention if it means that Bird knows how badly Elenwen wants his head.” Gisela reminded him, “We do kind of need him to save the world, after all.” The jest in her tone was fairly clear at least. Ondolemar looked down at the letter he had been writing to the Ambassador. How strange, he mused, he ended up betraying one ambassador for another.

Chapter Text

Breezehome was small, too small to fit enough proper beds for Bird and his traveling partners. Even so, he’d hired a woodworker to build cots, lower to the ground but no less comfortable than an inn’s beds. Lydia stacked them out of the way when not in use, and it worked well enough for them. As the last man in closed the front door, everyone slumped into a seat. Tension built up from the travel back from Blackreach, combined with having been underground in such a strange environment for so long, weighed down their bones.

Lydia had received word of her Thane’s return the day prior, and so the house was ready for their arrival. A thick stew was sitting over the fire, bread purchased fresh baked that morning sat under a cloth. Cots were set up. The men had a few new scars that she could see, likely to be hiding more beneath travel clothing and armor. Early-Bird-No-Worm looked exhausted, and she thought of the letter upstairs on the desk that waited for him.

As Bird’s housekarl, she’d taken over some of his courtly duties in his absence. Mainly acting as a representative, visual proof that the Dragonborn was a part of Whiterun politics despite his rare attendance. And his disdain for said politics. When Lydia had put her name forward to become the housekarl of the legendary Dragonborn, this was not what she had expected to become.

“Lydia?” Kaidan asked. The akaviri – and wasn’t that incredible? – man was observant, he made a good bodyguard for her thane when she was not by his side. “What’s on your mind?”

“I didn’t want to bother my thane with business so soon after his return,” She replied. Kaidan didn’t seem concerned.

“That’s understandable,” He said, “I wouldn’t want to either. What kind of business?”

“A letter for him. Steward Avenicci received a message from a politician in Markarth with an enclosed letter for Bird.” At the mention of Markarth, the man’s eyebrows raised.

“I think he can spare the time for Markarth,” Kaidan said, a smile appearing on his face. Lydia wondered what she was missing, as Kaidan went to find the letter. When he presented the thick parchment envelope to Bird, the argonian seemed to perk up slightly. As he broke the seal, Inigo leaned in curiously.

“It is from our musical friend, yes?” He asked. Lydia realized that she was missing something.

“It is,” Bird replied, “She’s been made a diplomat on behalf of Jarl Igmund.” Lucien laughed.

“An official politician now,” The imperial said with a grin, “She’s certainly moving up in the world.” Bird’s expression underwent several changes as he read, settling on serious.

“My thane?” Lydia asked, perplexed.

“She wanted me to know that the Thalmor Ambassador Elenwen is the one sending agents after me, against protocol. It’s not authorized by the organization, it’s a personal vendetta.” Bird stated. The room settled into silence for a time, before Kaidan spoke.

“It wouldn’t be the first time one of the Thalmor acted under the table, so to speak,” He rubbed at his chest in remembrance. Lydia remembered the story about how he was found, a prisoner, and shivered.

As Bird shared the news that this mystery woman had sent, Lydia was in disbelief. Everyone knew of the Silver-Bloods, how the wealthy family almost exclusively ruled the Reach with their riches. She had heard the rumors that they had been accused of murdering the previous Jarl and thrown in prison, had wondered, but had doubted. And the Forsworn had fought the nords for generations, making peace should have been impossible.

“The madwoman did it,” Inigo mused aloud. Bird looked up at Lydia, who was feeling out of the loop on this mysterious woman.

“Remember last year, when rumors spread of a woman from another plane appearing in the Reach? That is Gisela.” And Lydia understood a little better.

“And she’s a politician now?” Lydia asked.

“Officially. The Jarl found out that she’d pulled some strings to get evidence of the Silver-Bloods misdeeds and apparently her punishment for being sneaky about it was more work. Her words.” Bird said, and Lucien snickered.

“I do not understand that woman,” Kaidan said, but he didn’t seem upset by that. “But she is efficient when she puts her mind to something.”

“Well she sent you that letter through the Steward,” Lydia said, “Was she concerned about being intercepted?”

“Perhaps,” Bird replied, “From what I know of Gisela, she likely thought it would be an easy way to open communications with the hold. She might not like being a politician as a job, but she seems to be doing well enough at it.”

“Having two Thalmor justiciars at her beck and call likely helps,” Kaidan added, and Lydia resigned herself to being perpetually baffled by the idea that such a person could exist.

“She also sent some gifts,” Bird added, “She transcribed a song for Inigo, and a story for Lucien.”

“Nothing for you or Kaidan?” Lydia asked.

“She sent Bird information,” Kaidan pointed out, “And she does not know me as well as the others. I was suspicious of her intentions and I do not trust her Thalmor, so I didn’t speak much. She does not know what I might want from her.” Bird passed the parchment out, and Inigo took one look before he laughed.

“This is a funny song, like a sailor’s shanty. I like this!” Kaidan went to peer over his shoulder and snorted as he read the words to the song from another world. Lucien looked up from his own parchment with a curious expression. “It is about women having sex when the sailors are sailing.” Lydia choked on a laugh, that was not something she had expected from the image that had been building in her head.

“What kind of story did you get, Lucien?” Bird asked.

“A sort of folk tale,” Lucien explained, “Let me read it first before you ask for a summary.”

Lydia made her way to Inigo’s free shoulder, reading the raunchy lyrics that a politician had penned. Inigo cleared his throat and sang a verse hesitantly, trying to find a rhythm that worked.

Oh you hear a lot of stories ‘bout the sailors and their sport

About how every sailor has a girl in ev’ry port

But if you added two and two you’d figure out right quick

It’s just because the girls all have a lad on ev’ry ship

Bird guffawed, curling over a bit to laugh loudly and freely. In the brief time that Lydia had spent with Bird, he had never laughed like that. She stood and went to grab the bowls to pass out, and the group’s mood continued to shift from the worn-down and weary energy of earlier to light-hearted and joyful. A letter had done that. A letter from this mysterious woman Lydia had only hear of.

“Oh wow!” Lucien said after a time, “It’s a scary story, a modern legend from the region she was born. Very spooky.” Everyone perked up at that.

“Going to tell it to us?” Kaidan asked.

“Of course,” Lucien exclaimed, before clearing his throat and sitting down to read it as it had been written.

“Decades ago, before I was born, the world was at war. A battleship sat in the harbor, being outfitted with a new experimental technology. The ship, called the USS Eldridge, was the site of an experiment in making a ship invisible to the enemy. When the device was turned on, the ship vanished completely, only a pale green fog left on the water where it sat.

Reports from a city days away by horse say they saw the ship appear in their own port briefly, before it faded from sight once more. Then it reappeared in its original place. The crew and civilians who had been on board were not the same.

Some were mad, babbling incoherently when spoken to. Others were injured, gravely. Some were sick to their stomachs, others displayed burns like they’d been hit with lightning. Some men were fused to the metal, having gone slightly intangible only to materialize partially embedded in the floors and walls. They say one man had reappeared with his insides on the outside.

The military, working closely with the government, tried to keep the incident quiet. Nowadays, it’s fairly well known throughout the country. We were told that it was confirmed as a hoax, but who knows? Perhaps it really happened.”

The room was silent when Lucien finished the story that Gisela had written him. Quietly processing the tale. It was gruesome, even for the lack of gory details. Lydia was quietly unnerved. The idea of a government, of a military, performing these kind of twisted experiments at the cost of their own people. The world Gisela came from either possessed some incredible imaginations, or they had suffered similar experiences that they drew on to create new stories.

“She said that it’s not a true story,” Lucien clarified at the silence, “But people thought it was, and even to this day there are people who actually believe that it happened.”

“It is certainly spooky,” Kaidan agreed, “I could believe that there are wizards out there that would do such a thing.” Bird nodded.

“When I write back,” Lucien said, “I’m going to include a scary story for her. Does anyone have any suggestions?”

Chapter Text

Gisela pursed her lips, pouting at the fancy bit of parchment on her little wooden folding desk. She knew it would be coming, but had hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with it so soon. Granted, snail mail was a lot slower in Tamriel. Well, less snail mail and more like the Pony Express. The Steward of Whiterun had returned her official correspondence and now she was involved in the old-fashioned version of professional conversation. And she’d thought that emails were annoying, having to write by hand was worse. At least she’d been offered a locked box in a locked drawer in Ondolemar’s desk to keep her drafts in. Politicians had to be careful.

Avenicci, which was a rather Latin sounding name if you asked her, congratulated her on her appointment as a diplomat. However, as Gisela read further, she saw his true purpose in returning her letter. Information. He had likely heard the rumors that had spread throughout Skyrim of the arrest of the Silver-Bloods and the incoming bid for an alliance between all the peoples of the Reach. Gisela hummed to herself, absentmindedly turning a pretty stone she’d found over in her hands as she considered what to say. Whiterun had a firmly neutral stance, but as a diplomat, Gisela was not representing herself in this. She was representing Markarth.

Picking up a scrap of velum and a charcoal pencil, she began to draft her reply. Ondolemar was out on business and she was left to the relative safety of the Keep. And to the lower ranked guards that Ondolemar did not trust with his impending retirement. They mostly patrolled the keep, only really serving to act as muscle in case of violence. Still, Gisela knew that she needed to be careful. She may be Ondolemar’s ‘human pet’, but she could only get away with so much before the mer would begin to consider reporting her to someone higher up on the food chain.

Flagging down a passing servant, a nord who was not in Nepos’ pocket, she sent a request to meet with Raerek at his earliest convenience. Raerek was her liaison with her Jarl. Her Jarl, as a fully recognized citizen of Skyrim. It was hard to believe how far she’d come, but she wanted to do her best. And so she would make sure that each step she took was aligned with what was best for her city, for her hold. For her new people. The nord returned quickly with a verbal message from the Steward, informing her that it would likely be several hours at the minimum and to likely expect him after supper. She thanked the man for his time, the servants of Understone Keep now familiar with her gratitude for just doing their jobs, and he left with a soft smile on his weathered face.

She muttered under her breath as she took a dampened rag, already blotchy with charcoal, and rubbed out a few words. One of the Thalmor guards glanced her way with a tilted head and a perked ear, listening to her nonsense. She’d found that without a phone or computer or television to occupy some of her head-space, she’d been self-stimulating more often. Especially vocally. The vocal stims seemed quite interesting to a lot of people, particularly the onomatopoeia or phrases that now lacked context. It was a bit embarrassing to try and explain what ‘nyoom’ meant.

The draft of her letter was coming along well, she’d previously worked retail for long enough that she was very good at making vague statements in regards to the motives of her superiors. One can only find so many ways to redirect a customer’s ire that won’t get that person in trouble. It was simple to confirm the bulk of the rumors without disclosing anything confidential or personal. Gisela hoped that Raerek would appreciate her hard-earned skills. She’d spent far too many hours working with the general public whilst feeling her brains leak from her ears to be bad at what was essentially another people-oriented job.

“Gisela?” A woman’s voice, Queyan, interrupted her train of thought.

“Eh?” Gisela jolted and looked up, blinking a bit dumbly. She’d pretty much finished the draft, and wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The way her hip popped when she adjusted herself in her seat, and the ache in her wrist, implied that it had been some time.

“Are you busy?” Queyan asked, accustomed to Gisela’s lapses of coherency. “It’s almost time for dinner.” Gisela looked back down at the parchment, gauging her efforts thus far. It was certainly professional, all the information that she wanted covered was in there. It was a matter of formatting the closing bit and making sure nothing she planned to write was classified.

“I could use a break,” Gisela admitted with a frown, trying to gauge her body’s state, “And I could use some food.” She didn’t think she had an appetite at the moment, but once she took a bite, her body would remember that it had been a while since she’d eaten and she’d feel hunger. Probably. Either way, she had to eat. She’d already needed to have her clothing altered by a tailor, living in a medieval fantasy setting meant that she no longer had medications that kept her from losing that soft squish that she now honestly missed. She still had some pudge, she lived a very cushy life by Skyrim’s standards, but not as much as she used to.

She stood with a groan, her back popping as she straightened up once more. Queyan didn’t bat an eye as Gisela picked up the cut of parchment that she’d been working on and went to place it in her lock box. She kept the key in her stays, knowing that even the most skilled pickpockets would struggle to get their hands between her boobs. The Thalmor guards, however, looked away. Her lack of modesty was offensive to them, but she stopped caring years before her cross-universal trip.

Cane tapping, she and Queyan walked down the hall to the large room the higher ranked residents often used for dinners. The staff generally ate in the kitchens, or their quarters. Legate Emmanuel Admand, Calcelmo and Aicantar, and the priest of Arkay from the attached Hall of the Dead by the name of Verulus were already seated.

Gisela had admittedly not spoken much with neither the Legate nor Brother Verulus. She wondered if the cannibal cult was active in the tombs yet. If she heard about the Hall of the Dead being closed, she’d try to see if she could convince Queyan or Ondolemar to investigate. She kept a grimace from her face when she realized that people were going to be killed no matter what she did, but Namira’s followers did actively kill to indulge their taboo tastes. It would be saving more people in the long run. She couldn’t afford to cling to her pre-Tamriel moralities, otherwise changing the future would destroy her.

“So, Gisela the Otherworlder,” Brother Verulus began, grabbing Gisela’s attention the moment her spoon touched her lips. “I have been wondering.” She chewed and swallowed as quickly as she could while still being polite.

“I don’t know what you’re wondering about,” Gisela replied, setting down her utensil and sitting up straighter, “But I can try to give you an answer.” Verulus smiled, a wry twist of his lips.

“Arkay is the god of life and death, here in Mundus, the Arkayn cycle. Who is it that rules that domain in Midgard?” He asked, and Gisela blinked.

“That is an incredibly complicated question.” Gisela replied. “Much like the people of Mundus, religions in my homeland are diverse and frequently contradictory. In many pantheons, one deity rules the entire cycle, like Arkay does. In others, the duty is divided between gods of life and of death. These pantheons often include psychopomps; guides from the world of the living to that of the dead.” The explanation was short and sweet compared to her usual, long winded rambling; simply because she’d taken a few bites and now her stomach remembered how to feel hunger. Finished with her miniature lecture, she brought another heaping spoonful of goat stew to her mouth.

“Fascinating. Our worlds are not all that different, are they?” Brother Verulus mused. Gisela huffed a laugh through her nose, still chewing.

“Aside from the major differences.” Calcelmo agreed. “The lack of magicka and Aetherius being one.”

“Don’t care much for that scholarly talk.” The Legate, Admand grunted.

“You don’t have to pay attention to it, Legate.” Gisela teased. “I’m stuck here by circumstance.”

“Oh dear,” Queyan mused, taking a sip of her wine. Something imported from Cyrodil. “You don’t have to sound so miserable about it.” Gisela snorted, then covered her mouth in embarrassment.

“I’ll have to come by the Hall of the Dead some time,” Gisela said, trying to change the subject. “I’d like to learn more about Arkay and how the Arkayn worship.”

“Ah.” Verulus faltered. “About that. I just had to close the Hall. There is a… A problem.” Admand raised an eyebrow.

“What kind of a problem?” Legate Admand asked, his tone implying that it was an order to speak and not a question.

“Some kind of pest problem.” Brother Verulus explained anxiously. “The Jarl could not see me today, so I was going to bring it to his attention tomorrow.”

“Rats?” Aicantar asked. “Skeevers? Spiders?” Gisela shivered. She loved critters, but the fantasy world mob variants were terrifying.

“I’ve found no evidence of any of those.” Verulus complained, seemingly glad to be able to tell someone about the problem. “Whatever it is, it’s gone when I go in.”

“I will see about sending a few of my soldiers to have a look, if that is alright with you.” Queyan offered, and Gisela wanted to wilt in relief. She hadn’t even needed to suggest it, nor tell them about the quest from the game. “Justiciars are well trained in investigation.”

“Your superior would not mind?” The Legate asked.

“No. Anything that desecrates a holy place as such should be dealt with. Besides, they are not assigned anything of import at this time. I believe they have grown bored.” Queyan replied, her words and tone haughty. Gisela knew how much of her superior airs were an act, but Queyan was also just like that.

The rest of dinner was passed in meaningless chatter and idle conversation. Other then the problem with the Hall of the Dead, nothing important or work related was discussed. It was surprisingly easy, nice. Gisela had been spending too much time embroiled in politics or in her own close circle. It was good to speak with people outside of that tight-knit group, people who weren’t trying to hide their motivations.

Back in the Thalmor quarters, Queyan turned to Gisela with a sharp look in her eye.

“You know what plagues the Hall of the Dead.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” Gisela trusted Queyan with her life, as she had trusted her with her secrets.

“Tell me everything.” And so Gisela spilled her guts to Queyan. She spoke of cannibals living among the people of Markarth, of the hidden cult of Namira. Of said cult targeting the already deceased. As Gisela explained the linear nature of the version she knew, Queyan’s expression grew darker and darker.

“The hero in the story does everything the leader of the cult asks.” Gisela said. “And that means convincing Brother Verulus to join them at the tomb. Only then does the story give them a choice. Kill the cult and rescue Verulus, or kill Verulus and become a champion of Namira.”

“Who are the members of the cult?” Queyan asked. Gisela bit her lip, struggling to recall. It had been over a year now, since she’d fallen between worlds. She only remembered the bare bones, hardly knew the names.

“There are a few.” She said, eyes squeezing shut as her head began to ache from the strain on her memory. “One was a merchant, I think she ate her husband. One trains dogs. Another is a butcher. I don’t remember their names.” Queyan wrote down everything that Gisela was able to offer in what looked like an encoded shorthand. Gisela couldn’t read it, but she didn’t need to. She trusted Queyan to keep it out of dangerous hands.

“Anything else?” Queyan asked.

“The cannibal taunts the hero when they investigate, claiming that they’d blocked the memory of consuming their fellows in the past. I don’t know if it’s true, or if she just wants to mess with the person investigating.” Gisela said. “Don’t believe her.” Queyan’s eyes hardened.

“I won’t. But I will personally join the investigation. I refuse to allow a Daedric cult to take root in Markarth.”

“There’s another Daedric quest in Markarth.” Gisela added. “An abandoned house and a Vigilant of Stendarr.” Queyan slumped, looking exhausted.

“Which Prince is involved?” She asked, weary.

“Molag Bal.” Gisela was apologetic. But this would be something for Ondolemar’s unassigned Justiciars to investigate. Better than having them around giving her dirty looks.

“Namira and Molag Bal, with influence in Markarth.” Queyan sounded despaired.

“Bal doesn’t actually do anything as long as no one goes in the house, I don’t think.” Gisela offered. Queyan glared halfheartedly.

“The Princes’ abilities on Mundus are limited by their shines and servants.” Queyan eventually agreed with a sigh. “Whom must we look out for in Bal’s situation?”

“His shrine is desecrated by a priest of a rival Prince.” Gisela said. “His power is limited to just the house. The door locks behind the hero when they go in and the Vigilant will attack them after Bal says the only way he’ll let them go is if one kills the other. Unless you bring a lot of Stendarr’s people, I don’t know how to circumvent the death of the Vigilant.”

“And how would you propose bringing the requisite number of Vigilants with minimal deaths?” Queyan asked. Gisela recognized the test of her problem solving skills and considered her options.

“I don’t know what rumors of daedric activity brings the Vigilants to Markarth, but if he starts asking questions, we can tell him that there’s a shrine in the house. Perhaps mentioning an anonymous informant. I could do the fortuneteller thing again if I had to, but I’d rather not do anything that could bring Molag Bal’s attention to me.” Gisela said.

“Perhaps.” Queyan allowed. “There has not been any sightings of a Vigilant in Markarth yet, so I will discuss our options with Ondolemar. In the meantime, I will deal with Namira’s cult.” Gisela smiled, relieved. It would be nice to have solutions that did not involve the Dragonborn becoming a Daedric Prince’s champion.

A loud knock sounded in the room, echoing off of the stone walls. Queyan was too well trained to react, but Gisela startled almost violently. Heart pounding, she sank into her chair while Queyan went to open the door.

“Ah, Steward. You are here for our ambassador, yes?” Queyan greeted, mask of civility back in place on her golden face. Back to the grind it was then.

Chapter Text

The high elf had offered soldiers to investigate the Hall of the Dead. In all his years as a priest of the Arkayn, Brother Verulus had never seen a member of the lofty Thalmor stoop so low as to personally volunteer for something as filthy as protecting human dead. He, however, knew not to question a blessing such as that. The elf, who had not introduced herself but whose name he’d still learned from the lips of others, was a regal figure. She was tall and golden of skin and hair – like her brethren – and spent much time literally looking down her nose at the lesser beings in the Keep. The facade, however, appeared to be just that.

“Good afternoon.” Queyan of the Summerset Isles greeted several days after the discussion over dinner. “I have brought with me two of my Justiciars to look into the issue that you mentioned. Any other pertinent details that we ought to know?” Verulus eyed the two elves behind her, equipped with matching elven armor. Queyan’s armor itself was detailed more finely, indicative of a higher station.

“Good afternoon,” Verulus returned, tucking the hems of his robes’ sleeves together to conceal his nervous hand-wringing. “There is more that I did not want to mention over the dinner table. The state of the deceased… There’s no delicate way to put it, but they’ve been cut up, eaten. Carved like a roast, bones snapped to get the marrow.” The two soldiers stiffened, visibly shaken. Queyan did not react beyond a narrowing of sharp golden eyes.

“The culprit is man or mer, then.” She said airily, a declaration rather than a question. “Have you heard anything in the crypt?”

“No,” Brother Verulus said with a shake of his head. “It’s like they know when I’m there.”

“A lookout, perhaps?” One of the soldiers suggested. “There may be others.” Verulus wouldn’t have noticed the strained crease of Queyan’s eyes had he not already been looking.

“Perhaps.” Queyan agreed. “I shall enter the Hall from the city entrance. Korrinar, with me. Mithlon, stand guard at this door.”

“Wait, you’ll need a key.” Verulus interrupted the elves before they parted. “I have a spare. Just, please remember to return it when you’re done.” The elite Justiciar laughed, sounding genuinely amused, before accepting the key. One of the soldiers she had brought stayed where they were, Mithlon.

Verulus wasn’t sure what to do at the point, though. He was capable of offensive and defensive magic, but he knew that his presence would only serve to be a hindrance. Mithlon was alert, watching the locked door for movement. As curious as Verulus was about Xarxes worship, the Meric god of dead, he knew asking Mithlon would just be a distraction.

Without anything to do but wait, he wandered to the small dwemer planter nearby to enjoy the small juniper shrub. It was smaller than the wilder trees of the same type, but equally fragrant. Verulus rubbed some of the scale-like leaves, relishing the aroma of juniper. It was with that scent in his nose that Verulus prayed to Arkay that the high elves would not find the end of their lives in His Hall. To keep them well until their time came that their gods could collect their souls. He prayed until he heard the creaking of metal doors, and looked up to see both Queyan and Korrinar exit the tomb.

“What did you find?” He asked, hurrying over. The superior soldier among them straightened her back further, shoulders rolling to make her seem taller. A pose of attention.

“I was approached by a human. Female. A cannibal.” The elf said, brows pinched and lips down-turned. “She attempted to appeal to me, convince me that I was like her. I played along until she told me the location of her fellows. And of their shrine to the daedric Prince, Namira.” Verulus felt like his heart stopped.

“A cult of Namira?” He asked, breathless with horror. The implications were terrible. To his dismay, she nodded.

“It was greatly implied.” Queyan said gravely. “If I assist her, act as though I were also… Like her, she will likely gather her fellows for a celebratory feast. It is risky, but we may be able to catch more of them that way.” Verulus didn’t like that at all. He felt revolted at the thought of lending aid to a daedra worshiper, even if only to lure out the rest of the cult.

“It… The idea is not without merit.” Verulus offered diplomatically, likely failing to keep the distaste from his voice. The elf raised a sharp gold brow.

“If you do not wish to indulge this plan, Priest, I would be willing to hear out yours.” She replied archly.

“There is a Hall of the Vigilant in Skyrim.” Brother Verulus suggested. “If we bring this discovery to the Jarl, we can have a messenger send for them. They can root out any followers of Namira hiding in the city.” The elves were quiet for a long moment.

“Namira’s followers are known to be quite adept at blending in to the general populous.” Queyan pointed out. “Do you honestly believe the Vigilants capable of finding such cultists?” It was a reasonable argument.

“I do.” Verulus said. “I have faith. However, this is bigger than us. I suggest we bring this matter to the Jarl’s attention anyway.” An odd look flashed through the elf’s eyes for a moment, approval. Did she want him to come to that conclusion, or was she impressed that a human could come up with halfway decent plans?

“Ugh.” One of the soldiers scoffed. “He’s probably going to call the court for this.”

“No need for such disrespect.” Queyan scolded lightly, amused. “This is his city, after all. He has the right to decide how daedra worship is handled here.”

“With all due respect, Madame General,” The soldier continued, not dissuaded by the gentle reprimand, “There’s going to be a fuss and that might alert the cult.”

“Have you no trust in your betters, Corporal Mithlon?” Queyan said, a dangerous looking glint in her eyes. “That I may not have foreseen such matters?” The soldier paled.

“...My apologies Madame General.” Mithlon said quietly. “I did not mean to imply–.”

“No, you did not.” Queyan interrupted. “Hold your tongue lest you dig your grave with it.” Verulus did not want to be there, listening to the rank and file of soldiers. It was awkward, to say the least.

“Yes, Madame General.” Mithlon said, then promptly went silent.

“Now, Brother Verulus. Let us go speak to Jarl Igmund. Shall we?” The elf had gone from cold and threatening to kind and agreeable in less time than it took a heart to beat. Perhaps this was a woman thing, he’d seen it happen in his sect of the Arkayn Temple with his Sisters. Regardless, when he agreed and turned to walk towards the throne room, it was with Queyan by his side. Walking in step.

There was a small line of petitioners within the throne room. A few thanes and other members of the court were already gathered, listening and discussing problems brought to the Jarl by people from across the hold.

“A word, Jarl Igmund.” Queyan announced, her voice loud and clear in the large stone room. She ignored the discontented mutterings of the common folk, and of the court. Faleen moved closer to the Jarl as Queyan did, though the Thalmor soldiers stayed at the entrance.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Jarl Igmund hissed, clearly irritated.

“An urgent matter, my Jarl.” Verulus chimed in quickly, then lowered his voice as to not alert the rest of the room. “We’ve found evidence of a daedric cult.” Jarl Igmund’s eyes went wide.

“Out!” He bellowed at the gathered petitioners. “This meeting must take priority!” There was a flurry of action as the Steward and guards jumped to appease the crowd and shuffle everyone unnecessary from the throne room. “Now, go on.”

“You may have heard of the Hall of the Dead’s closure?” Verulus prompted when the common folk were gone. “It was because the dead were being desecrated. Eaten. Madame General Queyan has investigated the matter for me, and discovered the culprit.” The Jarl looked more agitated with each word spoken, and when Verulus mentioned the Thalmor, his head turned to face her.

“The culprit approached me, whilst I was alone in the Hall.” Queyan continued where Verulus left off. “She, in an attempt to prevent her death, tried to convince me that I was a cannibal and did not recall the event. I played along to gather more information, and discovered the location of Namira’s shrine. I left her alive, in the case that we decided to allow her to gather her fellows. It would make it easier to locate the cult if they were to convene.” With the information out in the open, the room fell into a startled silence.

“This is a grave matter indeed.” Jarl Igmund agreed. “You’ve done well to bring this information to me. Priest, Thalmor, what options do we have?”

“We discussed possibilities.” Verulus said. “One option is to allow Madame General Queyan to continue her infiltration and to have a group lying in wait to arrest the cult at the Shrine. The other option would be to send a messenger to the Hall of the Vigilant in the Pale. We could let the Vigilants of Stendarr handle the rest of the investigation.”

“The third option, of course, is to simply seek out the known worshiper of Namira and kill her. Then hope that we as a whole can effectively root out the remaining cult.” Queyan added. “This is the worst choice of the three.” Jarl Igmund scoffed at the declaration, but it seemed to ease a line of tension in his shoulders.

“You’re a part of the group that helped convince the wildmen to a truce.” Jarl Igmund said to Queyan, and Verulus’ head snapped around to gawk. “You could likely have Namira’s cult rounded up by the time the Viligants arrived at the shrine to collect them.” Queyan smiled, a smug quirk of her lips.

“Is that what you feel is best, Jarl Igmund?” She asked, sounding pleased.

“It is. Uncle, send our lightest messenger on our swiftest horse. Madame General, if you would not mind playing along with this… Cannibal’s… Scheme.” The Jarl’s face scrunched in disgust at the idea. Queyan’s smile only widened.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

It had been some time since Queyan was involved in such a delicate operation. Setting aside the fact that clearing a crypt of ancient human corpses alongside a high ranking member of one of Namira’s cults is hardly an undertaking worth mentioning. Queyan would barely need to be careful with her mannerisms at all. She gathered the necessary supplies for a solo mission in her pack, and borrowed one of the horses at the stable set aside for the Jarl and his people, and turned east.

The air was fresh and clean, the swiftly moving water channels that ran under protective metal grates from the Keep to the Warrens and beyond were not enough to take much of an edge off of the distinct odor of “city” that lingered in Markarth. The Reach, however, smelled mainly of frost, grass, and water. The road that Queyan was traveling down, and the river that flowed beside it, was very familiar. It was the same route that had taken herself, and the others, to the Reachfolk conference all those months ago.

The horse trotted along the cobblestones, the dull clatter of horseshoes on rock echoing off the gorge. The creek burbled, occasionally broken by the splash of a fish leaping for prey. The Reach was nothing like Summerset, with it’s greens and pastels. Instead, the colors were faded by comparison. Washed out in grey. It was pretty, but pretty in a different way. Towering spires of stone to her right, and on the other side of the water to her left. Moss and wildflowers and wild juniper grew in cracks in the rock. Poetic, Gisela had pointed out on their last journey. Queyan was inclined to agree.

It took most of the day to reach the crypt, the cave in which walking dead kept Namira’s faithful from proper worship. The entrance was on the edge of a craggy clearing, dotted with ancient Nord obelisks. A small tent was pitched, a camping fire encircled by sooty stones. Sitting at the fire, looking as smug as a khajiiti merchant after a successful deal, was the cannibal priestess. The woman by the name of Eola. Queyan dismounted, using a rope to give the horse adequate range to graze.

“You’ve come.” Eola commented. Queyan raised a brow.

“Did you think I would not?” She asked. The sentiment was amusing, in a sense. As if the woman believed that someone would take such a world-shattering revelation such as cannibalism easily and without seeking potential resources surrounding the… Affliction. If Queyan had believed Eola’s lies, she would have been lost and isolated. It was the perfect trap.

“Just thinking out loud.” The woman said dismissively. It made Queyan’s lips twitch slightly with the urge curl into a sneer. “How fresh are you? Between the two of us, we should be more than able to clear the crypt of undead; but if the trip wore you out I would rather wait.” Queyan considered the thought. She was Thalmor trained, able to function well enough to battle draugr even after traveling all day. However, the longer she could reasonably hold up the process the more time Brother Verulus and Jarl Igmund had to scrounge up some Vigilants.

“We rest.” Queyan decided, not bothering to explain her reasoning. Eola tilted her head and raised a brow curiously. When Queyan simply began to unpack her bedroll and a small waxed canvas tent, the cannibal woman relented. It was pleasing that she was not questioning Queyan’s actions, at least out loud. It was reminiscent of her time spent as a lesser soldier, a mere grunt under the firm guiding hand of her superiors. Nothing needed explanation, one simply trusted that your better knew what they were doing. Eola may not be one of her subordinates but she, at least, seemed to know how to choose her battles.

For dinner, Queyan chose not to eat what Eola offered, instead eating the travel rations she had brought with her. This was also something that the cannibal seemed to actively choose not to comment on. The woman likely had her suspicions that Queyan was humoring her, but was too thankful for the assistance to do anything about it. Perhaps she was trying to save face with the rest of their cult, not willing to allow her flock of flesh-eating sheep to see her resort to outsider help. Or maybe she was too unobservant to realize that Queyan wasn’t caught up in her lies and simply reluctant to break the taboo ‘again’ so soon.

The evening was boring, as far as Queyan’s experience went. With her most recent expeditions containing either familiar faces or a rambling human to occupy her time, she found that she rather missed the entertainment. She was not overly fond of sharing camp with a dangerous stranger, despite their mutual goals in clearing draugr from the tomb. Queyan personally had no experience with such feats, but according to several people she had spoken to, draugr could be killed much in the way the living could. With sufficient damage to the physical body, the magic keeping them animated would fail. They were, supposedly, very sensitive to damage from fire.

As an elite soldier, formerly serving the High Queen of Summerset, she was quite skilled in destruction magic. This would be rather easy, she felt. Though Gisela warned her that some of the walking corpses had been high ranking servants of the Dragon Cult. Capable of both magic and the skill oft attributed to both the Greybeards and to Talos of Atmora, the Voice. It was a skill she knew that the Dragonborn also claimed, an inborn gift to both learn the necessary words and how to use them. If even one such draugr was present in the tomb, it would be the most dangerous part of her mission.

The morning came all too quickly, and Queyan woke just before dawn. It was a military habit of hers, left over from the war. Quick and quiet, she had already stoked the fire and started brewing her coffee in the traditional methods used by the khajiit. The strange scent combined with the muted sounds of Queyan moving about woke Eola as light began to turn the sky pink and orange behind the mountains. Eola didn’t speak, but watched curiously as the small copper pot foamed to the brim before Queyan poured it and placed it on the fire to foam again. She repeated the process until her cup was full and the copper pot empty, before sitting back on her heels to assess her temporary ally.

“What is that?” The woman asked at last. She must have realized that Queyan would not volunteer information, and wanted to see if she would speak when asked directly.

“Coffee.” Queyan said, gently blowing on her cup to cool it. She allowed herself a small satisfied hum as she took her first sip, her mind already feeling more alert.

“And what in Namira’s name is coffee?” Eola prompted, a hint of a smile curling her lips.

“A beverage made from ground beans.” Queyan explained further, knowing that offering even a little personal information would make her appear more trustworthy in the woman’s eyes. “It is a khajiiti export. A friend of mine introduced me. She prefers it sweet with cream, I do without.”

“Hm.” Eola hummed, a simply sign of interest before her smile widened. “Like some kind of bean tea?”

“My friend would find that very amusing.” Queyan replied, keeping her own amusement off of her face.

Breakfast was just as simple as her supper had been; travel biscuits that she soaked in the coffee for flavor and to soften them and some dried fruits and meat. Easy to carry and long lasting, and confirmed to not be formerly sapient. Queyan ate quickly, finished her coffee, and cleared her camp quickly. Eola didn’t bother, not needing to. It only confirmed Queyan’s expectations that she would stay in the area to clean up her Cult’s home away from home.

Once the campsite was handled and armor secured, they ventured into crypt inside Reachcliff. The opening of the cave looked much like a mine on the inside. A rough-hewn tunnel chipped out of stone and braced with ancient wooden beams, the floor covered in soil that centuries of wind had swept in. It was only when they had ventured in deep enough that no natural light could be found, that their torches illuminated ancient nord carvings. The style was distinct enough, simplistic stylized dragons peering down at those who walked the halls. An open sarcophagus coated in dust thick enough to appear opaque sat to the side of the sloped walkway, though the dust was not enough to obscure the shape of the mummified body beneath it. A body that began to move the moment they approached.

Without hesitation, Queyan lunged forward and stabbed her torch directly into the awakened draugr. The creature went up like tinder, making some sort of hideous unnatural shrieking sound. Despite the fire rapidly consuming its body, it staggered forward, arms raised as though to grab at her. Queyan stepped back, dodging the clumsy attempt, and the draugr collapsed as the curse holding it together broke. The noise alerted another guard, a draugr with a bow, prompting it to attack. It’s arrow was easily shattered by impact against Queyan’s armor, and Eola charged it with sword out. The clumsy corpse staggered at the blow, and easily caught fire as the woman took her cues from Queyan and jabbed it with her own torch. This one did not go up in flame quite as quickly as the one covered in dust, but it still fell with ease.

“Might be worth it to conjure an atronach.” Eola commented, rolling the wrist of her sword arm.

“Do you know the spell?” Queyan asked, already drawing the necessary magicka to her free hand to form the spell. Eola watched as the warp and weft of reality twisted violet, and a flame atronach took form. Rather than reply, she held out her torch for Queyan to take and proceeded to summon one of her own.

The cavern of the tomb’s entryway was well lit now, between the torches and the conjured daedra. A few stone steps led up to another tunnel, just as claustrophobic as the first. It twisted and turned deeper into Mundus, the faintest breeze from some other exit deeper in keeping the air from going stale. The next ‘room’ they encountered was another cave of sorts. A large empty room with more nordic style carvings, a large ceremonial bowl on some raised platform, and two more wandering draugr. With four fire wielding beings, these draugr went down just as quickly as their formers. The standing sarcophagi with their shattered lids on the dusty floor told Queyan where they had originated from.

Beyond the cave, the catacombs began in earnest. Or perhaps this was simply the places that had survived the test of time. Walls chiseled smooth by masons with narrow slots, old burnt out candles and dusty bones tucked into their permanent resting places. Some of the grave niches contained mummified bodies, like the draugr, but without the curses folklore mentioned that kept their souls bound to the physical. A particularly dusty mummy stood in a carved alcove, arms crossed over its chest and head bowed. Queyan identified an axe still resting the dry-rotted leather sling on its hip. The moment it lifted its head to reveal eyes glowing magicka blue, Queyan set the shambling corpse aflame. Its shrieking howls and screams were just as unsettling as the first few.

“Horrid things.” Eola commented, her nose wrinkling in disgust as the burning body collapsed to the floor.

“Does your Lady not favor all things repulsive to most?” Queyan asked, partly in jest but also with sincere curiosity.

“She does, however Namira’s followers generally prefer to avoid wasting the meat rather than make it move again.” Eola explained, using her sword to move the smoldering draugr to the side. “Molag Bal is generally the one to look to if necromancy is what you’re after.” Ah yes, Bal. Who had a shrine in the city proper. Queyan was blessedly well versed in keeping her feelings off of her face, but she allowed herself a frown.

“Not the only one.” She pointed out.

“No, he’s not.” Agreed Eola. “But he’s the one necromancers tend to seek regardless.” Conversation more or less finished, they continued straight ahead. The walkway had broken into a ramp to a lower level, and another miserably snug tunnel to an open space adjacent to the catacomb. Another two draugr patrolled the room, their blue eyes visible even in the narrow light cast by the fires. The battle was hardly worth mentioning, the so called bone walkers so dry after eons spent in the tomb that any fire quickly engulfed them.

From that point onward, the crypt became something much more ‘proper’. A high vaulted ceiling, carved from floor to the highest point. Large ornamental urns and chests, likely containing some form of treasure, more ceremonial bowls with carvings of those stylized dragons. Old shelves with the crumbled remains of lost books. A door that was formerly concealed behind the lid of a standing sarcophagus, now an open entry point for a tunnel to a hallway. The sides were flanked by stone dragons and raised platforms, littered with lidded clay urns. This section was clearer of dust, and Queyan caught the seam of a hidden door on one side of the hallway.

“How much further?” Queyan asked, knowing now that they were in the more recently frequent areas of the crypt.

“The door beyond is dining hall. My Lady’s shrine is in that room.” Eola said. It confirmed her suspicions. The cult likely used the hidden door in the stone wall to avoid the draugr. Someone must have accidentally, or intentionally, opened the tomb from the inside. It was not something Queyan planned to investigate regardless. The cult would be apprehended, and that would be the end of it.

The doors to the dining hall was made of some dark metal, looking almost obsidian in the firelight. Likely ebony. The hinges creaked loudly as the double doors swung inwards, two sets of blue magicka eyes turning to face the pair. This wouldn’t be too difficult.

With her sworn drawn and torch in hand, Queyan charged in, closing the distance between the bastard sword wielding draugr first. This one was sturdier than the others, able to maintain its function for longer despite being lit on fire. Her flame atronach tossed fire bolts at the creature, each burst of magicka enhanced eat eating away at the corpse further. Queyan parried the draugr’s attempt to cleave her in two and hacked at the unprotected neck. The moment her blade severed its head, the body dropped with a loud clatter of metal.

“Fo—” A rasping, guttural voice on the other side of the hall bellowed, echoing off of the stone. “Krah Diin!” The resulting blast of magic was power, ancient in feeling and staggeringly loud. A billowing cloud of pale blue, almost white churned the air, barreling towards Queyan like an arrow. When it hit, it instantly frosted over her armor. Her body almost locked up, the sudden cold so bone deep that she was chilled to the marrow. Her torch extinguished immediately.

The newcomer was not one of the two they had first seen walking in, but had sat itself in throne like chair at the head of the table. It was stronger, more resilient than its kin. When Eola threw a fire bolt at it, it lifted a shriveled hand to pat out the flame. Queyan shivered violently, feeling the very marrow in her bones frosted over. She dropped the torch and raised her hand to cast a stream of fire at the second weaker draugr. Stepping over the burning corpse as it dropped, she soaked up whatever heat she could, ice melting off of her armor.

Gritting her teeth, Queyan roared out a challenge, one the final draugr echoed back at her. Calling forth a surge of magic, flame erupted around Queyan, the heat comforting but not harmful. A cloak of fire. Joints losing their icy stiffness, she began to move towards her foe, throwing more fire as she went. The draugr laughed, an awful grating sound, and ran to meet her.

“Bolag aaz, mal lir!” The draugr crowed, almost delighted as it caught the swing of Queyan’s sword with its war axe. “Kren sosaal!” The sound Queyan made in reply to whatever the walking corpse said was bestial, an enraged snarl. She didn’t know its dead tongue, she didn’t care what it had to say. She only wanted it dead for good. Eola and the flame atronachs peppered it with ranged spells, while Queyan kept its attention in melee. Her flame cloak was pulling a great deal of magicka to maintain, and she’d rather not have to deal with the side effects of running out completely.

By the time she had to end the spell, the powerful undead was scorched through. One of the arms had dropped off, the ligaments too far gone to hold it any more. Queyan was exhausted, low on magicka and aching with bruises beneath her armor. The draugr reared back to shout again, but she raised her sword to lunge and plunged the tip of her blade through its open mouth. Instead, a horrid shriek echoed through the room as the light in its eyes flickered and finally went dark.

Queyan dropped to her knees, the corpse collapsing like a broken puppet nearby. Her sword was still impaling its head. She released her hold on the magic binding her atronach to Mundus, and heard the crackling of the creature returning to Oblivion. Fumbling in her pack, she found several potions brewed specifically for recovery. It was bitter, potently herbal in flavor, and thick going down her throat; but the moment it reached her belly she began to feel better. Her limbs moved more easily, and the soreness began to fade.

“You’ve done it.” Eola said, still sounding breathless with exertion. “The shrine is ours again.” Ours. That meant that Queyan’s charade was holding up still. The fight probably only solidified the appearance of her superficial dedication.

“We did it.” Queyan replied, reinforcing the bond between them. It would help blind Eola to the snare tightening around her throat.

“This calls for a celebration.” Eola continued, though she seemed pleased at the inclusion. “A grand feast perhaps, to welcome you to Namira’s coven.”

“Of course.” Queyan agreed, though her stomach churned at the thought of what the feast would entail.

“You should have the honor of bringing a fresh kill for the main course. I know just the person.” Eola said, unaware of Queyan’s inner turmoil.

“Who did you have in mind?” The person did not matter, as they would not actually become dinner. The cannibal priestess only needed to think that Queyan would bring them with her to the feast.

“A priest, filled with the taste of an easy life.” Eola suggested. “Brother Verulus, from the Hall of the Dead in Markarth. It would be poetic, the man that brought us together, binding us in sisterhood in Namira’s embrace.” And it would be spitting in the face of Arkay, but Queyan thought the woman would consider that as a bonus.

“How do you propose bringing him here?” Queyan asked, knowing that she would not follow through.

“Gold. Tell him that you need Arkay’s help exploring an old cavern for treasure. I have some that you can bribe him with.” The priestess fished out a coin purse and tossed it at Queyan. She caught it easily. “When he stands in Namira’s presence, She will take care of the rest.”

“Very well. When is the feast? It may take a few days for me to get the priest here.” Queyan said.

“Have him here in seven days.” Eola decided. “That will give me time to gather the coven. Oh, and say ‘hello’ to Verulus for me.”

Chapter Text

When a weary nord messenger on an exhausted horse arrived wearing the colors of Markarth, Tyranus was not surprised. He’d already received assignment to investigate and deal with an active site of daedra worship within the city itself, so his first assumption was that it was related to that. When the messenger stood in front of the Keeper and all the stationed Vigilants, he was proven wrong.

“A sect of the cult of Namira?” Keeper Carcette asked, shocked. “A cannibal coven?” The nord nodded, retrieving a sealed letter from his bag.

“I was told to both inform you of the circumstances, and to deliver these letters.” He said, passing them over. The Keeper inspected the seals, unbroken from what Tyranus could see. One bore the mark of the Jarl, and other, he did not recognize.

“You’ve done well, stay and rest. I’ll read the letters and form a group to travel to Markarth.” Keeper Carcette said. The messenger’s shoulders sagged in relief, his duty complete for the moment. He was offered food by some of the nearby Vigilants, a seat at their table. Tyranus caught the Keeper’s eye. At the tilt of her head, he joined her to the side.

“I was going to an assignment in Markarth.” He reminded her. “There’s a site of daedra worship within the city limits. Is it the same group as this one?” The Keeper shook her head, cracking the wax seal on the Jarl’s letter.

“No, and that worries me.” She admitted. Markarth had long suffered from ongoing violence, the Reach itself steeped in blood. The Great War, the Forsworn “Rebellion”; the perpetrators of which had allegedly formed a tentative agreement to negotiate for peace, and now the Stormcloak Rebellion. Such horrors had a tendency to draw the eyes of the Daedra.

Regardless, the Forsworn kept their daedric worship within the clan. For there to be so much activity within the city… It was incredibly strange. And concerning. There were too many strange rumors coming out of Markarth for comfort.

“If this trend holds, I’ll likely need backup for my mission.” Tyranus said, worried. The Keeper nodded her own agreement, reading over the second letter.

“The Mistress of Decay comes first, active cannibals takes priority over a simple worship site. In the unlikely event that there’s more Princes active in the Reach, I’ll assign more Vigilants to your case.” Keeper Carcette grimaced. Tyranus was of the opinion that voicing her concern would increase the chances of there being more trouble and it seemed that she was too.

“How many are we bringing to capture the cult?” Another Vigilant, Sheldon, asked; approaching from where the messenger was eating like he’d been starved. With the speed at which the nord was wolfing down the stew, he must have forgone food in favor of travel. “We have no idea how large this group is.”

“...Eight.” The Keeper decided. “We’ll have the support of the city guard and the Thalmor stationed in the city.” There were sounds of surprise and displeasure at that, but Carcette continued, unbothered by the interruption. “Then we’ll be able to split up. One group to handle the captured cannibals, the second will investigate the reports of worship within the city limits under the command of Vigilant Tyranus. This is too much activity for any lone Vigilant to handle, so stay alert. Gather your gear, we head out in one hour. The journey will take several days, so the sooner we leave the better.” Tyranus turned to get his supplies while the Keeper selected the rest of the team.

He opted to pack extra healing potions and wound care items along with the standard potions of cure disease. Bandages and poultices and the like. Tyranus had heard stories from older Vigilants of captured cultists being prone to biting. Especially Namira’s cannibalistic followers. Bites from such deviants were dangerous if left untreated, festering and rotting away the flesh like Namira’s own.

Tyranus met the others outside. The Pale was warm this time of the year, and the grass was a rich yellow-green shade. Clusters of mountain flowers and snowberry shrubs dotted the landscape, along with other varieties of hardy tundra plants. The air was cold still, even in the midst of a northern summer, but not cold enough to fog their breath.

The horses in the stables were being saddled and brought out by the younger Vigilants tasked with the squirely chores. It would take several days of hard riding for a group of their size to reach the city of Markarth. They could certainly try to get there more quickly, but it would more than likely kill their horses. Tyranus could only hope that they would arrive in time to prevent the situation from getting any worse.

Chapter Text

Verulus spent much of the time between the start and commencement of the Madame General’s mission and the Vigilants’ arrival in a fit of anxious mania. He’d already hired craftsmen to upgrade the security within the Halls, better locks on the exterior doors and – with the Jarl’s awareness of the issue – a more frequent patrol near the entrances. The problem with the Jarl being brought in to the fold was that many of the Thanes and other nobles were now aware. And several of them took offense to their deceased kin being eaten under his watch. Many were now questioning his abilities as an Arkayn priest.

“I cannot bless the dead against cannibalism.” He explained once more. “The herbs and salts that keep normal pests at bay while embalming the body do not work on people.”

“Herbs and salt!?” An elderly nord by the name of Henrik looked horrified. “You may as well have served my wife up on a dinner platter!”

“Many of those herbs are also toxic to men and mer.” Verulus tried, exhausted from trying to keep the peace.

“Not toxic enough.” Henrik scoffed. Verulus considered adjusting the embalming salts blend. He would need to visit the Hag’s Cure soon; Bothela would enjoy the chance to mix up something suitably noxious.

“I will fix it, this will not happen again.” Verulus promised. Henrik was still clearly displeased, but he made a final loud and disapproving sound and stomped off. It was nice to not have anyone shouting at him, he hoped that it would last. As he left the portion of the Understone Keep that was properly palace and made his way towards the Halls of the Dead, a shout caught his attention.

“Brother! One moment!” An out of breath guardswoman jogged up. “You...” She gasped a bit, and Verulus held up a hand to stop her.

“Take a moment,” He said, straightening his hooded robes. The woman stood up straight and breathed, deep heaving lungfuls of air.

“Your guests were spotted approaching the gates.” She said after she’d recovered some. “A large group of Vigilants. I’m going to report to the Jarl, you should come too.”

“Of course!” Verulus felt reinvigorated, this is what he’d been waiting for. “Thank you Miss….”

“Leofa.” The guardswoman said.

“Thank you Miss Leofa.” Verulus finished. Mira, led the way to the throne room, with Verulus on her heels. There was no court being held, no meeting, no discussions. Some nobility loitered, mingling. Guardswoman Leofa took off to find Jarl Igmund to inform him, while Verulus looked to find a spot to wait.

Sitting on a stone bench with Madame General Queyan was the outer-planar woman, the diplomat Gisela. She was grinning wide and bright, waving him over. Better to sit with friendly faces than standing alone or with potentially wronged grieving families. Verulus walked over to the bench.

“Good afternoon Brother Verulus.” Gisela said, cheeks plumped with the breadth of her smile. Verulus smiled in return, her cheer infectious.

“Good afternoon, Lady Gisela. Madame General.”

“Priest.” The Thalmor returned, prim but civil. She was the pinnacle of calm, compared to the excitable wiggle that Gisela was clearly attempting to suppress.

Verulus ran a hand through his hair under his hood, softly invoking Julianos for logic and patience. Gisela’s head tilted slightly in his direction, listening but not interrupting. He didn’t mind; she’d expressed a respectful curiosity in his practices, and had mentioned that she had her own gods that she followed. Verulus wondered which of hers could be called upon for fortitude.

Gisela tugged at the small braid her unruly hair had been apparently wrestled into. She wrapped the single thick curl at the tail around her finger, pulling just enough to straighten the impressive kink in the middle of the plait’s length. When she let the braid go, the bend returned with a vengeance.

“It’s going to work out.” Gisela said, perhaps picking up on his anxiety. “I don’t know much about how the Vigilants of Stendarr do what they do, but I know they’ll handle this.” Verulus huffed a soft laugh, but her unwavering and blind faith did help to put him at ease.

“I will give you a full brief when we can find the time.” Madame General Queyan said, though it sounded more like an order than an offer. Gisela still grinned brightly.

“Storytime!” She cheered quietly enough to not truly bother anyone nearby, though some of their eavesdroppers seemed amused by the childish behavior while others looked to find it wanting. Then she turned her smile on Verulus, “You should come too, we take turns.”

“Perhaps when the current matters are dealt with.” Verulus offered diplomatically. He was uncertain of whether or not he would be welcome in the Thalmor’s dedicated chambers.

“Of course.” Queyan affirmed. Well then, Verulus would definitely make time to visit then.

A hush came across the gathered crowds as the Vigilants entered the room. There were eight of them, led by a blonde breton woman. Each was dressed in mage robes, with metal boots and gauntlets, amulets of Stendarr glinting on their chests proudly.

“Welcome to Markarth, Vigilants of Stendarr.” Jarl Igmund said.

“Thank you, Jarl. I am Keeper Carcette, of the Hall of the Vigilants.” The woman, Keeper Carcette, said. She placed a closed fist over her heart and amulet in salute. “We received your message and have come to offer our aid.”

“You have my gratitude, Keeper.” Jarl Igmund replied. “Madame General Queyan of the Thalmor has been heading the investigation into the Cult of Namira located in my Hold. She, and the keeper of our Hall of the Dead, Brother Verulus, are the ones you will need to speak to regarding the situation. I will also send you with Faleen, my housekarl, to coordinate with the guard.” Queyan left Gisela’s side when the Jarl spoke her name, stepping forward to stand closer to the throne. Keeper Carcette met her eyes and nodded in acknowledgment. Verulus stood up when his own name was spoken; but after dipping his head in greeting, he sat back down. Faleen did not move from her spot next to Igmund.

“Very well.” Keeper Carcette said. “I will speak with you three in regards to the situation. My people will need rest before we can take on the Cult. Where shall we go?”

“I have made arrangements.” Steward Raerek added. “The Silver-Blood Inn will be happy to host you, on the Jarl’s coin.” The new owners of the Silver-Blood Inn opted to keep the name, even in light of the former owners’ crimes. Proprietorship had simply been turned over to Kleppr, the man who was running the business already, along with his wife Frabbi.

“Your forethought is much appreciated.” Keeper Carcette replied politely, and Verulus wondered how long it has been since the court has seen such a courtly exchange. Perhaps it had been when the Thalmor first arrived to take up their duties in the name of the White-Gold Concordat. Nord politics was much more straightforward than those of the High Elves, or even the Imperials.

Once the traditional song and dance of diplomacy was complete, five of the eight Vigilants departed to the Silver-Blood Inn to get settled, while Keeper Carcette and two of her presumed officers approached Verulus and Queyan. Carcette introduced the Viligants Tyranus and Adalvald. Gisela introduced herself as well, though she wasn’t able to take her leave before the Imperial spoke.

“Our purpose is two-fold. My job is to investigate a rumored site of daedra worship within the city limits. Have you heard anything about that, Lady Gisela?” Tyranus asked.

“I have.” She said carefully, her voice lowered. “Let us all adjourn somewhere less open to discuss the on-goings.” Gisela stood up, Queyan taking her arm without a word as the young woman closed her eyes and swayed slightly. None of their guests spoke a word regarding her affliction, and once she’d taken a moment to recover, she led the way out of the throne room and to the war room. She paused long enough to flag down a servant and request tea and snacks.

“Miss Gisela.” Legate Admand greeted when they arrived at the door, using Gisela’s preferred honorific.

“Sir Emmanuel.” Gisela replied with a smile, her tone slightly cheeky. The Imperial gave her a flat look, but moved on easily.

“You must be the Vigilants of Stendarr. Welcome to the war room.” The Legate greeted.

“My thanks.” Carcette replied.

“Faleen will join us shortly.” Gisela said, waving towards the large relics that were the dwemer stone seats around the table. They had been repaired and likely replaced over the years, cushions with patterns faded from use sitting on what could have otherwise been very unpleasant seating. “In the meantime, please sit. Make yourselves comfortable. Refreshments are on their way.”

From what Verulus knew about the recently appointed diplomat, she wasn’t born nobility and she had never worked in the field before. However, when Gisela wasn’t doing her best to screw over an entire family – he was aware of the rumors that she had been the mastermind behind the disgraced nobles’ fall – she was remarkable skilled with people. Time would tell how that ability meshed with what looked like a proper strategy meeting.

“Thank you, my friend.” Queyan said, taking the seat to Gisela’s right. Verulus sat next to the altmer. The Vigilants sat across the table.

“Now, Vigilant Tyranus. What do you know in regards to this worship site?” Gisela asked.

“Not much.” Tyranus admitted. “There’s a concentration of daedric energies that clouds the city. There’s a house that it appears to be coming from, one we passed climbing the hill, but I have not had a chance to investigate deeper.” Gisella hummed, turning to look at Verulus.

“Have you sensed anything, Brother Verulus?” She asked.

“No, I have no. I can only offer to meditate on the issue and see where Arkay leads me.” Tyranus scoffed quietly, but Gisela turned back to the man with a glare.

“We have been dealing with an active cannibal coven, Vigilant Tyranus. Forgive us if we have been distracted by the threat of Namira.” The woman’s tone of voice had turned colder, firmer. “If you need information on a specific property, the Steward Raerek will be able to assist you. He will have a record of the owner.” Tyranus relaxed slightly at the suggestion.

“Be respectful of our hosts, Vigilants.” Keeper Carcette reminded her men, only after Tyranus had been called out for his lack of it. “Thank you for the suggestion, my Lady. We will speak with the Steward on the location.” A pair of servants swept in with a tray of finger foods and multiple tea pots with matching stoneware. Just behind them was Faleen, the Jarl’s housekarl. Gisela used the stone table to haul herself upright and began to serve everyone tea, while Faleen took a seat on Gisela’s free side.

Once everyone had tea and snacks, the discussion began in full. Madame General Queyan began to explain everything she knew and had discovered regarding the coven, as well as the time limit they had. Faleen presented a list of proper Markarth residents who had left the city since her departure. The potential members of the coven would be on the list. The guards had been keeping track of who came and left since the beginning of the investigation, making a checkpoint under the excuse of investigating a major theft. It had gotten a lot of gossip going, but at least it gave them an idea of who might be present at the coven.

Any time the discussion got heated, or people became irritated, Gisela stepped in to calm everyone down and have them explain their points. She kept the debrief and planning session civil and focused. There was a time limit in regards to the planned feast, and Verulus himself was being requested for the main course. Queyan of course had no plans to sacrifice him on Namira’s altar, but it would be suspicious for her to arrive without him. If they played along to that point, then the Vigilants could crash the party when everyone was distracted.

“I don’t like this plan.” Verulus said.

“Neither do I,” Tyranus said. “He’s a non-combatant, he could be a liability.”

“I have offensive magic, as well as defensive.” Verulus argued to defend himself. “I simply do not see the benefit of bringing me to their lair.”

“Arkay’s magic could assist in cleansing the altar of Namira’s influence in conjunction with Stendarr’s.” Keeper Carcette pointed out.

“I could wait back with the other Vigilants until the Madame General gives the signal.” He offered.

“Perhaps.” Queyan said. “But Eola is very determined to have you for dinner. She gave me a hefty amount of coin as a bribe. With everyone’s focus on you, no one would notice the Vigilants taking their places.” Verulus colored as the realization that the cannibal was that determined to eat him as to give up money for the task. And that he was likely greedy enough to have taken the bribe. He had a lot to meditate on after this was all over.

It took them well into the evening to get the plan organized, though they would go over it again the following morning. There was a limited amount of time to get to the party, and they didn’t want Eola to get suspicious. Keeper Carcette and Vigilant Tyranus would gather everyone to meet at the keep for the final brief, with Queyan and Verulus leaving right after and the Viligants following just behind them. It was risky, but everyone was confident that it would work. Gisela smiled, putting her hand on his shoulder and assuring him that it would all work out. She promised to pray for his success, and it did help him feel better.

Tomorrow, they would go and exterminate the coven, but tonight, they would rest and pray.

Chapter Text

Arkay’s priest was not accustomed to traveling on horseback, Queyan observed. Where before the journey was barely a full day’s ride, it now would take two. In addition to the slower pace, the imperial was sore and irritable after a long period of riding, much like Gisella had been when they’d traveled together. He at least was willing to accept Queyan’s instructions to stretch properly, asking for positions to work the stiffness out of his limbs before he flooded his body with restoration magic. Blessedly, the priest was more accustomed to sleeping on firm surfaces so the bedroll on the ground wasn’t a problem. The dwemer beds in the keep were firmer, and equally as cold.

The Vigilants and guards from Markarth also camped with them that night, planning to follow behind the pair to the dining hall. There would be a short gap between them, so that the cult would be distracted by Queyan and the ‘main course’. With their focus on the initiation, they hopefully would not notice the small army dispatched to exterminate them.

Everyone prepared in silence that morning, strapping on armor and ensuring that potions and weapons were in easy reach. Verulus didn’t have as much to do for himself, so he spent the time praying. First he spoke words for the guards, then for the Vigilants – who also invoked Stendarr with him – and then he approached Queyan. When he blessed her, Queyan noticed a sensation settling over her skin. She felt stronger, more refreshed, like she’d swallowed a health potion. The Gods themselves were watching over them, and approved of their mission.

Rather than navigate the twisting catacombs for a second time, Queyan marked a path to the exit that she had used the last time. It was quite fascinating how more draugr always seemed to awaken to take the places of those slain, like the tombs themselves were also cursed that it must be guarded by its occupants, but it was inconvenient for their purposes. While a week likely wasn’t enough time to refill the place, it would still be easiest for everyone to use the back door.

The tomb wasn’t silent when the door creaked open, distant voices echoed off the stone. The crypts themselves were blocked off again, to prevent any undead from wandering in to the inhabited areas. The Imperial priest was anxious, made apparent by the wringing of his fingers and the nervous glances around the old catacombs. He was practically glued to her elbow, an impractical location during a battle but if he knew what was good for him he would back off when the conflict started.

The great hall opened to candlelight and lit sconces, the cobwebs and dust swept away, and the table covered with food. Most of the plate were piled high with indiscernible meat, raw. Queyan grimaced. Cannibalism was abhorrent enough, but raw meat was just inviting disease and parasites into the body. Perhaps Namira’s power was enough to protect their followers from such mortal afflictions, but the smell of copper in the air was enough to turn Queyan’s stomach.

“Sister!” Eola greeted, walking their way with open arms. “And Priest of Arkay. My newest friend.” Queyan looked down just in time to see Verulus’ eyes glaze over and go distant.

“You’re… My friend.” He repeated, sounding confused by the statement but not disagreeable. Eola grinned wide, teeth showing but not bared.

“Yes. I’m your friend, and I’ve invited you to dinner.” Whatever mind magics the cannibal was using latched on to the Priest’s mind quickly, his body loosing tension and his shoulders sagging as he stared at nothing.

“I’ve been invited to dinner.” Verulus said, repeating Eola’s words again. “I’m so hungry.” Queyan had to fight her instinct to try and snap her companion and colleague out of this state, keep her face from showing her horror and disgust.

“Why don’t you lay down and rest?” Eola offer, moving gently to Verulus’ side and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get the meal ready.”

“I need to lay down.” Verulus agreed, moving as she bade him. “I’ll just be a minute...” Eola smiled, then flicked her eyes towards Queyan.

“Come with me. Our feast is about to begin.” She guided a placid, dazed Verulus to the back of the room, past the coven members. Queyan recognized several faces at the table, the widow who ran a trading post, a butcher, the war dog breeder.

“I’m so glad Eola invited you to dinner.” The widowed merchant grinned, a chalice lowered from bloodstained lips. Queyan looked forward to seeing the cultists put down, no more innocents harmed and no more corpses desecrated.

At the back of the room was a massive construction, shaped from dark metal. Steps led up the dais, to a table shaped like the horn of an anvil. A statue perched at the head of the table, features grotesque and insectoid, sharp mandibles pointed down and a chain with a sharpened spike dangling off of the crown of its head. A fountain sat below the statue, bat winged and bloodstained. Verulus seemed to believe the table to be a bed, climbing on and reclining with closed eyes and a distinct lack of fear.

“The meal is on Namira’s table.” Eola said gesturing to the man on the butcher block. “Go ahead, carve.” Queyan snuck a glance at the door and saw her allies getting themselves in position. They might need a moment, which meant that Queyan needed to distract the cult leader a little bit longer.

“Me?” She asked, feigning surprise.

“Of course!” Eola replied, her tone gentle and encouraging, like she was speaking to a child. “You brought dinner home, it is only right that you get to serve and eat it first.” Like she wasn’t talking about a living, breathing person.

“I suppose.” Queyan sighed, glancing at the door again. It was time. “However, I don’t know how I feel about priest. I think I’m more interested in cultist.” Eola’s eyes widened, too startled to react to the sudden and unexpected betrayal. Her lips parted in a gasp as Queyan’s sword sank into her unprotected throat.

A cry of alarm went up from the table, the signal, and the doors burst open hard enough for the hinges to shriek. A combined force of Vigilants and Markarth guards stormed the room and engaged the dinner party guests. Screams of pain and fear mingled with roars of battle-lust and rage.

“Traitor.” Eola gurgled, blood bubbling from her lips and her cut esophagus. Her hands clutched at her throat and she stumbled, pitching forward onto the table. Whatever spell she had cast was released, Verulus waking up from his haze just in time for Eola’s lifeless body to thump against the metal before she slid to the floor in a heap.

“Gods!” He yelped in alarm, scrambling away from the corpse and off the table. Queyan caught him easily, hauling him to his feet. “What happened?”

“Some sort of spell.” Queyan informed him, watching as the reinforcements restrained the cultists they hadn’t killed. There would be a trial, but they would likely be put to the blade anyway. Daedric worship was outlawed, and cannibalism was more than taboo. Namiric worship was a death sentence. “It is broken now and the cult is gone.”

“I almost died.” Verulus said, a soft realization rather than a furious outburst. A quiet sort of horror, his hand going to his throat to feel for his own pulse. “They were going to eat me.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen.” Queyan assured him. “Gisela would have been furious with me.” The gentle jab was reassuring, the priest letting out a quiet panicked giggle. A hysterical, hiccuping sound. This would change him, but Queyan did not know if it was for the better or not. The Priest of the God of Death had faced his own mortality today, and only time could tell which direction he’d grow.

The return journey to Markarth was even slower than it had been prior, with three prisoners in tow. Brother Verulus stayed close to Queyan, rather than the guards he knew better. Gisela would be pleased that he’d lived, and that none on their side had perished in the skirmish. The now skittish imperial would likely find himself under her wings for a time, with her comforting presence and many distracting stories. The woman seemed to attract strays, and did nothing to discourage them from begging for scraps of attention. Perhaps her care would do him good.

One prisoner managed to escape their restraints and make a run for it, only to be met with an arrow in the back. The cannibal was dragged again to camp, though they died the following day when their wound festered. Their gallbladder had been pierced by the arrow, and the bile had poisoned their body too quickly for any amount of healing magic to cure, even if anyone skilled in the healing had bothered to try. The unpleasant end was more than enough to discourage further attempts from the remaining two, the executioner’s axe promised a kinder death.

The streets of Markarth were lined with citizens, angry citizens. Word of the mission must have gotten out some time in the past near week, and understandably no one was happy with the discovery that their neighbors were cannibalistic Namira worshipers. Insults rained down upon the prisoners, but blessedly there was a lack of the vegetation that usually accompanied such a display. Thrown produce tended to strike the guards that escorted the criminals more than the actual criminals.

The prisoners were tossed into a cell to await trial, while Queyan, Verulus, Faleen, and Keeper Carcette met with the Jarl in the throne room. The report went smoothly, the trial scheduled, and the executioner notified of the high certainty that their services would be needed. The axe would be sharpened and ready.

Gisela met Queyan outside the throne room, her expression was smooth but Queyan could tell that she was expectant. Verulus passed quietly through the doors and Gisela’s bearing softened in visible relief.

“You are unharmed?” She asked, her tone soft.

“Physically.” Queyan replied, and Gisela nodded her understanding. The priest was shaken by the ordeal.

“Come, some tea and something to eat will do you some good.” Gisela beckoned. Verulus flinched away from her hand, and she froze, but put on a smile and turned the gesture into flagging down a servant. “Something sweet?” She suggested.

Queyan enjoyed sitting down to ‘decompress’ after the mission, and the mental toll of having to be on guard for so long. The tea was sweetened as well as the food, and there was no meat to be seen on the plates. Something Queyan hadn’t realized she’d been dreading until she felt the touch of relief upon noticing its lack. Verulus too was relieved, and Gisela filled the silence with Keep gossip. It was grounding, the normalcy.

The hot tea and the soothing sound of a friend’s voice were just what Queyan and Verulus needed after such a difficult time.

Chapter Text

Ondolemar returned to Markarth in time to see the smoke rising from the pyres. It seemed that his right hand and his intended had been plotting while he was away. He’d intended to be a part of the scheming, but Thalmor business had called him away suddenly. Namira’s cannibals had been dealt with, the scent of burning flesh and hair heavy on the wind. There had been a trial, of sorts. The two left alive were dragged to the largest square in the city and their crimes read before the whole population. When they admitted their guilt, they were beheaded and burned. Daedra worshipers did not deserve a place in their family crypts.

He’d been north, summoned by the Madame Ambassador to discuss the Dragonborn, and in regards to the ongoing rumors of secret Talos worship in Markarth. It had been a difficult visit, defending himself and his subordinates, and his pet human. The mask he’d worn left a sour taste in his mouth, in spite of it once being true to himself, and the errand Elenwyn requested of him… He could only hope that Gisela would forgive him for it.

When Ondolemar returned to the wing of Understone Keep allotted to the Thalmor and his associated, he found the Arkayn priest taking tea with his otherworldly companion. Gisela was so excited to see him, she nearly fainted with the speed at which she stood to welcome him home. Home, he wondered in the privacy of his thoughts, when had Markarth become home? He caught her before she could fall, smiling as she blinked the stars from her eyes.

“It seems that much has happened in the time I’ve been away.” Ondolemar smiled, pretending that he knew nothing of what had occurred while he was out of the city. Watchful eyes and listening ears. “Why don’t you fill me in?”

Brother Verulus picked up the thread of conversation, while Gisela poured tea. He explained the desecration of the Hall of the Dead, and his gratitude towards Queyan for volunteering the Thalmor’s assistance. He summarized Queyan’s taking lead of the mission, collecting information, the gathering of the Vigilants of Stendarr, and the battle that he admittedly had been charmed for. The mention of mind magics had him shivering in unpleasant memory, and Gisela quietly refilled his cup to give him something warm to hold. Gisela picked up where he left off and added that the Vigilants had not left the city, that they’d originally planned to come anyway to investigate the rumors of a haunted house with possible daedric influence. It was… A lot. More than Gisela had told him was destined to occur, which meant that much meddling had been done.

“So much activity in and around Markarth.” Gisela lamented, catching Ondolemar’s eyes with a pinched frown. “Queyan and our old friend have been doing what they can to assist. The sooner this corruption is rooted out, the better.” And Gisela likely knew more than anyone but himself and Queyan could ever guess. Brother Verulus at least seemed comforted, despite the way the horrors of the cult of Namira still loomed over him. A sort of battle fatigue, Ondolemar had seen it before.

“The recent decades of spilled blood and tragedy likely have played a part.” The priest murmured into his tea. Ondolemar picked up his own cup, letting the aromas of toasted barely and red currants ease the tension in his shoulders. It was an interesting blend, earthy with a sharp fruity tartness

“We have plenty of time to wallow in the unfairness of it all.” Gisela said, wrapping her own hands around the warmth of a tea cup. “There is much to look forward to. The Reach Summit is going to have a large turnout. I’ve invited the other Jarls to witness it at Jarl Igmund’s request but they are unlikely to attend personally. They may send representatives of their own. I’ve sent word to Bird too...”

Ondolemar took in the chatter of his favorite human and her newest friend, letting his mind wander. His trip had taken him far north and west of Solitude, to the beaches of the Sea of Ghosts. There was a fortress on the icy shores, Northwatch keep, where the Thalmor kept numerous secret prisoners for various ‘crimes’. He’d always found such places horrid, necessary as they were to the cause, but now his changed mindset set his stomach turning. So many people suffering, for the crimes of keeping to their gods, for rattling the bars of the cage the Thalmor were building around the men of Tamriel. And what for? In hopes of a new Merithic era? After learning of the Dragonborn’s prophecy, he’d realized that it was the Thalmor’s efforts that brought back the World-Eater, all because of an overinflated sense of superiority.

Gisela was bidding the Arkayn priest a good day when he refocused on the conversation. It was finally just the two of them, and Gisela looked at him in that familiar way; like she could peel back the layers of mortality and see directly into his soul. Even faced with all his mistakes, she embraced him. Her touch was gentle, but firm, like he was a precious thing that she couldn’t bear to lose, and all that poise he carried cracked open just for her. The mantle fell away leaving him bared and vulnerable, but instead of destroying the wretched monster he was, she held him close.

“Oh my love.” She said softly in his ear, and Ondolemar felt like he might shatter. “What happened?” So he told her. Of the people in chains for the crime of being human. Of the scent of blood and ice and frozen stone, of the bodies thrown to wolves. Of the torture and the murder.

“Am I the villain in this story?” He rasped as she held him, his head upon her breast, his crimes laid bare. “How do I undo this?”

“The same way it was done.” Gisela crooned, running her fingers through his hair. “You pull the strings.” She was clever and capable of great cruelty if she wished, but Gisela chose to wield her power and knowledge for the good of as many as she could help. Ondolemar had connections by which he could pass along messages and a plan to betray the cause he had served for well over a century, since he’d come of age. Why do the dirty work himself, when all he had to do was leak the location to the people who despised the Thalmor occupation the most? Ulfric Stormcloak might be a mad dog on a chain he couldn’t see, but even mad dogs could be directed.

“I’ll find a way to let the eastern movement know.” Ondolemar decided, following Gisela’s implied nudge, taking care with his words. To hint at any support towards helping the Stormcloaks get one over on the Thalmor in an Imperial aligned city was a poor idea, doing so where his fellow Thalmor agents could hear was worse.

“If there is anything I can do to assist you, I will.” Gisela promised, and he knew that it was the truth. She may have feared him in the beginning, hated what he represented, but she had seen what good he was capable of and loved him for it. She’d made him better, and he was determined to prove that her faith was not misplaced. Once he would have been too proud to ask for help, but now he was humbled.

“Help me write the letter?” Ondolemar asked, and leaned into her when her arms tightened around him in reward for his vulnerability. “It will be better received, should it come from you.” He felt more than heard her hum her assent, her agreement to face his past folly with him.

“Of course.” Gisela said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. She found some paper scraps left over from her various duties, some pencils for drafting, some ink and vellum for the final draft, and she sat with him at that stone table. They plotted and schemed and she teased him about being too vague and ‘riddley’ for most nords and he jabbed back that some mystery was required in such situations.

They decided on something simple, a set of coordinates utilizing the system that most cartographers used in their maps, and a message informing the recipient that the location was a Thalmor prison. It would be up to Jarl Ulfric whether or not he used the information, but it was all Ondolemar could do without blowing his cover.

Ondolemar was tired. He’d been a Thalmor agent for most of his life, fighting in the war, hunting down Talos worshipers, for a dream. For an ideal world that wasn’t real, that would never become real. Even the first Merithic era had ended, what purpose would there be in creating another? But Gisela put her hand on his, small and still soft despite her developing scholars’ calluses, and he felt more at ease than he’d felt in years. Even with the weight of so many lives on his expanded conscience – her fault some might say – he felt new purpose buoy him. He couldn’t right all his wrongs, but he could do better. Not just for her, but for himself.

Chapter Text

One down, still so many Daedric quests to go, Gisela supposed. She wasn’t sure how quickly news traveled across the planes, which Princes were aware of the transmigrated mortal on Mundus. By her very being, she possessed knowledge that many Daedra, especially Hermaeus Mora, would kill to get their slimy tentacled mitts on. Not that they knew her world thought this one fictional. By meddling in Namira’s quest, had she drawn the Daedra’s eye?

Besides, everything Gisela was doing was calling attention to Markarth, to herself. She was sneakier than many would suspect, learning from Ondolemar and Nepos how to pull the threads only emboldened her actions and her interference. She had changed the story, but she still wondered if fate would correct itself or if the flapping of the butterfly was absolute. Would her actions draw the ire of the Gods and Demons?

Verulus had been visiting her more often of late, and requesting her visits to the small shrine of Arkay in the Halls of the Dead. He was coming to terms with his role in the quelling of Namira’s cult, and how close he’d come to death. That the priestess had tampered with his mind, it had shaken him and his faith. Gisela couldn’t instruct him on how to proceed in his own religion, but her company seemed to bolster him. When she asked Verulus to teach her about the Arkayn, he became more comfortable in his worship. Renewed.

Gisela split her time between her friends and her love and her work, keeping eyes on the many threads in the web that Ondolemar helped her build. The messenger carrying the coordinates for Northwatch had delivered the note to the Palace of Kings, so the end result was out of her hands. With luck, the Stormcloaks would free the innocents trapped there and not look too deeply into where the information came from. She didn’t like the Stormcloaks, either faction really, but she didn’t want to get too involved in picking sides.

In the Silver-Blood Inn, the Vigilants of Stendarr rested and gathered information on the abandoned house holding Bal’s shrine. A conversation with Raerek turned up the deed for the house under the name Logrolf. The man was reported to have been staying in the Warrens, where he was called Logrolf the Bent and shared space with beggars and the poor of the city; however he had gone missing some time in the past week. Fancy that.

Her forehead came down to the stone table; smooth and cold and hard enough that she knew she’d have a red spot on her face when she sat up. Her brain was aching, full of too many plots and schemes and details. Sharing the load had been a major help, Queyan and Ondolemar becoming the muscle and movement wherever plans and quests were concerned. Still, they had their own problems and missions and Gisela could only be so involved when the Thalmor were concerned. They were distancing themselves from the organization as slowly as they could, reassigning the agents they couldn’t trust and planting the seeds of doubt in the ones they did.

When Ondolemar left the Thalmor, Markarth wouldn’t have any loyalists left. At least, that was the plan. Gisela was still worried that they were too exposed in the city of stone, too many agents who knew the layouts and passages. She would leave if she had to, go to a city with less to no Thalmor influence, but Markarth had become her home. The Moot might need to be her resignation as well as Ondolemar’s. Hopefully Jarl Igmund would forgive her. Pissing off the Thalmor was kind of a career ending move, usually causing other things to end as well. Like lives.

With a groan, Gisela picked herself up and went back over the parchment on the table. The Forsworn King, Madanach, had been moved to house arrest from the mine. This was as much to keep him safe from vengeful citizens as it was to keep him from making a mess of the political behind-the-scenes. Nepos claimed to have explained the details of this particular move to him, but Gisela didn’t know how the so-called King in Rags had taken it and hadn’t asked. Her memories of the quest particulars were fuzzy, a combination of her illnesses affecting her mind and the passage of time snatching away the details, but she remembered him to be blood-thirsty and cold. He’d happily order the slaughter of every single foreigner in the Reach. Though, that’s what it took to become a Reachfolk King, she supposed.

Most of the major clans had agreed to send representatives, and a few clan leaders were promising to come themselves. Gisela was excited, not just at the prospect of things getting better but also at the familiar faces she would see. Yldren of the River’s Tooth had written that his son would bring Morvoch, and Cael was hoping to have tea between political happenings. The towns and smaller cities of the Reach and some of the ones on the edge were also sending people. This was an unprecedented maneuver, on Markarth’s part, and everyone wanted to know how it was going to affect them.

Raerek had been juggling his many duties as the Steward, now including both hosting the Vigilants and helping Gisela with the conference. There were more inns in such a major city than the one that had appeared in game, more merchants, and everyone was hard at work preparing for the influx of visitors. Gisela was reaching out to these people to see if they would need support, loans from the Jarl’s financial advisor to cover the necessary supplies to start. They could repay the loan once they made it back. If nothing else, it promised to bring with it a flood of money into the coffers of everyone in the hosting city. It’ll be good for the economy, at least. It would be better if – when the last few holdouts of Forsworn stopped attacking caravans. Gotta think positively here.

Speaking of, didn’t one of the Reachfolk campsites have Logrolf the Bent as a prisoner? The one Bal was upset at; who worshiped a different Prince? Which one was it again? Gisela honestly couldn’t recall anymore, and she had to swallow the anxiety that crawled up her throat and settled behind her sternum. She pulled on her magic, conjuring up a small mage light both to read by and distract her mind. The tingling of magicka against her skin was enough to bring her back from the rising panic. When Ondolemar finished up his work stuff, she’d talk to him about it. He was good at helping her calm down and sort through her jumbled thoughts.

Once Gisela had calmed down, she began working on replies to her letters and humming to herself. Economics had never been Gisela’s strong suit, but besides being nice to imbeciles and keeping up her penmanship, it was now a significant portion of her job. She frequently received mail from other holds in regards to treaties and trade agreements.

Markarth’s farming was typically done on ‘terraces’, or in the valleys between peaks. Grains and root vegetables, cold weather berry bushes and hardy fruit trees like apples and stone fruits. Goats, chickens, and mountain varieties of bees were the most popular animals kept, due to their ability to thrive in the terrain. Sugar beets grew very well in the Reach, and were a popular export along with silver from the mines that dappled the landscape. ‘Fair weather’ crops that needed a warmer climate, cows milk and associated products, and lumber were what the Reach needed, and that was what Gisela was helping to negotiate.

The plains of Whiterun hold were full of farming communities, and close enough for Reach traders to easily run back and forth to buy produce; and Honningbrew produced a great deal of mead. Falkreath hold was full of lumber, and in Haafingar, Solitude’s docks brought exotic items close enough to transport south down the main roads. Hjaalmarch’s salt marshes produced a large amount of alchemical supplies, lumber, and iron ore, as well as being a fantastic source of seafood such as crab and shellfish. Jarl Ingrod’s steward had written to her that the Jarl was not to be bothered, and to negotiate trade with suppliers directly. As for the other holds, they were far enough away that for the most part there wasn’t much they needed that they couldn’t get from other places. Smaller things like jazbay grapes and Morrowind exports from Eastmarch, Blackbriar mead from the Rift because some people were picky about the flavors unique to each producer; but there really wasn’t much that they needed from the Pale or from Winterhold.

“Hard at work, or hardly working?” Aincantar broke Gisela from her hyper-focused reverie.

“Working too hard, some might say.” She replied, glancing to the side to find an untouched and very cold pot of tea brought some time during her burst of productivity. Her wrist was throbbing.

“I’d say you’re due a break. I’m willing to enforce it if you argue.” Her oldest friend in Skyrim grinned, wrapping his hands around the stoneware pot to heat it back up with magic. Reheated tea wasn’t as good as fresh, but things were more expensive here and Gisela honestly didn’t mind much. She would hate to be wasteful.

“Everyone will take your side too.” Gisela smiled, shifting her many many papers and parchments to make room. They would too, Queyan and Ondolemar would scold her if she hurt herself with overwork. Some people gossiped that she collected elves. In actuality, they’d collected her.

Aincantar gently placed a small vial of pain reliever on the table and poured two cups of tea while Gisela drank the potion. The deep ache in her back from sitting for so long faded to a dull hum, and her wrist felt better already. She noted the matching ink stains on their hands and smiled, they’d both been working a lot recently. Her on various projects and Aincantar on his books. He was excited for the upcoming trial for the King in Rags, and planned to write a first-hand account for future historians. Gisela was excited for him. He’d found his passion, his drive, and it had boosted his confidence to the point that he was already seeing such success. His first attempt at publication, a compilation of various oral stories told by Reachfolk tribes, had been sent out to different publishers. All that was left was to see who’d bite.

“Chieftain Cael is coming?” Aincantar asked when Gisela showed him the list of confirmed attendees, brows raised. “Ondolemar will be jealous.”

“Ondolemar can talk to me about any jealousy he might feel regarding allies in my quest for a united Reach.” Gisela replied archly. “He knows my character and trusts me in this.”

“Of course.” Ondolemar agreed, and both Aincantar and Gisela jumped in their seats. “I distinctly remember someone kissing me in front of over a hundred Reachfolk. It is certainly one way to dissuade potential suitors, not that I’m dissatisfied with how you chose to conduct yourself that night.”

“My heart!” Gisela wheezed both at her beloved and as a complaint, pressing her hand to her chest where her actual heart beat a tattoo against her rib cage. “You scared me half to death.”

“Apologies, beloved.” Ondolemar kissed the top of her head in apology while Aincantar snorted a laugh. “If you’re done laughing, boy, pour me some tea.” The ‘boy’ protested the nickname, but obliged even while Gisela snickered at him. Their playful bickering was always a delight to watch, but she needed a minute to calm her tachycardia before she could think of jumping in.