He wasn't surprised that his advisors had saw to it that the newly crowned High King of Skyrim would soon have a High Queen—even less, that it was the Dragonborn.

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It was inevitable that it would be the dragonborn, thought the Jarl of Windhelm, perhaps better known now as the High King of Skyrim.

And what an honor it was to be, the High King of the people he had fought for, who now ruled their land supreme once more. But the title was more than just the spoils of war; it was a continuous uphill climb through bureaucratic muck, policies and economics that had never suited him much, not even as Jarl of Windhelm. Annoyingly, there was no steward to hoist most of the paperwork onto, so more often than not he found himself holed up inside rather than the outside, where he had once roamed free as a lowly trooper.

But those days were long gone, taking some freedoms with them.

Like this one.

"It seemed only fitting—" Said one of his advisors to the other, as if seeking agreement with only themselves, "After all, who else would be fit to be High Queen?"

Ulfric rubbed his temples. How aggravating, these council men of his.

"And what of the dragonborn?" He asked, eventually. The two shared another look, which only seemed to put him in a fouler mood, and he thought of the woman he'd seen last Sun's End. He didn't remember much of her, honestly—their brief meetings had been in the heat of the fight, and aside from her prowess, he couldn't remember much else. She had been powerful, though, undoubtedly so. The crippling blow that turned the tides in the Stormcloak's favor. Had it not been for her, he may not even be alive. But that had been the last he'd heard of her, aside from the odd whisper through the wind. Dragons, they'd say. She was slaying dragons. The dragonborn. A word spoken only in breathless reverence.

Those were a bit of an issue, too. His men had taken down yet another one at the gates the prior week, half of them frozen off by its fearsome breath and the other half barely shooting it down before it could fly over the walls.

He looked back to his contemporaries, who were fixing him with varying degrees of trepidation—as if he'd shout them, too. It seemed to be expected of him. "Does she know?"

"Ah, well…" One of them, the smaller one, whom he could never remember the name—Earlic? Earluc?—shifted his weight. "We've… been having trouble contacting her."

"She has residence in Whiterun, but the Courier says no one's seen her in weeks."

That was to be expected, though. She was somewhat of a wanderer, waltzing into the palace of kings at odd hours—wearing varying kinds of armor and weaponry—and almost offhandedly remarking on another victory.

Not much of a talker, that one.

And apparently he was to be married to her, as well.

"Perhaps she should be informed of this first." Sighed the High King, leaning back into his chair, and debating whether heading to the meadery this early would be socially acceptable.

"That will take time." Said the other, the portly, stout one with outrageous facial hair, "Wouldn't it be better to send the missives to the other Jarl's first? Mail by foot can take days, and the servants will have to start preparing the castle and making the food—"

"It is every woman's right to deny a man—and she has not given her consent yet." He pointed out.

"But my King—

"We'll wait to hear from her before making any decisions." He decided upon darkly, leaving no room for discussion among his two most aggravating advisors, who seemed properly cowed.

After all, he did Shout at the prior High King, even if that wasn't how he killed them.

They scurried off at that, robes shuffling like daytime Falmer, prowling his palace halls.

Ulfric felt another tension fall onto his shoulders, adding to the growing list that would surely climb right into the ceiling. Not only was there an extra hour's worth of paperwork—now backed up by the impromptu meeting—but also the rest of them he was meant to do today, followed by a meeting with some civilians requesting an audience and another consensus with his councilmen. And, perhaps if he was lucky, some sleep before next sunrise.

Though the thought of the Dragonborn did stir up memories that seemed like a life time ago.

It was only last year, last Frostfall, that he'd almost died at the hands of General Tullius. And in that short of a span he'd managed to turn the war completely around, and it was the General who wasn't spared by a stroke of fate.

It may not have been fate, though.

That dragon, attacking on that specific day… no. It was the Dragonborn. It had to have been her. Somehow her very presence had managed to inadvertently change the ending of Skyrim's newest tale. In his favor, no less.

Yes, it was at Helgen he'd first seen her. He'd been vaguely annoyed that his final moments would be shared with a high elf, regardless of whether she was Thalmor or not—regardless of her imminent death as well. Nothing had struck him particular about her, nothing that marked her for greatness. An effeminate, mortal face perhaps, that seemed more human than the acute, pinched and narrow expressions of other Altmer he'd had the distinct misfortune to meet. The eyes as well, an inhuman green that would not be found on any other creature.

She wore a mask all other times he'd seen her, though. A peculiar one of a stone face he'd never seen before in his travels.

He tried to recall if she'd mentioned where she was going.

Probably not, she was quick to leave after sticking around for his impromptu victory speech. He may have said something half-hearted at their parting, "Be careful out there," or something to that effect, but he couldn't recall. He almost wished he'd made something significant out of the event, if only to remember it later. But all he could clearly think of was that she had worn the Stormcloak officer armor that day, out of all her other magnificent armor, wore his armor for that fateful battle.

That was a long time ago, though.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

And there was no use worrying about it now, at any rate. Most likely the dragonborn was in some far flung region of Skyrim, far, far from where any Courier could reach her, doing whatever the dragonborn was meant to do… slay dragons, he supposed.

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But she wasn't.

In fact, it was around gloaming that the dragoborn, weary and tired, trudged through the Whiterun gates with a stagger, heading towards her home. It was almost unbearable to see the grinning visage of the courier as she climbed the stairs.

"Can I help you?" The darkhaired elf glowered, eying the courier with general displeasure.

"I have a message for you, to be delivered immediately."

"Then deliver it."

"It's from Windhelm." Explained the Courier, unraveling the parchment. "The council of advisors has summoned you."

"Windhelm?" The dragonborn repeated, slowly.

"They requested your presence as soon as you were able to make the travel." He spoke, blindingly jovial.

His smile fell as the dragonborn squinted at him.

"It's the dead of night." She said by way of explanation, navigating around him to open her house, and promptly shutting the door behind her.

Two in the morning it may be, but there was still much unpacking and packing to be done, and a briefing to Farkas about her mission. Although, a summons was somewhat of a big deal. The dragonborn paused in packing, debating. Though it was true, she'd sided with the Stormcloaks in the civil war conflict, that hardly meant she was interested in the politics that Ulfric was no doubt holed up with—nor was she particularly keen in getting in the middle of it. It would be tedious to have foot couriers always coming up to her door. Even more tedious, having such a wide variety of people knowing where she lived, Ulfric only being the latest on what was growing into an annoyingly long list.

It really couldn't be blamed entirely on the Stormcloaks and the imbalanced government—in fact, this itching, relentless fear she felt had nothing to do with Skyrim at all. As was usual, it grew withing her, restless and clawing at the base of her spine like growing, coiling dread. The looming mountains that had once seemed so vast and endless had begun to loom around her, walls closing in.

Without another thought, the elf took one look at her Whiterun house, and packed up everything worthwhile.

Her ruckus woke up her housecarl, who stumbled blearily into the upstairs foyer.

"My thane?" Lydia rubbed at her eyes. "Are you in need of anything?"

"I'm fine." She answered, already shutting the chest. "You can go back to sleep."

Lydia looked briefly confused, before a sleepy sheen took over her face and she nodded slowly, scuttling back into her room. She made for a decent housecarl, the dragonborn supposed, though she was the first and only housecarl she'd ever had.

A wash of silence had overcome the usually obnoxiously loud city, most likely due to the fact it was well into the early hours of the night. Aside from the occasional walking guard, she met no one on her way to Jorrvaskr, padding lightly in her soundless boots until she made it to the front doors.

Njada spared her a quick sneer as she opened the door, leaning against one of the wooden chairs and looking content to watch Vilkas and Torvar duke it out near the fire pit. Why they were brawling this late at night, she hadn't any idea, but the two of them looked inebriated to pick a fight with a frost troll at this point.

"Estel." Aela looked up, uncrossing her arms and pushing off the pillar she'd been leaning against. "Good to see you back."

"Good to be back." Answered the dragonborn. "Is Farkas around?"

"Out back." The huntress nudged to the backdoors with her head. The elf nodded, moving to follow her directions, when the werewolf grabbed her arm. "He's in a bit of a mood though." Aela warned.

"Alright." Most likely what she intended to say wasn't going to make his mood any better.

The outside of the companion's headquarters was silent in the early twilight, double moons bathing High Hrothgar in a lining of silver. Farkas was out near the practice dummies, contemplating at the sky.

"Farkas." She greeted.

The werewolf turned around. "Estel." He returned. "You're back later than expected."

"Am I?" She picked her way through the littered weaponry on the back porch. "I went home first."

Farkas nodded, returning to his ominous pondering.

She didn't say anything at first, unsure of where to begin. For a moment, the elf wondered what he was thinking so deeply on, but decided against asking. It was Farkas, after all.

As if sensing her thoughts on him, the man turned back around, glancing at her over his shoulder. "Was there anything else you needed?"

"Well—yeah." She shifted her weight. "Now that Kodlak is… gone… and there isn't an official head to the Companions—

"He named you Harbinger." Farkas interrupted, pointing out. "If there's any 'official' head to the Companions, it'd be you."

She rubbed her arm, awkwardly. "Well, you're part of the Circle too, and a trusted Companion and you know—

"Just spit it out."

"I want to resign." She decided upon, perhaps a bit tactlessly. "I mean, well, I no longer want to be a companion."

"That's impossible." Refuted Farkas. "You'll never stop being our shield sister."

"Then I want to formally stop taking missions and being an active companion." She amended with a slight smile. "I suppose you're right… I really couldn't stop being a shield sister." They meant too much to her, after all.

Farkas turned around fully at that. "Are you to stay here?"

And then, to her sheepish smile, "Where will you go?"

"I'm not sure yet." The dragonborn lied, already planning to permanently stay in the sanctuary at Dawnstar. Or perhaps in Skyhaven Temple, as gloomy and dark as it was, unless they were still angry with her. As long as the politics of Skyrim couldn't find her, she didn't really care. "But I won't be in Whiterun."

Farkas pursed his lips into a thin line, looking like he was against the very idea. Then again, he'd been a companion for much longer than she had, and most likely had deeper ties to the organization. "If it's your choice." Was all he openly voiced, however.

"It is." She nodded. "Thank you for teaching me and welcoming me as a companion."

"You aren't leaving." Farkas was quick to point out at her formal farewell. "You'll never stop being a companion—remember that."

The elf gave him a grim smile. "I know."

"And you don't have to leave right this minute, either." He added, moving towards her. The moon bathed everything in a wintry glow, his eyes looking inhuman as they turned to her. "Stay the night and get some rest. Knowing you, wherever your going is far."

He knew a lot more of her than she'd ever like to admit. A wanderer by nature, it was that same maundering spirit which had lead her to Skyrim, her inevitable capture at Helgen, and her destiny as Dragonborn. It was what called her to the road at odd hours, what was compelling her right now, to escape the confines of Skyrim—and go where? Not back to the Summerset Isles, plagued by oppressive Thalmor operatives. Certainly not to Cyrodill.

"Alright." She decided, resigned. An approving expression passed through Farkas' face, something like lingering sadness—and longing. Over her? "I'll stay the night."

It couldn't be that bad to have a nice bed for at least one more day, before hitting the road.

And if there was one thing the Companions did best aside from fighting, it was drinking. Estel should have known that the majority of the evening would be spent in rowdy, inebriated bliss. Farkas had one muscled arm thrown over her chair, the other moving about, mead in hand, in what seemed to be an animated conversation with his brother. Vilkas roared loudly at whatever he was saying, a hearty laugh quickly drowned out by the rowdy companions around him.

It was just her selfish need for comfort, and perhaps knowing that she'll miss him, that lead her to lean in closer when he turned back to say something to her. They could have been mere inches from each other, and there was a glint of recognition in his eyes, as if he felt that strange pull as well.

Farkas turned back around as Vilkas began another joke, but his arm casually found its way from the back of her chair to her shoulders, and she accidentally caught Aela's eye across the table. The huntress only watched her with a smirk over the rim of her cup.

By the end of the night Njada and Athis had ended up once more brawling it out near the fire pit, loud jeers coming from the table of ongoing observers. Torvar, the drunkest, and the loudest, had managed to get onto the table, pounding it with his fist, Ria only half-heartedly attempting to get him off. She noticed Farkas seemed more concerned with watching her than the night's impromptu entertainment, and she stirred in his arms to look back at him. For a moment, she thought he'd close the distance, but he only pulled away, as if remembering their current company.

The moment was lost when Njada effectively drop-kicked Athis onto a frying pan, the guy almost falling into the fire pit, causing an abrupt blur of motion as everyone attempted to get him out before he caught the whole place on fire.

Throughout the subsequent commotion of half a dozen people drunkenly stumbling into their rooms, the two of them managed to find their way back to Farkas' room—as hers was shared with far too many people—groping at each other in the darkness, almost a little too loud when in the company of sensitive ears.

Regardless of who's bed she awoke in, (but in the early morning darkness, she could almost pretend it was hers) come morning she grabbed her bags, wobbled blearily out into the dawn, and left without turning back.

Luckily she managed to catch Arcadia before her morning walk, the alchemist initially confused why she would be asking for Neem Oil this early in the morning until she realized what it was for.

"Thought I'd find you here."

Estel almost threw it up, halfway into drinking the disgusting, if not necessary potion.

Aela was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. It seemed to be a favorite pose of hers.

"Aela…" She trailed off, wondering whether she should come up with some half-assed excuse or just let the huntress think what she will.

"No judgment, sister." Aela smirked, pushing off the frame and putting her hands up in the universal symbol of peace. "We all do it sometimes."

She coughed the rest of it down, looking vaguely annoyed. "Whatever you came here for—

"I can't say goodbye?" She cut in, suavely. "Tell me why I had to hear it from Njada, of all people. Couldn't tell me yourself? She fucking hates you. Come on now, what's got you leaving, anyway? Wanderer's eye?"

Aela hit a little too close to home, but Estel was sure not to let her keen eyes see it. "Just need a change of scenery."

"You always need a change of scenery." The werewolf pointed out.

"I've been here long enough." The elf shrugged.

"It hasn't even been a full season." And then, "Do you really want to be travelling around in the middle of Evening Star?"

She turned around fully at that. "What are you here for? To say goodbye, or try to convince me to stay?"

Aela said nothing at first, seeming to search her face for something with those uncannily observant eyes. No wonder she was so good with her bow and arrow.

"He loves you, you know."

Estel gave her a brief, narrowed look, as if annoyed she brought it up. For a moment, a shuttered look crossed her tanned face, before she looked back to Aela. "That's neither here nor there." She said, without any inflection to her voice.

The elf pushed past her, and Aela turned around, feeling her infamous temper rise. "That's all you have to say?" She shouted into the early morning.

Estel turned around, verdant green eyes bright with the peeling sun, half of her doused in gold. "What do you want me to say?"

"That you'll stay!" She yelled, growing angry with the elf's impassivity to her friend's quite serious emotion attachment. "That you'll rethink whatever dumb ass idea has got you thinking you have to leave!"

"I'm not staying."

And then, "What are you running from?"

Estel stiffened, before giving her a look of contempt, turning around without another word and well and truly walking away. Aela thought she might have hit something then, stabbing into the dark that was Estel and perhaps coming back with something to show. Though at this point, it was a moot point. She doubted Estle would be coming back now.

The huntress looked up, to where the stars began to fade into the dim, benign presence of the sun.

"Dammit."

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