Here's the final chapter! It's also the first chapter which was struck by the dreaded writer's block. Why the last one? Why? But I'm reasonably happy with it, all the same. This chapter is actually more of an epilogue than a final chapter, especially the last two sections, but it would have been too short if I'd split it up. I may do some editing on this later to polish it a bit.

Thanks so much to everyone who followed, favourited, reviewed and just read the story, it means a lot to me. :)

CHAPTER SIX – THE FRIEND WITH MANY SOULS

'So, if all goes well, the Moot will have happened by midsummer.' Galmar folded the parchment he held, his face filled with satisfaction. 'And that, my friend, will be the end of the Empire's hold over Skyrim.'

Ulfric nodded, smiling; his housecarl's report had borne nothing but good news. Tidings of Imperial camps vanishing like smoke. A sudden drop in Thalmor activity as the Dominion scrambled to find someone to replace Elenwen. The new Jarls he had appointed managing their Holds well. All had agreed to attend the Moot – and better still, most had already confirmed that they intended to pledge their support for him. Not that there was any doubt, but it was good to be certain.

'Thank you, Galmar.' Ulfric let out a long breath. 'So by the end of Mid Year, we'll finally see an end to this.'

'Aye, and we'll see the Jagged Crown on your head.' Galmar glanced down at the map of Skyrim that dominated the scene in the war room. Nothing now but blue flags. Perhaps it would be more practical to take the map away, use the table for something more productive, but Ulfric knew it would be all too easy for conflict to break out again. Maybe he'd never see the map removed in his lifetime.

He wouldn't mind if that was the case. Like Arven, he was made to have a cause. He was a fighter, right down to the core. He had fought this war for freedom's sake, but freedom did not always bring peace. Soon the Dominion would rise again, and Skyrim would have to be ready for them.

'We'll soon see.' Ulfric breathed out slowly. 'That will be all for now, Galmar. Be sure to send those missives to the Jarls. Go and get yourself some mead.'

His old friend rubbed his hands together. 'Gladly.'

As Galmar departed, Ulfric leaned over the map, absent-mindedly scooping up the flag that represented Dawnstar and turning it over in his fingers. A month on from the battle for Solitude, it still felt nothing like the end of the war. Most of the army had been disbanded, the men returning to their farms, their wives, their children. Others had been sent to guard the forts and patrol the borders, to keep watch for any resurgence of the Dominion. Galmar was forced into the field less and less often by the day; mostly due to Ulfric's attempts to cut his friend's workload. Galmar wasn't getting any younger.

As for his other most trusted officer, Ulfric hadn't set eyes on Arven since the elf had left for Whiterun after the end of the battle. He'd had a letter from him, carrying assurance that he and Lydia and Barbas were well, that the Companions had accepted them, and that Balgruuf seemed to bear little ill will towards them, but other than that, nothing.

The door to the Palace opened. Even from a distance, Ulfric could hear it. And he heard a loud, sharp bark.

Speak of the Daedra, he thought, smiling. There was no one else who would bring a dog into the palace.

As he had suspected, the elf was marching across the hall, that peculiar dog running at his heels. He had the same warpaint and braids, but he had exchanged his armour for that fur-trimmed set with the wolf motif that the Companions wore. None of that came as a surprise to Ulrfic, but what he had not expected was to see a girl of no more than nine or ten following a pace behind his former soldier, only half of her face visible – she was huddling so close to the Altmer that most of her was out of sight.

Arven lifted a hand in greeting, and Ulfric dipped his head. 'Dragonborn,' he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

'Jarl Ulfric .' The elf gave him one of his wide smiles. 'I have a request to make.'

Ulfric nodded slowly.

The elf stepped to the side and placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. 'This is Sofie,' he said.

The girl swallowed hard, glanced up at Ulfric from under a tangle of dark red hair, and quickly dropped her eyes back down to the floor again. Ulfric frowned, peering at her. Something about her was familiar – the shape of her face, maybe, or the colour of her hair. From the tattered state of her tunic and skirt, it was obvious that she was one of the all-too-many street children who scratched a living in the alleyways of Windhelm; perhaps he'd caught sight of her on one of his walks through the city.

'You're probably wondering why I brought her here,' Arven remarked, and Ulfric inclined his head, indicating that the elf could not have been more right. 'Sofie's father was one of us – a Stormcloak, I mean.'

That might explain why she looked familiar, if she was kin to someone who had fought at Ulfric's side. 'What was his name?'

The child glanced at Arven, who gave her an encouraging nod. 'Tell him, Sofie.'

'Jund,' the girl said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

An image flashed through Ulfric's head – a man with the same red hair as the girl, fearless as a sabre cat, loyal as the Dragonborn's dog. A man who had been beside him at Helgen, who had shouted across the priestess the moment she had mentioned eight Divines, who had gone to his death with those proud words – My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?

A man who, if he had waited just a few minutes more, might have escaped the axe, might have lived through the dragon's attack, might have returned to his daughter.

'I knew your father,' Ulfric said, bending down so that his head and the girl's were on a level. 'He was a brave man. A good soldier.' Reckless, he added silently, but he knew it was unfair to tell the girl how Jund had died, and how close he had come to surviving.

Sofie, at last, managed to summon the courage to look him in the eyes. 'My mother died when I was little,' she said, still so quietly that Ulfric had to strain his ears to hear her.

'So you've got no one.'

'Arven's given me money sometimes.'

'She sells flowers in the Grey Quarter,' the elf explained. 'I pass her every time I go to visit my friends in the Assemblage. Usually buy her whole stock. Shahvee keeps joking that if I bring them any more, she could set up an alchemist's shop.'

'You live on the streets, then.'

Sofie nodded, and Arven moved forward to stand beside her. 'I've sometimes thought about taking her in myself,' he said. 'But what with the work I'm doing right now, it's not really possible. I was wondering – if I paid for her upkeep, could you find a home for her in the Palace?'

'I'd make myself useful,' Sofie said quickly. 'I could clean.'

Ulfric chuckled. 'That won't be necessary. I'll ask Jorleif to see you're given a place to stay.' There could be no harm in doing a favour for Arven, especially when it involved helping the daughter of a former Stormcloak.

He straightened up and beckoned his steward over; as ever, Jorleif had been listening. 'See to it, Jorleif.'

Arven nodded, giving Sofie another smile. 'Go with him, Sofie. I'll visit as often as I can.'

As the steward led the girl away towards the living areas of the palace, Ulfric turned to Arven, raising one eyebrow. 'You know I'd not open my doors to any ragged street urchin, I'm sure.'

'Of course. I hoped that since her father had fought with you, you might make an exception for her. It's better than sending her to the Honourhall, believe me.' The elf sighed heavily. 'Every time I went through the Gray Quarter, I'd see her standing there shivering, people walking past her as if she didn't exist… if I can't give her a home myself, I knew I had to entrust her to someone I knew would be good to her.'

Ulfric nodded. 'A Nord child as young as her shouldn't have to be reduced to begging in the Gray Quarter.'

'Why the Grey Quarter specifically?' Arven's voice was guarded, but Ulfric could detect that tone he'd heard there before – a cool, cautious accusation.

This time, though, it didn't make him angry.

'You know what the Dunmer think of Nords,' Ulfric replied. 'She'd be in danger there.'

'They seemed fond of her, actually. Some of them gave her food sometimes.' Arven drew in a long, slow breath. 'Besides… with all due respect, Jarl Ulfric, I think maybe the Dunmer of Windhelm might not dislike Nords so much if they were made to feel more welcome.'

'And why should they be made to feel welcome?'

'Because they're people, Gods damn it!'

Ulfric had never heard the Dragonborn raise his voice before. Except once. That one time, in High Hrothgar, when he'd forced Elenwen from the negotiations. When all his anger seemed to have burst out of him at once. And it was the same here, if without the Draconic and the shaking of the walls – a sudden explosion, as if things that had been left unsaid for too long had finally broken free. Suddenly, out of nowhere, with hardly any provocation, something in Arven had snapped.

Silence fell. Ulfric stared at the elf, who suddenly seemed far more like an elf than he normally did. He did feel angry now, he could feel the words building up inside him to tell this Altmer that he had no right to speak such bold criticism – but something stopped him.

That something was the Dragonborn's dog rising to his feet, glancing between them, and saying loudly, 'Well, that took you long enough.'

Arven's eyes widened, and he whipped around to face the dog. 'Barbas!'

'What? I told you to tell him that… what, a year ago?'

Ulfric stared. And stared some more. And pointed a tentative finger at the animal.

'It talks,' he said. Which was a completely unnecessary statement, he realised a moment later.

'Constantly.' Arven nodded. 'To be honest, I'm surprised I managed to keep him quiet every time he's been in your presence before.'

The dog rolled its eyes. Rolled its eyes. 'It was either this, or he strangles you for talking back to him. Which would you prefer?'

'Right, we're going.' Arven reached down and grasped the dog's scruff in one hand. 'Come on.'

'Wait.' Ulfric shook his head. 'Barbas? The Barbas?'

'I'm not a Daedra worshipper or anything,' Arven said quickly. 'Honestly, I thought I was just retrieving a lost dog at first. I end up with this mouthy mutt tagging along with me.'

'Clavicus has got to realise how much he actually misses me. Only then am I going back to him,' Barbas said firmly. 'Besides, hanging around with you mortals can be pretty fun. The intelligent ones, anyway.'

He shot Ulfric a look as he spoke – one that made him completely certain that Barbas wasn't including him in that number.

'Well, this particular mortal doesn't seem to share those feelings, Barbas,' Arven snapped, gesturing at Ulfric. 'Which is why we're going to give him some peace. Come on.'

'Before I can tell him what you've wanted to tell him since you first met him and don't have the guts to? Not likely.'

'Barbas, please –'

'No.' Ulfric swallowed, tried to steady his breathing - Gods damn it, the companion of Clavicus Vile himself was in his home - and looked the elf in the eyes. 'If you have something to say, I want to hear it.'

'He's just making trouble.'

Barbas slapped the Altmer with his tail. 'You want the truth? Blondie here reckons you're an idiot for thinking that just because one group of elves put you through Oblivion, you act like the whole lot of them are mudcrabs.'

'That is not what I said.' Arven hesitated. 'Not in those words, anyway.'

'And,' Barbas continued, 'he's pretty irritated that you don't make much effort to try and work out whether you're right to hate them or not. I mean, when was the last time you actually visited any of those elves? 'Cause Blondie just fought a war for you. Who knows if any of those grey guys might do the same?'

'Barbas, if you've got to start an ethical debate, you might at least do it subtly.'

'Hey, I'm not saying I agree. I mean, you mortals are all mad. I'm just passing on what you've said.'

'Which is really not what I said.'

'You just said it more politely.'

'Because I'm talking about the future High King of Skyrim.'

'Well, he just asked your opinion, so I gave him it.'

'And now we're really going.' Arven made a renewed attempt to drag the dog away, and this time, the dog didn't resist. 'I'm sorry, Jarl Ulfric. Yes, I have said and thought all those things, but I was actually intending to phrase them in a less… confrontational manner.'

Barbas pulled himself free. 'Sometimes you got to look facts in the face. I mean, if a dog can talk, and a mortal can be a dragon, and an Altmer can swing a greatsword, seems to me that Grumpy here shouldn't have too much difficult in seeing at least a couple of elves as decent guys.'

'That kind of thing needs to be proved in actions,' Arven said tersely.

'Which is what you've been doing for a year. Come on, pal, if no one said anything, was he ever going to realise?'

Arven huffed. 'Stop talking.'

'Fine, fine. Woof.'

Ulfric, still having trouble gathering his thoughts, didn't protest as the elf picked up the dog with one hand, tucked him under one arm, and carried the protesting Daedra-animal out of the Palace. The door slammed, and the silence that followed was profound.

A minute passed, maybe more, and Ulfric slowly moved back to his throne and sank into it. He closed his eyes, placed his head in his hands, and thought. There wasn't much else you could do, when Clavicus Vile's conscience turned out to have been tagging along with one of your most trusted friends.

Once he was done thinking about the utter abnormality of what had just happened, he turned to thinking about what Barbas had said. He thought of a homeless Nord girl given food by Dunmer and taken to a place of safety by an Altmer. He thought of the deeds of a golden-skinned warrior who had saved his life at Helgen. He thought of the song they had sung the night before the battle for Solitude, and the memory resurfaced so strongly it almost seemed to sound again in his ears.

'We march under one banner

And we share a single name

And when we die, we all shall die the same...'

Did it really take an animal talking to him, a Daedric animal talking, to make him think? To see clearly what Arven had been trying to tell him for so long?

A door creaked open, and Ulfric looked up to see Jorleif emerging, rubbing his hands together. 'I've found the girl a berth in the servants' quarters. And a new dress.'

'Good.' Ulfric rose to his feet. 'And now I'd like you to take a message to me.'

'Gladly, my Jarl. Who to?'

'Brunwulf Free-Winter.'

Jorleif's brows lowered, but he dipped his head. 'What kind of message?'

'Tell him to come to the Palace and speak to me.' Ulfric breathed in deeply. 'Tell him I'd like his advice about the Grey Quarter.'

Ulfric told no one what had happened in the Palace of the Kings that day. No one would have believed him about Barbas, to begin with. And perhaps more importantly, he didn't want them to know that it had taken so much to change his mind.

It was generally assumed that it was Sofie who had changed him, and perhaps that was true. She had begun the conversation that had led to Barbas's sudden refusal to stay silent any longer. And she'd done more than that, too. Having her around the Palace, feeling responsible for her… well, it had been impossible for him not to become attached to her. At firs she'd been painfully shy around him, opening up only when Arven came to visit. But things changed, slowly. He'd found it easier to speak to her, the more used he became to her presence, and soon she was confiding in him as much as in Arven.

Caring for the girl softened the High King's heart, was what the people of Skyrim were saying, according to Galmar. That was their explanation for why, once the Jagged Crown was on his head and Skyrim united under him, he'd suddenly started to show concern for the elves of the Grey Quarter. Why he'd spoken to Brunwulf Free-Winter, and acted on the old warrior's advice. Create work for them, Brunwulf had said, so they'll have the money to repair their homes, and they'll have you to thank for it.

It was easy enough to do. So much of Skyrim's industry had been damaged by the war. Ulfric sent out the orders that new mills had to be built, new mines had to be dug, and that the King's treasury would pay the workers. Plenty of the elves of the Grey Quarter signed up. Brunwulf advised Ulfric well on how much to pay them. And within two years, not only had the project turned a healthy profit, Brunwulf reported that the Dunmer's homes were in better states, their morale higher, their opinion of him more favourable.

Ulfric would never like them. He did not want them in his city. But here they were, in his city, and he did not want them to hate him. He had never cared before, but things had changed. He had changed.

He had changed because of a red-haired girl who could do what few others could – make him laugh. Sofie had opened his heart again. She was less of a ward to him now, more of a daughter, and perhaps someday he would officially take her in. He hesitated to do so, because adopting her would make her his heir, and he didn't want to thrust such responsibility on her shoulders. But he was starting to feel like a father to her.

And he had changed because of a warpaint-wearing Altmer who had the heart of a Nord, the soul of a dragon, and the blood of an elf. He had changed because Arven had proven him wrong.

He had changed because he was happier now. The war was over. He had friends at his side. He had the Empire and the Dominion at bay. He had an almost-daughter.

Or perhaps he was happier because he had changed.

'Are they here yet?'

Ulfric smiled and shook his head. 'I told you I'd send someone up for you when they got here.'

'I got bored waiting,' Sofie told him. 'I can only read Aevar Stone-Singer so many times. The ending's still rubbish.'

'Not every story needs to tell you everything about what happens once it's over.'

'I know. It's just annoying that that one doesn't.'

It was morning; the Palace was cold, despite the fires the servants had lit and were struggling to maintain. But it didn't seem to be curbing Sofie's enthusiasm. The girl had almost tripped over her thick cloak as she'd hurried down the stairs, and Ulfric couldn't help but be amused by the sheer number of warm tunics she'd pulled on. Fourteen years of age now, Sofie still had the clumsy eagerness of her childhood. Ulfric would miss it when she matured out of it.

'Did they tell you what time they'd arrive?'

'They just said this morning, Sofie. Settle down.' Ulfric pulled gestured for her to sit on his right. 'You know Arven, he'll either be right on time or utterly late. He's got slack since he left the army.'

'Lydia's not normally late. She'll get the rest of them here.'

As if Sofie's words had been a summoning spell, the door to the Palace swung open.

Ulfric rose from his seat, smiling. It was hard not to smile in the presence of the Storm-Watcher family. There was Arven, dressed in a red tunic with a fur lining as protection against the cold. And beside him, Lydia, shunning a dress in favour of breeches as she so often did, her face weary, but filled with smiles. And running after them –

'Uncle Ulfric!'

Ulfric staggered, which was understandable, since there was now a small child clinging to each of his legs. He shook his head in amazement – it never ceased to amaze him just how fast Arven's twin children could move. He smiled down at them – Eirik, his hair golden like his father's, but his eyes a very human greenish grey, and Mella, brown-haired like her mother, though as some half-bloods occasionally did, she had taken on her father's eye colour. If Ulfric had found it strange looking at a brother-in-arms and seeing those golden-amber elven eyes, it was stranger still seeing them in the face of a four-year-old Nord girl. There would have been a time when the sight would have disgusted him, but now… well, for one thing, the girl's father was the second-closest friend he had. And for another, Mella was Mella.

'Let him move,' Arven chuckled, hurrying forwards to disentangle his offspring. 'It's good to see you, Jarl Ulfric. And you, Sofie.'

'Hi, Arven. Hi, Lydia. Hi, Eirik. Hi, Mella.' Sofie rattled of the list of names quickly, then scurried over to Lydia. 'Have you brought him?'

'We have indeed.' Arven's smile was too big for his face. 'Didn't we promise?'

Ulfric pulled out a chair, and Lydia carefully settled herself down into it, the better for Sofie to see the Storm-Watcher's third child, born two days ago. Ulfric moved up behind his almost-foster daughter and peered down at the tiny form nestled in Lydia's arms, firmly and warmly wrapped in a cloak. 'A boy,' was all the message Arven had sent them by courier had said, 'and I bet you'll tell me he's got the wrong ear shape.' Now he was able to take a look at the baby, Ulfric understood – the boy was more obviously half-elven than Mella or Eirik, with tiny points to his ears, though they were not the long triangles that a full-blooded elf's would have been. His eyes, too, had yellow whites and pale emerald pupils, and something of an Altmer's angular shape. Other than that, though, he was Nordic in appearance, with a few tufts of dark hair.

'What's his name?' Sofie breathed.

'Eyolf,' Lydia replied.

'A good name.' Ulfric nodded his approval. He hadn't been the least bit surprised when Arven and Lydia had given the twins Nordic names – since they looked almost entirely Nord, barring Mella's pupil colour, they would have stood out with the long, clumsy names of High Elves. Besides, Arven had embraced Nord traditions so completely that it would have been hopelessly out of character for him to name them differently.

'He's so tiny.' Sofie sat down and picked Mella up, seating the girl on her lap. 'So, what do you think about having two brothers, Mel?'

Mella's brow creased, and she seemed to concentrate for a moment before saying, 'It's OK. Ma will have girls next.'

'Ma will not.' Lydia snort quietly. 'Three is quite enough to handle, thank you.'

Mella pulled a face, and Eirik jumped on a chair to get a better look at his younger sibling. 'I'm not the youngest now,' he said gleefully.

'I'm still the oldest,' Mella pointed out, a hint of triumph in her voice.

'Great Talos.' Ulfric glanced at Arven. 'Four years old and already in competition.'

'True Nords,' Arven replied, and Ulfric had to laugh.

Sofie edged nearer to Lydia. 'Can I hold him?'

Lydia nodded. 'Just be careful. You remember how to do it, from when Eirik and Mella were this small? Just keep his head up. There you go.'

As the grinning Sofie gathered Eyolf up in his arms, Arven rose to his feet and moved over to sit beside Ulfric. 'Four years on, I'm still getting used to the fact that the twins actually exist,' he murmured. 'Not sure if my brain can take Eyolf too.'

'I don't follow.'

'I mean that when I first came to Skyrim, I'd have thought anyone who told me that in four years' time I'd be married to the most incredible woman on Tamriel and have three children… well, I'd have told them they'd been claimed by Sheogorath.'

'Why shouldn't you deserve happiness?'

Arven shook his head. 'It's not that so much. It's that… I never really thought I'd fit in, no matter where I went. Back on Alinor, I always felt at home with my parents, but everywhere else, I was the weird Altmer kid who seemed to think he was a Nord. I thought it would be the same in Skyrim, maybe worse. But I was accepted here.'

He leaned back in his seat. 'I've got so many different sides to me. I hope it's not the same for my children. Eirik will be all right, he can pass as a Nord. But Mella and Eyolf… I don't want them to face prejudice because their father's an Altmer.'

'They won't.' Ulfric met his friend's gaze. 'The moment they tell anyone their name is Storm-Watcher, they'll be given nothing but praise for having a father who's the Dragonborn.'

'I'm not sure if I want that, either. Whatever future Mella, Eirik and Eyolf have, I want them to be able to make it for themselves. I'll be here to guide their lives, but I don't want to be what shapes it. Our heritage shouldn't define us.'

Ulfric raised his eyebrows. 'It doesn't. You've proved that.'

He pulled over the bottles of mead he'd set out ready for the Storm-Watcher's arrival. 'Don't worry about the future for now, Arven. Let's celebrate the present.'

He passed Arven a bottle, pushed one down the table to Lydia, shook his head firmly at Eirik and Mella – who fortunately didn't seem to have a clue that once they were older, they'd kill to get their hands on the stuff the adults were now passing around. Ulfric raised an eyebrow at Sofie, but she shook her head. A Nord she might have been, but she was also sensible.

'Here.' Ulfric uncorked his bottle and lifted it. 'To Eyolf.'

As Arven and Lydia echoed him, tipping back their glasses, Ulfric founds himself hesitating with his mead half-raised. Quite often, when in the company of the Storm-Watchers, or even just when he was with Sofie, Ulfric found himself thinking that something about the situation was surreal. And now, for the first time, he realised why. He felt the same as Arven – four years ago, he had never imagined that he would have this simple, uncomplicated happiness. The war was over, the Empire and the Dominion at bay, Elenwen dead. He had Sofie to care for, Galmar to give him support, the grumblings from the Grey Quarter reducing every day, a better reputation. And aside from Galmar, who'd always been there, those were not things Ulfric had ever expected to have.

And all of those things had happened because of Arvenrior Storm-Watcher. Because a strange man in iron armour had saved his life at Helgen, and then joined his army, helped fight his war, killed his greatest enemy, brought Sofie to him, and opened his eyes.

Arven was one of those people who deserved to have good things in their life. He had always deserved to have a family, to be accepted. Ulfric was not one of those people. He'd never been a man who attracted good things to him.

But in the end, he'd found them. Because he'd made friends with an elf.

Well, that was life, he supposed. The Gods worked in mysterious ways. And he was grateful for it.

To friendship, he thought, lifting the bottle to his lips. And to the future.

END