*GOODWILL INN*
BLEAKER'S WAY
CYRODIIL

"So why are we here, sitting in this miserable inn, rather than back in the Imperial City?"

Titus Medeborn's question hung in the air, and Imperator Moro had to take a moment to collect his own temper before he answered his emperor's petulance.

"Sire," he stated slowly, with careful patience, "We need a victory."

"You think I don't know that?" Medeborn snapped. "My point is that even if we wiped out every soldier in the army at Bruma, we won't gain any substantial advantage."

"Would you rather have me take this army against Tala's vampires or the Dragonborn's sorcery?" Moro retorted before he could help himself. Medeborn looked sullen and pointed a finger at the map spread between them.

"Even if we can break the Nordic army," he went on, albeit in a much more neutral tone, "we are standing squarely in the middle of Tamriel, with an army on either side of us. I believe that is something my military tutors would have called 'a suboptimal position.'"

"When we defeat this army," Moro replied, matching the emperor's calm, "Hereon must react by falling back to defend Skyrim. That will leave Niwot alone and surrounded in enemy territory, and if she's not smart enough to turn around and run back to Hammerfell, then after we sever her supply lines and harry her advance parties…"

He stabbed a knife deep in the table

"At a place of our time and choosing."

Medeborn nodded slowly, and there was a much more thoughtful look in his eyes now.

"Then what? We still have the Covenant to deal with…"

"If we march westward, with news of a great victory running before us, the western provinces will rally to our side," Moro stated, much more hopefully than he felt, "And who knows? With their new-found friends on the run, the Dominion might very well rethink its position."

Medeborn nodded again, navigating the thought processes of his Imperator. The hopefulness of their plans were laced with not a small degree of sheer desperation. With the Summerset Isles and South Valenwood turning against the Empire, and Tala Niwot's Covenant consuming all before it, the only province that wasn't actively attacking them was Elsweyr. And the oh-so-loyal Khajit had carefully explained that after dispatching their armies eastward towards the Argonian border and westward towards Valenwood, they simply had no troops left to send northward to their 'beloved' emperor's aid.

And the maddening thing is that they could actually be telling the truth, Moro thought angrily. Or, if Heron and his allies occupy the Imperial City, they can always go groveling to him and protest that they never sent any military help for us to use against him directly.

Titus, Moro noticed, was once again nodding approvingly.

"But first we need a victory," the young emperor growled, as if he was just now coming up with this plan all on his own, and stabbed a finger towards an icon at Bruma. "First, we need to smash this army here."

*BRUMA*
COUNTY BRUMA
CYRODIIL

The battle had been spectacularly evenly matched, Alesan thought to himself as he sat upon Frost. The white stallion tossed his head impatiently, eager to join the fight that was taking place below their position.

Below, the mages on either side were launching massive fireballs in concert with each other, multiple mages joining focus and strength to launch massive fire, frost, and lightning attacks at one another. In answer, the other side's mages were also lending their strength in supplying powerful Ward-Walls to stop the other's attack.

Evenly matched, he thought again. Neither side had done any significant damage to the other. Alesan had learned basic spell-casting from Sarai during the time she had spent with them, or the time they had passed at the College, but enough to know that he had no natural talent for it. He could cast a simple bolt of fire, and a healing spell for both himself and a comrade, but not much else. His passion was the sword, and the axe, and the lance.

A part of him regretted not accompanying his father to Morrowind. By all account, some great battles had been fought there, the new "guns" proving themselves in battle against overwhelming odds. But another part of him understood why his father had attached him to Jarl Balgruuf's and General Rikke's force. And he was also glad to by Frothar's side as well. The two had been the best of friends, ever since Llewellyn Dragonborn had adopted a ragged Nordic boy from Dawnstar's mines. Alesan felt a cold chill and a shudder of excitement as he realized he was a boy longer. He was clad head to toe in the traditional armor of the Blades, with Dawnbreaker slung on his hip.

"This is the armor I wore when I slew the World Eater himself," his father had said to him as he had been his own son's squire, adjusting leather straps and buckles. "It has served me well in many fights. Now it will protect the life of my son."

My son.

This was the man who had taken him in when he had nothing. When he had been nothing. He had given him a home, a purpose. A sister. A father. A family of his very own. And now he had given him his very own armor and sword.

He would not fail him now. By Shor, by Ysmir, he would not. He may not have the Dragon blood, or the gift of the Voice, but Alesan Hereon would prove to the world that he was indeed worthy of being called Llewellyn Dragonborn's son. He would…

"Alesan!"

Frothar's shout brought his attention back to the present. His friend was pointing a finger at the battle just below them. Legionary archers were now marching forward in loose, scattered ranks, pressing forward to engage their Nordic counterparts.

But why would they…?

"They don't know we're here," he stated aloud. "They can't, or they wouldn't be so foolish to send their archers so far forward."

"How can they not know…?" Frothar began, and then understanding came across his face. "Irileth."

His father's personal housecarl had led the lion's share of the Imperial cavalry on a flanking maneuver off to the army's left. The watching Imperials had seen the horsemen depart, and had no doubt concluded that had been the whole of the enemy's mounted contingent. The presence of the Whiterun Hold cavalry in the grove of trees on the right had gone, thus far, entirely unnoticed.

"Fools!" the heir to Whiterun whooped, drawing his own sword. "Let us teach them the error of their ways!"

"We have no orders to advance," Alesan replied, holding up a hand to quell his best friend's enthusiasm. He looked to his left, at the two gold-cloaked figures of his "uncles" Farkas and Vilkas.

"You have the command, my prince," Farkas replied in a low voice, but gave a reassuring smile along with the words. "We will follow your lead."

Alesan felt equal parts gratitude in their trust in his judgement and irritation at their having deferred the making of such a monumental decision squarely on his shoulders. On the one hand, if the Imperials (the enemy Imperials, his subconscious reminded him, Between Generals Rikke and Antonius, we have almost as many residents of Cyrodiil in our army as Nords) were sending their skirmishers forwards as bait, the Whiterun cavalry could find themselves facing close legionnaires in a full testudo and flung pila. They would not last for long against such foes.

But they don't know we're here.

By now, both armies' archers had opened fire. Frost, Fire, and Lightning-charged arrows rained down. The lever-action crossbow first designed by the Dawnguard had perhaps a slower rate of fire than an Imperial longbow, but the speed and power of the weapon was undeniable. Slowly, the ranks of the two armies' skirmishers began to dwindle.

That was enough to make up Alesan's mind. Orders or no, good soldiers were dying down there, and he would not sit by and do nothing.

"Frothar!" he heard his own voice bellow. "Uncle Vilkas! Take the 1st Company right when we hit their archers. They must commit their cavalry against us when they realize we're here. Take them far to the right and try and come at their flanks!"

"Yes, lord!" his best friend answered formally, spurring his own horse in answer to his commander's orders.

"Watch out for infantry!" Alesan yelled after him, and then turned back to Thorald Grey-mane. The ex-Stormcloak had been rescued by his father from a secret Dominion prison-cell. That had been the beginning of the reconciliation between the once-rival houses of Whiterun. There was nothing like fondness yet between the two houses, but the sight of Thorald Grey-mane and Idolaf Battle-born mounted side by side, both clad in Imperial armor, was evidence of how much progress Llewellyn Dragonborn had made in the Nordic political world.

"2nd and 3rd Companies to follow me! Alesan shouted and reached for the leather scabbard that held the long iron lance. He pointed forward at the Imperial ranks. Sound the advance! FORWARD!"

There was a low blaat of Nordic ram-horns, rather than the shrill Imperial trumpets. The entire force exploded from the trees, shaking themselves into effective battle lines.

"Aaaaannnnnd…. LANCE!"

A thousand lances lowered, and the reflected glint of the sunlight off their polished spearheads was like the glitter of stars.

"AT THE GALLOP!"

The horsemen came forward, their hooves churning the sod beneath leaving the ground behind them look like a plowed field. But their harvest was blood, and their reaper was steel. There were many who criticized the Whiterun household cavalry's choice to armor their riders and their mounts so heavily. This ensured that they could only do one thing effectively - charge forward and meet their enemy head-on. They could not match the skirmisher-tactics of Hjaalmarch or Falkreath's horsemen: to engage and fall back, to harry and harass an advancing foe. No, they were purely a blunt instrument, intended to fall upon their foes like the hammer of the gods. It was the one thing they did, but that one thing they did very well.

Very well, indeed.

Arrows and spells still sparked forward to meet the wall of steel, and here and there a mount faltered and went down, but the ranks closed together, and the flower of the Whiterun Cavalry crashed into the foremost ranks of the Imperial archers… and kept going. The enemy ranks had been scattered into a loose formation, the better to protect them from their counterparts' return fire. But even if they had possessed the time or notion to stand shoulder-to-shoulder to meet the oncoming charge, they had no shields or spears to hold off the tide of death sweeping upon them. And the sheer shock of two hundred pounds of heavily armored rider astride nearly armored horses that weighed an average of three-quarters of a ton, at a full gallop, made the enemy formation (such as it was) dissolve like mud bricks before a tsunami.

Alesan felt his arm jerk, exactly like he had practiced so many times at the practice yards of Helgen's Dragonskeep. But this time, his hollow practice lance had not shattered upon impact against a steel shield. This lance was a solid, nine-foot-long beast tipped not with the broad practice heads used against targets or other comrades, but with a hardened steel point that let the sheer weight of a fully-armored charging horse drive all of its weight against a single point of an enemy's body. More often than not, that left three feet of ash wood in their opponent, ignoring armor almost completely. He dropped the ruined weapon and drew Dawnbreaker, the otherworldly weapon gleaming brightly. He slashed, and slashed again, leaving ruin in his wake.

Then he was through the archers' ranks, and there was only open field ahead of him. Open, save for the Imperial cavalry that was now galloping towards them. Even from here, he could see that they were lashing their horses forward, desperately trying to save the ranks of skirmishers who were already broken and dead.

"REFORM THE LINE!"

Farkas was beside him, shaking blood from his double-bladed battle-axe. The horsemen in the armor and livery of Whiterun, many of them still bearing unbroken lances, reformed from running down fleeing archers back into a heavily armored column of battle. Someone, he was never quite sure who, had handed him a replacement lance, and Dawnbreaker was back in its sheathe at his side. He raised the seven-foot-long ash pole and brought its iron point down.

"FORWARD!"

Another blaat of the rams' horns sounded, and a second later, the shrill tralala of Imperial trumpets answered. The Imperials were not as heavily armored as the Nords, but there were more of them, and they spurred their own mounts into a matching gallop, leveling long spears of their own. The two mounted companies came together in a colossal crash of steel, bone, and flesh. Both charges foundered, and the glorious pristine ranks of mounted soldiers devolved into a crowded, panicked brawl of men and mounts.

Alesan was only vaguely aware of the rider whom he had just skewered, just as he was only now aware that this second lance he had been handed was now only three feet of useless, broken splinters. He cast it aside and with a single deft motion, again caught up Dawnbreaker. Instinctively, his left arm came up, and his shield knocked the shorter Imperial blade aside, before he brought his weapon around in a blow that sent his opponent staggering back. Then Frost had carried him on, and in a move perfected by thousands of hours of practice, he turned and emptied another saddle and sent another body crashing to the earth, the enemy rider's arm ending a few inches from the shoulder. Then Alesan looked forward again, searching for the next foe in his path.

"Well done, lads! Bravely done!"

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater nodded approvingly, seeing the Imperial cavalry melt before the Nords' charge just as their archers had done. There had been no time to send a messenger to order the young prince to rescue his outnumbered archers, but then again, it had turned out that there was no need for such a messenger either. He and his own boy had done exactly the right thing, recognizing the pivotal moment and reacting without need for promptings or corrections.

Unfortunately, even doing all of the right things on a battlefield was no assurance of surviving that battlefield, and he felt a father's pang as he watched his son's column crash into the now-disordered flank of the Imperial cavalry force.

"Bravely done," he murmured again. "Brilliantly done."

"My lord, we must push forward!"

Rikke was beside him, her eyes wide at the result of the boys' spontaneous charge into the heart of the Imperial center. Balgruuf shook his head with a sorrowful expression.

"We're not in position," he stated. "Hemming Black-Briar and Brunwulf Free-Winter are still getting their levies into position. If we send the center forward too early, they'll be encircled."

Rikke set her face into a grim line.

"We're just going to leave them to their fate?"

"Then we must have faith in our prince's judgement," the jarl of Whiterun replied gravely. "I gave him command of the Whiterun cavalry. I will not second-guess his judgement now."

Rikke said nothing, but her eyes widened in silent wonder. Balgruuf furrowed his brows and gave the Imperial general a glare in return.

"Do you think I don't also want to be there by my son's side?" Balgruuf said in a low voice. "But what kind of a father would I be if I insisted on holding his hand all his life?" He set his face in a mask-like expression. "As soon as you get word that the rest of our force is in position, send the skirmishers forward to cover the infantry's advance and the cavalry's withdrawal. And send another messenger to find out what has happened to Irileth!"

As Rikke rode away, barking orders of her own, Balgruuf turned back to look upon the melee that had swallowed his cavalry, and his eldest son, whole.

"All boys must become men," he murmured aloud, though there were none close enough to hear him now. "And men must become warriors."

Frothar was down.

Alesan was only dimly award of his friend's horse going down, out of the corner of his eye. He turned Frost, and with a tremendous leap over another heap of corpses, was at his friend's side in an instant. He leapt from the saddle and with two precise motions, killed the men about to rain blows down upon the prone Nord. Again, out of the corner of his eye, his noticed his shield, iron-bound at it was, was beginning to splinter and come apart. In almost the same fluid gesture, he slung it off his arm and sheathed his sword, reaching for the two-handed great axe that lay strapped to the saddle. This was brawler's work, and against heavily armored foes, a blade was useless, even one such as Dawnbreaker. Wuuthrad, on the other hand, would crush and shear through even the best armor as if it wasn't even there.

"To me!" He shouted, waving the mythical weapon over his head, "Sons of Skyrim, TO ME!"

Uncles Farkas and Vilkas were beside him now, their gold cloaks spattered with blood. Behind them lay twin swathes of death, destruction, and mayhem.

"My prince!"

The voice came distantly to Alesan's ear, and he lifted his helmet from his head, sucking in air greedily. He knew his muscles were shaking from sheer fatigue, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins still held that exhaustion at bay. He leaned over, setting aside his weapon to check for his unconscious friend's pulse.

"Yes?"

Farkas pointed a finger at the distant hilltop.

"Their infantry is advancing to join the fray!"

Sure enough, ranks upon ranks of armored legionnaires were coming forward at a double-quick march. Looking around him, he saw only a small remnant of the glorious ranks that had charged forward, and pitiful few of those remained mounted.

"Is this all that's left?" he asked in a tone of disbelief, verging on horror. To his great relief, his "uncle" waved a placating hand.

"Dengeir has taken his column left, pursing the remains of their mounted units," Farkas explained. "And Battle-born has taken his column right to flank the bastards."

"We must withdraw," Vilkas grunted, flicking the blood from his double-bladed axe. "They are too many. We are too scattered."

Turned to see his friend, still trapped under his fallen mount. He was still alive, but his breathing was shallow. It had been a great blow to the side of his head. The helmet had held but the blow had still been enough to knock Frothar unconscious.

"Signal the Jarl to send forward the infantry!" he called out in reply. "Every soldier still on a horse to follow Idolaf's column right. Those without mounts, rally to us here."

He turned, and caught up his own axe, feeling its familiar weight once again.

"We'll hold them as long as we can."

His two adopted uncles were heaving Frothar free of his fallen horse. To his immense relief, his best friend was coming to, shaking his head as if to clear his obvious concussion away.

"Fight's not over, Frothar Balgruufson," Farkas was saying, handing the boy the lever-action crossbow that had been strapped to his fallen horse's saddle. Remarkably, it was still undamaged, and the giant Companion handed him a quiver to go with it. "You don't have to be able to stand to be able to fight."

Frothar nodded resolutely, and with a grunt, heaving effort, moved to be able to lean against the fallen carcass of his horse. The greyness of his face and the hiss of pain that escaped his lips, however, betrayed exactly how excruciating even that small movement had been. Gamely, however, he worked the lever-action and fitted a bolt to his weapon, determined to cover his friends as best as he could. One of the other Whiterun soldiers knelt beside him, clearly a mage of some sort, as evidenced by the golden aura that surrounded both himself and his jarl's injured heir.

Suddenly there was a sound like a blast of wind moving through a wheat field, and Alesan glanced upwards to see a volley of arrows sail over the now-dismounted cavalry and slam into the Imperial ranks. The broad shields of the legionnaires closed up, but their running advance slowed to a steady walk that trailed broken arrows and injured soldiers.

"SHIELD WALL!" Alesan called out, snatching up a discarded shield that still bore the white horse-head sigil of Whiterun. The giant axe was harder to wield with only one hand, but not impossible, and other dismounted cavalrymen took their places at his side. Those who didn't have shields made way for those who did, and soon the time-honored formation of the Nordic people formed in answer to the advancing legionnaires. Everything in Alesan screamed to order the advance, to take his soldiers into the teeth of the oncoming attack, to win glory and victory in one fell stroke…

"No," he told himself, fighting the urge back down. If they advanced now, they would accomplish nothing beyond their own deaths. The archers harassing the legionnaires' advance would have to cease fire, in order to avoid shooting their own men. An arrow from behind killed an ally just as dead as an enemy arrow to the front, after all. That meant that more of the enemy would be in fighting shape when they finally did clash with the main battle-line, and that meant…

"FALL BACK!" he ordered, and slowly, he and the rest of his command began stepping backwards to rejoin the rest of their comrades. He heard more than saw Frothar being carried along by the rear ranks, the healing spell reducing his injuries from "life-threatening" to merely "painful." Even the best healing spells couldn't set broken bones, and from the look of the leg that had been beneath the falling horse, Alesan would be very surprised if the femur wasn't shattered. The thought of protecting his friend was comforting to Alesan as he took more paces backwards. He and his command had done more than their part in this battle already.

"And it's far from over," Alesan thought grimly to himself as he shot a glance upwards to judge the time of day from the sun. "In fact, I'd say it's only just beginning."

Author's Note:
I'm sorry I'm uploading this on-the-go, and I don't have the time to answer everyone's reviews individually like I always do! But know that each and every one of your thoughts, suggestions, and constructive criticisms is very well taken! You all are the main driving force behind what I've written so far, and I appreciate you all!

Please, keep it up!

ROCK ON, my friends!

-Tusken1602