The causeway that led up to the gates of Windhelm seemed to stretch in front of Gallica longer and emptier than it had ever seemed before. A slight breeze filtered up the valley from the coast, but otherwise the world seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds were the creak of armor, the squeak of saddle leathers, and the sharp report of the horse's hooves on the paving stones. General Tullius rode on a white horse front and center, with Rikke and Gallica riding on either flank and a small contingent of honor guard behind, each of them dressed in their best gear with their armor polished to a high shine. The smooth surface of Gallica's dragonbone armor glowed like polished ivory in the pale morning light. The curving teeth of the dead dragon framing her face in savage splendor. She was well-aware of the effect that the sight of her armor, now glorified in song and story by bards all across the country, had on on-lookers. That was why she stood at Tullius' heel now, a powerful symbol of Skyrim and Nord culture arrayed against the Stormcloaks in the coming fight.

A figure stepped forward on the rampart. Gallica's heart leapt, but it was not Ulfric. Nor was it Galmar. A functionary then. A stand-in.

"Turn around and go home, Imperials. There will be no admittance to Windhelm today," barked the functionary. "But if you have a message for Jarl Ulfric-"

"Ulfric Stormcloak is an accused murder and traitor to the Emperor and all loyal citizens of the Empire. He must stand accountable for his actions," Tullius called back, sternly. "By the order of Emperor Titus Mead II, I am here to place him and all who would lend him aid and support under military arrest. If he and his chief supporters will surrender themselves voluntarily, we will escort them to Solitude to face trial and summary judgment at the Emperor's pleasure. If not, then we will be obligated to take him and his city by force."

"You're wasting your breath, General. My lord Ulfric will never surrender Skyrim to the Imperial milkdrinkers who betrayed us to the Thalmor and denied us the worship of our god. Talos stands with us and we will hold Windhelm as long as there are any true Nords drawing breath within our walls!" the spokesman shouted back, scowling.

"Very well. Then I extend one last offer of mercy to any within your ranks who would lay down their weapons. Civilians and those Stormcloaks who choose to surrender their arms and take cover will be granted clemency. Once the gates are breached, no one bearing arms in Windhelm will be spared the sword."

A murmur ran across the wall top and Gallica could see the uneasiness in some of the faces above her. They had the look of men who suspected that most of the people standing around them would not be alive when the sun set, and hoped beyond hope that the hand of death would not fall upon their own shoulder today. They would fight like cornered saber-cats because there was nowhere else for them to go now - and a lot of otherwise honorable men would die for Ulfric today.

"We're not buying what you're peddling, milkdrinker. Take your pet Dragonborn there and go. Windhelm is ready for you."

"So be it," Tullius replied.

Turning his horse in a tight circle, Gallica and the rest of the guard reorienting themselves in the process, the group started back for the Imperial front line. The parlay was over, and the battle was only beginning. A young soldier ran up and took the reins of the horse, leading it away as the general dismounted. Tullius turned first to Rikke.

"Signal the catapults. After the first volley, send in the vexillation we assembled from the southern flank to take the docks. The Argonians were given warning and scouts confirmed that they have vacated. I want that lower gate secured and barricaded."

"By your orders." Rikke said, crisply, springing immediately to action as she hurried ahead toward one of the cornicens standing with ram's horn trumpet next to the standard bearer at the forward watch post.

"You're with me," he told Gallica, grimly, turning without pause to head up the slope after Rikke.

The order took her by surprise, for that was not the position she had been assigned, and Gallica hurried after him.

"Sir, it was my understanding that I was to go in with the ram to help secure the gate."

"Change of plans, Legate. You're on tactical now," he replied, stiffly, his tone brooking no further discussion. Right now, they were soldiers. Personal business had been left behind at the fort.

"Yes, sir," Gallica replied, obediently if somewhat bemused.

It was highly irregular to shift a command so quickly and right before a battle was to start. Not until they reached the watch post and Gallica looked down to see the flood plain around the city stretched out in front of them did the reason dawn on her.

Tullius might trust her, but he was not a fool and he did not take unnecessary risks. Rather than take her off of the field completely, he had reposted her where he could keep an eye on her, just in case. It stung a little, but Gallica could not blame him and so she accepted her assigned place without further comment. Tullius would have to send her into the city eventually, and he knew, as she did, that Gallica was perhaps the only match for Ulfric and his Voice in combat. One way or another, she would face Ulfric, and it would not be long now.

~~0~~

As with Whiterun, the object was to use the city's own walls to contain the citizens while the flaming missiles from the catapults sowed chaos in the streets. Unlike the Stormcloak invasion, however, the Legion could bombard Windhelm at their leisure for weeks if they chose. There were no allies waiting in the wings to lend aid from behind. Ulfric's men would have to break out of their own city in order to stop the deadly hail, and it was the forward legions' job to keep them in. Still, a lengthy siege would result in massive civilian casualties and that was to be avoided if a quicker solution was available.

Gallica had a clear view of the formations below as the troops began to close in on Windhelm. Smoke rose in great columns from the city after the first rain of catapult missiles, and, if Gallica's memory was correct, it appeared that the market district was up in flames as well as parts of the Grey Quarter. Briefly, she hoped that Suvaris and her family had managed to get out of the city. The Grey Quarter was a tinderbox waiting to burn. Finally, when it was judged that the fires had sowed enough chaos within the walls, it was time to take the gates. The archers on the wall tops had the advantage of high ground and range, but the Legion was equally equipped for siege warfare. The units formed up into tight, boxy phalanxes - called "tortoises" - with their shields held locked together over their heads and around the sides to protect from arrows as they advanced. Under the cover of the tortoise phalanxes, the great rams, carved from tree trunks bigger around than a man, processed up the causeway. A company of light infantry and archers followed behind them, shooting up at the walls to keep the Stormcloak archers and sappers under fire. The locked shields could protect against arrows and other missiles, but heavier rocks and boiling oil were cause for concern. As the first loud boom of the ram against the gates sounded across the river, Tullius donned his helmet.

"Form up the men," he rapped out to Rikke. "It's nearly time."

Gallica felt her heart begin to beat a war tattoo against her ribs as she hurried down to the field at Tullius' side. Once the gates were breached, the shock troops would flood the plaza and swarm the walls, taking care of the top line defenses. The prime century of Rikke's legion, with Tullius at the lead, would cut a path through the remaining enemy soldiers to the Palace. Once the dragon's head was removed, Gallica thought, the rest of the body would collapse on itself like so much dead weight. The moment that she would confront Ulfric again would soon be upon her. Now that it was finally here, she would have to make a decision and there was precious little time. A sickening sense of dread about what she would find in the Palace began to fill her, but there was nothing that could be done about it now.

"Stay close," Tullius told her as they moved towards the head of the column. "The first thing those poor bastards see when we hit the gates is going to be me, but I want the second thing they see to be you. If they have any sense, they'll drop their swords and run. If not, we'll cut them down like kindling."

"Yes, sir," Gallica responded mechanically, and Tullius stopped for a moment.

He turning and searching her eyes, levelly.

"You know what's coming," he told her, frankly. "If the worst should happen, are you prepared?"

No, she thought, honestly. Even after a thousand years, I would never be prepared for that.

She drew in a deep breath.

"Yes, sir."

"If Rikke and I are both cut down, it will be up to you. Circumstances being what they are, I need to know that I can count on you to finish it, if necessary."

"You won't be cut down," Gallica told him, certainly, feeling a pang in her heart at the thought of it. Tullius shook his head.

"No, I won't. I made you a promise and I intend on keeping it," he grunted, but his face grew serious. "Can I count on you, Gallica?"

"Yes," she replied, at last, and the General nodded, accepting her answer.

He brushed her shoulder briefly before he turned and strode up to where Rikke was waiting. As he surveyed the men, there was an ear-splitting crack and boom in the distance and Tullius grinned, drawing his sword as he strode before the ranks.

"The gates are down. Let's go trap us a bear, boys. Move out!"

~~0~~

Ever afterwards, Gallica could never recall how long the Battle of Windhelm had lasted or how many she had killed or whether or not she had been wounded. From the moment that she burst through the gates, hard on Tullius' heels with a century of soldiers roaring behind her like a deadly crimson tide, to the moment that she spotted the great iron doors of the Palace of the Kings looming up before her, the world was a blur of fire, blood, writhing bodies, and stone. Pain was forgettable, death was inevitable, and the only thing she could consciously remember was a singular cadence beating throughout her brain with every heartbeat.

Ulfric.

"You men, guard the exits," Rikke's voice, seemingly muffled, said from somewhere behind Gallica as she approached the doors. The Legate gestured to a group of soldiers. "You four, with us."

Tullius reached for the iron ring to test the door and found that it creaked opened without resistance. It had not been barred against them.

"It's unlocked," Tullius observed, frowning. "This must be a trick. Ulfric's city is burning down around him, his walls have been breached, and he leaves his front door open for us?"

"He knows we're coming. He knows he can't stop us, so why should he? He wants us to come for him," Rikke replied and Tullius considered this for a moment before nodding, grimly.

"Let's get this over with."

The great hall of the Palace was as brightly lit as if a feast were expected, but that was the only thing festive about it. The fine decorations had been removed, or perhaps sold to pay for the war effort since the revenue from the mines and the trade routes had dried up, but, with the strange perception for detail that sometimes comes during times of stress, Gallica could see that the torches were new and the wall sconces had been dressed with fresh oil and wicks. They were expected. Ulfric wanted to see the faces of his attackers clearly.

There, at the back of the hall, the Jarl of Windhelm was seated upon his throne and Galmar, ever faithful, stood at his side with his great axe at the ready. Not another soul could be seen or heard anywhere else in the palace. He was waiting for them.

"Bar the doors," Tullius barked, curtly, as he stormed towards the throne with Gallica in close pursuit, but the soldiers that Rikke had ordered to follow them were already seeing to it.

"Already done, sir." the Legate rapped out as she hurried alongside Gallica.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the general called, his voice ringing clearly and authoritatively through the wide space of the hall, "You are guilty of insurrection, murder, the assassination of High King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. You are finished here. It's over."

Gallica was barely listening. The world seemed to slow to a crawl around her as she rounded the wide table in the center of the hall to stand before the high seat. Her eyes were locked onto the figure there - the man that she had once loved and had nearly given up everything for. Ulfric. She would have been able to pick him out of a crowd of thousands. But this was not Ulfric as she remembered him.

The man on the throne had Ulfric's proud posture, but the shoulders were a little more hunched, born down by the strain of fighting a losing war. He looked older, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his normally neatly groomed beard and hair unkempt. His eyes, however, were the same - blue points of fire in a weary face - and they locked on Gallica as if she were the only other person in the room. He was perfectly, eerily calm. He was not afraid.

I don't fear death, she heard him say, the memory of his words clenching around her heart like a fist.

"Not while I'm still alive it's not over," Galmar snarled stepping protectively between Tullius and his Jarl.

"Step aside, Galmar. We're here to accept Ulfric's surrender," Rikke interjected, reasonably.

The Nord Legate had stepped ahead of the General, her gaze fixed on Ulfric's housecarl. For an instant, Gallica remembered what Rikke had told her about her past with Galmar, and she wondered if this was as difficult for Rikke as it was for her. But her attention snapped back to Ulfric as he shook his head.

"I will never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire," the Jarl replied evenly, rising from the throne as he spoke.

No, Gallica thought, cringing inwardly, unable to dredge up words to express the horrible premonition that was building inside of her and powerless to stop what was about to happen. Ulfric, you fool, why can't you ever just stop?

"Skyrim doesn't belong to you, Ulfric," Rikke retorted. Her expression was pained, as if she were trying to reason with a friend who was standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice and threatening to jump. Gallica could hear the same rising note of fear in the other woman's voice that was pounding through Gallica's own veins.

They had been friends once, she remembered, but all other thoughts instantly vanished as Ulfric smiled faintly, his eyes still trained on Gallica's.

"No. But I belong to her."

She had seen that look before on men who knew that they were about to die. It was all she could do to remain still. She wanted to scream at him, to plead with him - just this once - to do the reasonable thing and surrender so that she could have even the smallest chance of seeing him live through this. She wanted to hit him or throw her arms around him or take up a sword for him at this last possible moment to keep him from forcing his own execution. But, she couldn't. Her body felt as if it were made of lead, as if she were a spectator in someone else's life.

No, no, Divines, no, this is not how this was supposed to happen.

"Enough!" Tullius roared, angrily, at last. "You are both traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face trial and public execution, or fight and die here. It's the all the same to me. Either way, I'll be sending both your heads back to Cyrodiil in a box."

"Ulfric!" Gallica cried out, desperately, unable to keep it bound inside any longer. But it was already too late.

Galmar's voice cut through hers, a roar of rage, as he launched himself forward in defense of Ulfric. His eyes were full of hate as he raised his axe.

Gallica darted forward to intercept the housecarl before he could reach Rikke or the General. Though she brought her shield up in time to keep his first swing from cleaving her head in two, Galmar was strong and the blow drove her down to her knees. There was a clash of metal against metal from somewhere nearby, but the only thing that Gallica could see was the hulking form of her attacker. He swung again as she sprung to her feet, lunging in at him and slamming her shield against his elbows to interrupt a sweep that could have cracked her armor and cut her from shoulder to belly. Instinctively, her body reacting as she had trained it to after more than a decade of fighting, she drove the point of her short sword in under his exposed arm. She heard the screech of the blade as it penetrate his mail and felt hot blood spill down her arm, but at the same instant a heel buried itself painfully and hard into the soft spot at the back of her knee. Galmar used his leverage to wrench her body off balance, tumbling her flat on to her back, as he hefted his axe for the killing blow.

Somewhere nearby, the air shot past Gallica with a furious clap like thunder as Ulfric's Thu'um sounded echoed off of the walls. The shadow of her enemy rose over her, oblivious to what should have been a mortal wound. Something in her knee had snapped and she could not get her legs underneath her in time. Gallica stared up at her death as the housecarl's blood rained down on her and his enraged roar drowned out all other sound as he brought down his final blow. Out of reflex alone, Gallica rolled. She used the momentum of her body to stab violently upwards. The blade struck true, driving itself almost hilt deep through Galmar's throat just as the bone-breaking collision of the axe hit her backplate, reaving through the dragonbone like so much firewood and carving a channel of white-hot agony along her right side and back.

The Nord general's face was visible for just an instant near Gallica's own, his blue-grey eyes fixing on hers with appalled rage and shock, before he emitted a pained gurgle, staggered, and then collapsed. The torsion of his fall wrenched Gallica's sword from her hand as he fell across her body.

The hall was silent.

Groaning, every nerve in her body screaming pain, Gallica thrashed and pulling herself out from under the dead weight of the housecarl. With some difficulty, she stood, gasping for air as she clasped a hand over her side to staunch the blood that was quickly sopping through her armor padding and trickling down her thigh in sticky red rivulets. She looked for Tullius and Rikke, but they had been flung far back down the hall by Ulfric's Shout. Her eyes locked instead on Ulfric, who was closing in on her with axe in hand. His expression was grim. His eyes burned into hers with the cold blue of a draugr.

Panic rose like bile in Gallica's throat. There was no time to drag her sword from Galmar's body. She might have time to reach the dirk she kept sheathed at her boot, but it would do no good against Ulfric's axe and she was too badly injured now to move swiftly. Ulfric knew that he was a dead man either way. He knew that it was finished - but he would take as many of his attackers with him as he could. And once she was dead, Tullius and Rikke would follow.

Can I count on you?, Tullius asked in her mind.

Gallica knew then what she had to do.

"Fus ro dah!"she Shouted, her throat burning with the Thu'um as she summoning every ounce of her being - every bit of the pain, the fear, and the anger that had been building up within her since she had killed Alduin.

She summoned the feeling of powerlessness and the sleepless nights. She channeled the heartaches, the bitter fighting, and the terror that one day a day like today would come. The force of it left her body, empowering the dragon words like a world-drowning tidal wave of loss.

Ulfric, who had been within feet of her as she roared out the words, was flung backwards through the air as if a giant had picked him up and hurled him with every ounce of its strength. He landed hard, smacking against the stone wall on the other side of the hall with a dreadful cracking sound. Even from where she stood, Gallica could hear the breath rush out of him like a wind. He crumpled like a child's ragdoll to the floor.

For an instant, there was no sound. Not a particle of air seemed to move int he Palace. Gallica heart sank, certain that she had killed him. But then she heard Ulfric cough - a loud choking, painful gasp that echoed through the hall.

Rikke and Tullius wasted no time. As Ulfric struggled slowly up onto his hands and knees, he found Rikke's sword at his throat. Gallica stood absolutely still, staring, oblivious to her injuries as the General approached the fallen Jarl.

"Well, Ulfric," Tullius began evenly, though Gallica could tell from his voice that even he had been rattled by what had just happened. "I don't think you'll be escaping this time. Do you have anything to say for yourself before we end this?"

Ulfric was still for a long moment. His hair was draped around his face, obscuring it in shadow. He did not look up. His voice, when he spoke, was clear.

"Let the Dragonborn do it," he said, at last. "It'll make for a better song."

Rikke flinched visibly. She glanced at Gallica with a guilty, pained expression. Tullius' face hardened. But Gallica remained unmoving, and she felt the world sink slowly into place around her.

She could see it now - the piece of the puzzle that she had missed in all of this. Even mad Jarl Idgrod of Morthal had known itand warned her, but Gallica knew that she had blinded herself to a truth that she could not accept. She would never have been able to save Ulfric. He didn't want to be saved. Even if she had succeeded in getting him out of Windhelm and out of Skyrim altogether, he would only have come back. Because, she knew, he truly did love his country - completely and unstintingly, no matter how flawed his way of showing it was. But also because there could be no more satisfying death for him than to die in pursuit of his dream. His legend. The one thing that would live after him for all time when he had gone to Sovngarde. Even if he failed to remake Skyrim in his own image, he would still have the attempt as his legacy. And that was enough. Even in defeat, there was still a kind of victory.

Tullius, finally shifting into uneasy action, shook his head, scowling.

"No. It'll be a headsman for you, like every other traitor. But not yet, Ulfric. I don't want anyone to say that you never got your fair day in court. Rikke, get him out of-"

"I'll do it," Gallica interrupted.

Tullius stopped dead as if he had been slapped. Rikke's face paled visibly, her lips forming a silent curse. Gallica began calmly to limp towards Ulfric. Tullius stepped into her path. There was tremendous concern written on his face as he searched her eyes. He stepped close to her, leaned in and dropping his voice so that only she could hear it.

"You don't owe him this," he insisted, swiftly. "I'll make sure he gets his trial and that he's treated appropriately until then, as I promised. Let the headsman do it."

A vision of Roggveir, the unfortunate gate guard that Gallica had seen executed the first time that she visited Solitude, flashed to her mind. She imagined Ulfric standing before the executioner's block for the second time in his life while a sea of people screamed for his blood. She could not imagine Ulfric kneeling down before the block to accept that death. Ulfric had never knelt to anyone.

"I'll do it," Gallica repeated and then added when Tullius seemed about to protest, "It's his last request. We can be generous in victory."

The General stared at her hard for an instant, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and prodigious worry. She could see him turning over an order of refusal - but finally he relented. The General straightened, gravely, and offered her his own sword with an air of ceremony.

"Use my blade. I sharpened it last night. It will be cleaner."

Gallica took the wasp-waisted gladius from him and then moved, limping against the agony in her side and in her knee, over to Ulfric. He didn't look up until she knelt painfully down to be at eye level with him.

It was the first time that they had looked each other full in the face since she had left Windhelm. There was a deep pain and exhaustion in his eyes. Physical pain from his wounds in addition to the pain of his shattered pride and the end of all of his plans. The exhaustion of months of bitter, losing warfare in the northern winter. There was the pain of seeing her again - of remembering happier times when they had looked into each others eyes in this way - and knowing that this was the last opportunity to do so. She wanted to be angry at him - for forcing this, for everything that had happened since the first time she had met him - but all that came to Gallica now in these last moments was a soul-rending compassion. She reached out and laid her left hand on his cheek and neck as she had done when they had been lovers what seemed like an age ago now.

"This is the last gift I can give you," Gallica told him, lowering her voice and trying hard to keep her voice from shaking as she held his gaze. "Whatever else is said about Ulfric Stormcloak, history will remember you as the man whom none but the Dragonborn could kill and who was beloved by her. Your name will be sung with mine until the very end of the world. I swear it."

He smiled then faintly and she felt the subtle relaxation in his body as he understood the gift and accepted it. Trembling, she let her arm slide further around his neck in a final embrace. She pressed her cheek against his unshaven cheek and closed her eyes, gritting her teeth.

"I will wait for you," he whispered next to her ear, seconds before Gallica - with one swift plunge - sent the blade up under his ribs and into his heart.

His blood mingled with her own and that of Galmar as she held him, releasing the sword to support his large frame until she felt the last of the life go out of him, and then she eased the body that had been Ulfric Stormcloak - Jarl of Windhelm, traitor, patriot, and lover - gently to the ground. Someone murmured something behind her, but Gallica heard nothing. There was a roaring in her ears that drowned out everything around her. She felt at the corpse's neck for the Talos amulet that she had left for Ulfric on the morning that she had gone to fight Alduin and pulled it free, tucking it into her belt before she raised herself numbly and with great difficulty to her feet.

Gallica did not hear Tullius and Rikke speaking to her. When Rikke touched her shoulder, she followed them mechanically out into the courtyard of the Palace, but she stood as silent and unseeing as a stone as the General delivered his victory address.

Ulfric was dead. She had killed him. That was all there was to say.

And it would be a long time before Gallica said anything at all.

~~0~~

Tullius read the report on his desk for the fifth time that morning without understanding a word of what it said and then tossed it away in irritation. He leaned forward onto his elbows and rubbed his temples, trying to assuage the dull precursor of a headache. A month had passed since the Stormcloak Rebellion had ended - that was what the bards and the writers of history were now calling the civil war - but there was no rest for the weary and especially not for a weary military governor. Tullius was still the only person in Skyrim at present with some semblance of central authority.

Martial law had only been intended to last until the Jarls could elect a new High King or Queen. Tullius had assumed that once Ulfric was dead, the war was finished, and the new Jarls were properly installed, the Moot would be organized quickly. They would elect Elisif and the long business of reconstruction could begin in earnest. To everyone's surprise, however, the Jarls had refused to convene. That damned obstinate Balgruuf and mad Idgrod, joined by Brunwulf Free-Winter of Windhelm and even Kraldar of Winterhold eventually, had kicked up a fuss about it. They had insisted that the decision wait until the Dragonborn could be present to lend her authority to the Moot. Tullius had argued with them to see sense, but when Elisif had begun to murmur that it would be fitting to have the Dragonborn there as well, he had been forced to relent. But that presented its own problems. No one knew where the Dragonborn had gone. And so, Skyrim remained in a state of uneasy gridlock.

Tullius was a brave man. He had never shirked away from a fight and there were few things in the world that scared him - but he had never been more frightened for another person than he had been for Gallica after Ulfric's death. In his gut, even before the final battle, he had known that Ulfric was not the sort of man to outlive his pride. He had expected the former Jarl to go down fighting or force an immediate execution. But he hadn't wanted Gallica to be the one to deliver the fatal blow. Considering their history, that was too much for one person bear - even someone as strong as Gallica. And he had been right. It had broken her.

Gallica had stood silently beside him through the victory speech, but she had given no indication that she heard him when he tried to talk to her afterwards. He had known then that something was desperately wrong. Her eyes had seemed empty and glazed. He had thought that it was the death of Ulfric. It was not until she collapsed in the street as she accompanied him to collect Brunwulf Free-Winter to be installed as Jarl that Tullius realized that she had been more gravely injured than she had let on.

A shard of Galmar's axe, which shattered on the stone floor of the Palace during that terrible fight, had lodged itself in her side and she had lost a great deal of blood. In her shock, she had forgotten her injuries and so it was only by quick thinking on Rikke's part that Gallica's life was saved.

"Take some time," he had told her later once the healers had done their work. She would not look up at him from where she sat on the side of her cot, and Tullius had felt his worry increased by a sense of guilt for pressing her this far. "We've pushed you too hard these last few months. Rikke and I can take it from here. Rest. Come back when you're ready."

He had thought that Gallica would simply retreat into the camps for a week or so to rest and lick her wounds, and eventually she would emerge ready to talk. Instead, she disappeared. Everything but her horse and the clothes on her back was left behind. Not even the scouts could track her path.

For a while, Tullius worried about the potential for a suicide, but no body was ever discovered and Rikke seemed confident that Gallica was not the type to fall on her own sword.

"She'll be back," his chief Legate had assured him. "She's a Legion woman. We always turn up when we're needed."

So, Tullius waited and applied himself as best he could to the mountainous task of pulling some order out of the post-war chaos. The Emperor would be arriving soon, both to oversee the satisfactory conclusion of the war and to attend his cousin's wedding, and that was no small thing. There were still small hold-outs of unruly Stormcloaks scattered up in the hills and, more worryingly, vampire attacks were on the rise in all of the nine holds. A man named Isran had apparently dredged up the Dawnguard - some sort of archaic society of vampire hunters - in order to deal with the threat. Since he seemed to be having a small amount of success at it, Tullius had set a few of his people to keep an eye on the vampire-hunters and let it be. There had been bigger problems for him to deal with.

Three weeks ago, however, the intelligence reports had begun to center in on one of the Dawnguard agents in particular, a woman of unknown identity who had only recently been recruited, but had risen to become one of the Dawnguard's most prominent agents in a remarkably short span of time. A blonde-haired swordswoman with a Cyrodiilic accent. The coincidence was too much to ignore. So, Tullius sent a messenger with two letters. One he sent to Isran to ask the identity of the recruit. The second he sent to be delivered to Gallica if the mysterious agent was indeed her.

The Dawnguard leader wrote back to say that it was none of Tullius bloody business who his recruits were and that, unless Tullius was planning to take up a crossbow himself, Isran would thank him kindly to sod off and let them get on with their work. The messenger reported that Isran had kept the letter for Gallica, though, and so Tullius held out hope that it was her and that, when she finished whatever battle she was fighting now, she would be back.

The gamble had paid off. Just days after a report stating the success of the Dawnguard arrived, word came up from the city guard that the Dragonborn had returned to her house in Solitude. It was only through a colossal act of willpower that Tullius prevented himself from rushing directly over to Proudspire Manor to see for himself. In the last half a year, Gallica had been through things that would have crushed most other mere mortals. More now than he knew, he suspected. She would come out when she was ready.

That had been five days ago, though, and the hours - the minutes - crawled by like centuries. Tullius didn't know why she had not come, and the possible reasons made him ache to his very core when he thought about them. Even if he had lost any chance of making a life with her, it would be enough to know that she was at least not permanently damaged. It would be relief, however bitter, to find that the woman he loved still existed and that she had not been lost to the war.

Standing up suddenly, the General yanked his cloak from the wall and hurried for the door. Daedra take him, he couldn't stand it any longer. He had to know.

The days were growing noticeably longer again in Solitude and the icicles that hung from the roofs of the mansions along the royal avenue were dripping into the piles of snow along the foundations with a sound like rain. Winter had not yet released its grasp on Skyrim, but spring was on its way and the sun shone brightly out of a vibrantly blue sky, warming the world as it rocked back from the darkness of midwinter. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney of Proudspire Manor, and Tullius felt his mouth go dry with anticipation.

When no one answered at the third knock, he stepped back, flustered and disappointed. Gallica's housecarl must be out in the market. As he turned to troop back down to the high street to see if he could find the woman, too wrought up to give up so easily, a thought struck him.

Each of the manors in the Palace district was built on basically the same floor plan and each possessed a small terrace garden at the back which overlooked the ocean below the great sea arch. Feeling like a trespasser, but knowing he would not rest until he had attempted everything in his power, Tullius found his way around the side of the manor and through the walkway that ran between Proudspire and its neighbor to the back of the house.

A woman was leaning on the stone balustrade of the porch, looking out over the water and watching the sea-hawks wheel and circle above the cliffs. Her blonde hair hung in a neat, simple braid down her back, contrasting with the dark grey of the wolf fur mantle that was wrapped around her shoulders. She turned to look at Tullius as he paused at the entrance to the porch

Hers was the same face that had haunted his dreams for months now. There was a new scar on her temple, running from just beside her right ear up into her hairline. Her nose was a bit crooked - a recent injury perhaps. But it was unmistakably Gallica and his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of her. Her eyes had changed the most, out of everything. There was life in them again, a light of recognition as she gazed back into his face, but it was as if a veil had been drawn across some inward place that had once been open.

She looked at him for a moment, neither welcoming nor forbidding. At last, she turned her gaze back out to the sea. Uncertain, but unable to force himself to leave now that he had seen her, Tullius walked over and leaned on the balustrade next to her.

"I wasn't sure that you had received my letter," he admitted, after a few moments of silence. "Isran sent word back that you were none of my business."

She looked down, a faint smile curving on her lips.

"That sounds like him," Gallica responded. She sighed. "I didn't receive it until a few days ago. I've been busy, or I would have come sooner."

"So I heard."

Silence. Uncomfortable, Tullius shifted and then looked at her. In profile, he could see that Gallica's face was perhaps a little leaner than it had been, the care lines beginning to show around her eyes just a little more. She would be about twenty-five, he reckoned, but the expression on her face and in her eyes was that of a much older person now. Even so, even with the scars, he found her soul-achingly beautiful, just as he had since the moment he had laid eyes on her back in Helgen. He had pitied her then - had thought it a waste of a fair face to send her to the execution block. Now, after everything that they had been through, it was all he could do to prevent himself from throwing his arms around her and telling her how much he had worried for her and how glad he was to see her again.

"The Jarls have been holding the Moot up until your return," he said, finally, awkwardly. "They insisted that you be there to preside over it."

"I know. Tell them I'll come."

"And I'm certain the Emperor will want an audience when he arrives. His travel has been delayed by storms along the western coast, but he expressed curiosity about you in the last letter his scribe sent."

She nodded, but said nothing.

"Gallica," Tullius said, at last, turning to face her, "about what happened at Windhelm-"

She stood, crossing her hands over her chest as she sighed out at the sea. She shook her head.

"It's over with, Tullius. It's done. We can let it go."

He stared at her for a moment, trying to discern her feelings, anything that might tell him what she was thinking.

"Do you blame me for how things ended?"

She turned her head to him and her smile, though pained, was genuine.

"No. You were good to your word. I'm grateful to you for that." She drew in a breath, and let her shoulders relax. "No. Ulfric made his choice. And I made mine. And it's done with. I've made peace with it."

He nodded, unsure of how to take this information, but she preempted him.

"You once asked me what my plans were for when the war was over. I didn't have an answer for you then. But I do now," she told him. Tullius waited as she gathered the words, and saw her smile increase as she watched the seahawks. "Akatosh made me the Dragonborn so that I could fulfill Alduin's prophecy and I have done so. He didn't leave any instructions for what I was supposed to do afterwards. I take this as an invitation to make my own destiny - to use the gift to accomplish the things I want to accomplish instead of running away from who I am. And one of the things I want, General, is for the Empire to be made whole again. I want it to be great and good again, like it was in the days of the Septim before the Thalmor were ever a threat to us."

She turned her smile on him again, and nodded, as if acquiescing something.

"So, yes, General Tullius. I will stay in Skyrim to help you. As long as I'm needed. When the Thalmor prove themselves a threat once more, as they will eventually, I will destroy them. And the Empire will endure forever, as it should. Divines grant it be so."

Looking at her as she said it, the unwavering confidence evident in Gallica's smile alongside the conviction in her eyes, Tullius felt the strange prickling of prophecy in some murky, primitive region of his mind. He nodded. It would not be accomplished in his lifetime - he knew that - but if anyone could start Tamriel down the path that would reunite the Empire, it was the woman standing before him. And he believed in her.

"Is there still a chance," he asked before he could stop himself and because he could not bear to leave it unsaid, "that you would ever accept the offer that I made you that night before Windhelm?"

The question hung between them for what seemed like a torturously long moment and then, slowly, Gallica crossed the short distance between them and embrace him. To touch her after all this time was the pebble that set off the avalanche, and he clasped her to him fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder as he felt relief suffuse him for the first time in months. After a moment, she drew back and kissed him with real feeling.

"After the Moot. If you still want me," she told him, when they broke. "There are things I need to see to first. I need to be able to come to you with a clear conscience. You deserve that from me. And I would rather face what's ahead with you beside me than any other way."

Gallica laced her fingers into his as she turned back to the balustrade, and Tullus turned with her to look out over the sea feeling that finally, at last, the war was really over. And a new, better chapter in the history of Tamriel was just about to begin.