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Chapter Text

Estormo healed away a burn that slipped past the edge of his ward, his flame atronach dancing in the ashes of that foolish Synod's own weak little conjuration. Researchers, all the same in their obsession of study. Study was meant to be applied, meant to be used, and used in the glorification of the Aldmeri Dominion, at that. His atronach twirled, flipped, and then exploded in a burst of light. Estormo hated her theatrics, but he hated even the thought of the effort of binding a new, less pompous Daedra more.

He patted down the Synods' bodies; their robes were enchanted with all sorts of little tricks that made surviving a delve into some gods-forsaken ruin like this one a little more likely, but the Synod was still too backwater to consider that someone like him may follow their little schemes. No, they were too tied up in short-sighted politics with that College of Whispers group to even look twice at the Dominion.

And the Dominion was too focused on subjugation of the lesser peoples to remember that, ultimately, they strove for the ascendance of the Altmer.

Fools, the lot of them.

At least Ancano had never lost sight of the true goal of the Thalmor, and he'd chosen Estormo to help him work for the Dominion when even they were distracted and scattered. He'd wondered why the talented mage from one of the Families of the Court had chosen him, a lowborn mage who'd never even seen combat in the Great War, to be his own personal spy. Perhaps that was precisely it; he'd never seen combat, and was from a simple trading family in Shimmerene. Estormo had no records on him outside of the mandatory conscription papers, and his marks had been high, but not exceptional.

He was unexceptional, unassuming, almost nonexistent, and he played the part well. As average as a naturally superior Altmer could be; not even the Great Court had paid him a second glance when he acted a guard, standing in the back of their meeting chambers, slipping notes from desks, poison in goblets, atronachs through windows. He was perfectly suited to get in, do his work, and get out, unlike the magnificent Mer Ancano was. Ancano walked into a room and took up all the air for himself.

Estormo pulled a thick research journal from the pockets of one of the Synod, paging through its notes on 'ancient' magic items and locations of 'power' and how to access them. He unfolded a map of Skyrim, pressed flat in the back cover of the journal, dotted with near-perfect circles with letters next to them; code. But no matter, the Synod had located quite a few of their low-level weak little…toys.

He stepped back and looked at the glowing light aimed at the wall, what the Synod had exclaimed was so unexpected before Estormo stepped in to kill them and tried to make heads or tails of it. It looked like two big blobs of light placed off-center of some strange shape--

No, that was…Skyrim? Estormo held up the map, trying to hold it still and line up the borders of the image with the borders of the map. Why was the Synod map so cluttered compared to this Dwemer construction? Perhaps magic had shattered since their disappearance, from a few impressive sources to a smattering of nothing special. The smaller of the lightpoints lined up to…somewhere in the mountains, and the other lined up to Winterhold.

Winterhold.

Where Ancano had come across that ancient glowing runic orb that he'd spent so many careful words describing, ordering Estormo to find out exactly what it was, what it was capable of. And Ancano had barely figured out a name for it over half a year ago; the Eye of Magnus. And nothing more about the Eye was said in his latest correspondence, nearly two months old now. It was unusual for Ancano to go more than a month without an update letter appearing under his head whilst he slept, but he was under strict orders not to initiate contact, to only reply briefly at very specific times. The absolute worst thing Estormo could do was to appear a letter in Ancano's lap when he was in a critical meeting with the First Emissary.

And, given that the Eye of Magnus was, no doubt, one of the more powerful objects in existence by virtue of having such a name, the smaller, dimmer light in the Skyrim mountains somewhere was less powerful, but on a similar level if the Synod were right in their notes on this Oculory. Estormo marked the location he'd need to travel to in charcoal, pocketing the notes.

He summoned his atronach once more, giving her a simple command. "Incinerate them. Leave no trace." And though the Daedroth had no true face to speak of, Estormo could've sworn she smiled.

A trickle of snowmelt found its way in the cracks between the stone floor, hastened by a chunk of ice falling from the Dragonborn's filthy hem. The moisture that had wicked up her robes past her knees was dry almost down to her ankles, the roaring fire uncomfortably warm to Ulfric. He sat by the table, straddling the bench to face her as she shivered by the fire. Every so often she would open her mouth and act like she was about to speak, before closing it again and sinking back into the chair with a little groan.

Lydia puttered around Breezehome, tidying what was already clean and making half an effort to put up the ruined armor and scales she'd carried in her sack. She talked about nothing in particular, jumping from explaining how her profits had been over the past month to detailing gossip she'd overheard at some tavern, seemingly just to fill the air with something over cracks from the logs and the Dragonborn's labored breathing.

She'd half-heartedly waved away any questions they'd asked her on the slow walk back. She'd collapsed in the first chair through the door, gasping something about catching her breath and collecting her thoughts. She'd pushed the Graybeard's robes past her elbows. The wounds on her forearms were mottled and strangely patterned, with occasional regular bands of pink scars rather than blisters of all colors.

"The Jarl is coming by this evening," she finally murmured as Lydia finished some inconsequential story about which shopkeep was seen leaving who's house by some barmaid. "I'd like to know everything that's happened before he arrives. Namely, the Thalmor, for starters."

"They arrived yesterday afternoon," Lydia explained. The Dragonborn stared at Ulfric, looking him up and down. She paused to focus on the lightning scars webbing his face, the bandages wrapping his right hand, the salve seeping through them in a bright blue. "That priest Heimskr is dead, and they blew up the Shrine. The Graymanes were arrested, too."

They were already arrested. That was the first Ulfric was hearing of it, granted, he'd spent the night under strict supervision of a priest who gave him no updates that weren't directly related to his own healing. His eyes burned with fatigue from lack of sleep, and a headache was beginning to gnaw at the base of his skull. But he was still in better shape than the Graymanes, arrested and ready to stand trial for their nonexistent crimes of daring to worship their own god.

"And they attacked Stormcloak," the Dragonborn added.

"No, they didn't," Ulfric corrected. "I took the spell for the man they did attack."

"Who?"

"Vignar Graymane."

"Damn." The Dragonborn winced and moved her hand to her abdomen. "Lydia, was any Graymane not arrested?"

Lydia shrugged. "Depends on who you get your rumors from. Some say the kids are being shipped off to Honorhall, others say they saw little Annia being led out of the Clan hall in toddler-sized chains."

"Who's Annia?" The Dragonborn asked.

"Fralia's granddaughter. Her Ma's with child, and her Da's been missing for months," Lydia said. "Little girl can't be much older than three."

"Her father," Ulfric said, "is Thorald?"

The tense air in Breezehome somehow managed to get that much tenser. The Dragonborn looked towards Lydia; she wasn't too familiar with the Graymanes, it seemed. "Do you know what happened to him?" Lydia asked.

Other than what Fralia had sobbed to him not a day earlier, no. "He never joined my army. He's either dead or captured. Fralia asked me to find him and get him released."

"Ha! She'd better worry about her own self right now," the Dragonborn spat. "Anything else of note? Uthgerd bring any more brain-rotted messages from Delphine?"

"To tell you the truth," Lydia replied, "it's been fairly quiet here. The other Housecarls are either on schedule or slightly ahead of schedule."

"And you?" The Dragonborn turned to him.

"I joined the Companions."

"Ah. Good people. Have they hounded you about being a member of the Circle yet?"

Ulfric blinked. "It's been a month."

"Exactly. They dogged me about it after a few jobs." She wheezed and burst into a wet cough, swallowing hard and gasping for air briefly. "The Crown?"

Ulfric stomped on the floor. "Right here," he said. The Dragonborn nodded and choked back another cough. "What happened to you? I've never seen wounds like those--"

"Alduin's blood was poisonous, and Sovngarde is not for the living," she interrupted. "I'll tell the story when the Jarl arrives. It's long and I barely have the breath to speak it once. Lydia, I want to read any letters that came. Could you bring them here?" Lydia nodded and stepped upstairs. "Vittoria Vici's wedding is in a few months. Stormcloak, we need you to be on good terms with her." She paused to catch her breath. "And the rest of the Solitude nobility."

Ulfric was silent. Solitude wasn't like Whiterun; it's citizens couldn't be bought with gold and Companionship. No, they'd chased him out of the gates with arrows grazing his horse for miles. Perhaps she'd forgotten. The wounds on her head were substantial, a long gash was stitched up from her hairline and curved around to her cheek decorated what part of her face wasn't covered in burns and blisters. "You understand the last time I went to Solitude--"

"Vittoria told me she wanted to invite you," the Dragonborn interrupted. "She's marrying the son of Vulwulf Snowshod."

Vulwulf, the fanatical old man. While Ulfric had never been on quite as good terms with him as his father had, he'd always admired him for being so uncompromising in his beliefs. Vulwulf swore up and down it was him who'd convinced Jarl Laila to support his rebellion. His own son marrying the Emperor's cousin had to be devastating to him.

"She thought it might end the war," she continued.

"It doesn't matter what Vittoria thinks. Elisif will hang me the second I walk through her gates."

"You said the same thing about Jarl Balgruuf."

"Things are more personal for Elisif," Ulfric reminded her. Lydia handed the Dragonborn a stack of letters.

"She won't. She's a stupid woman who does as her steward advises. And her steward does as the Thanes advise. And guess who the Thanes answer to?" The Dragonborn ran her finger under the creased paper of the first letter, its wax seal already broken. Blood smeared over the paper and she drew her hand to her chest to staunch the cut.

She looked over at him. Ulfric sighed; of course she actually wanted an answer. "You?"

"Mmm hmm."

"I know she's a puppet. It's not the nobility I’m worried about," Ulfric argued. "It's the people."

"They didn't even like Torygg that much anyways."

"My Thane," Lydia said, "do you remember the first thing we saw in Solitude?"

The Dragonborn glanced up from the letter and thought for a second. "That was an anomaly."

"Oh, was it? They don't just execute people in broad daylight for no reason."

"They certainly tried it with Stormcloak and me."

Lydia grew two shades redder. "They tried to chop off your head for the same reason they chopped off that man's and by the Nine they'll try it again if you take Ulfric into Solitude!" Lydia moved to the other side of the fire to where the Dragonborn could see her better. Ulfric hadn't noticed her turning her head since she'd returned; she swiveled at her waist and darted her eyes around instead. "There's a letter from Jordis in there, and she's said they burned an effigy of Ulfric when Solitude got word of the end of the war."

Ulfric blinked. He knew he was well-hated, but taking the time to tie straw in his likeness and dress it up, only to set it on fire was a kind of animosity he'd never quite heard of. He was almost honored by it.

"They were celebrating the end of a war," the Dragonborn replied, trying to emphasize what she could around an increasingly graveled voice. "I'm sure there would've been similar festivities in Windhelm."

Well, he'd never had a real figurehead of an enemy to rally his armies around. General Tullius, maybe, but few ordinary people were familiar enough with the ins and outs of the Imperial Legion to recognize the name. And the masses of nameless Thalmor were appropriate, if they didn't scare the life out of half the Great War veterans in his army and far more of the unblooded. Which left the little waif Elisif, perhaps the least threatening thing to ever come out of such a grisly thing as war.

"Solitude never saw any fighting," the Dragonborn continued. "It's not like I'll leave him to his own devices for a month, either. He'll be fine, right, Stormcloak?" She flipped her letter to the other side.

Lydia looked at him, fuming. Ulfric wondered why she cared for his life so much; it's not like she was the one vying for the Ruby Throne. Perhaps she figured that, if he were to die, the Dragonborn would be in a much worse position to enact her whimsies, and that hard work would be transferred to her. "I can defend myself against the common citizen, and perhaps a guard or two. But not the whole of Haafingar. If things are as delicate as Lydia claims, I'll be dead within the day," Ulfric said. "If not, politics is a game without many winners, especially in the Blue Palace. It was once the playground of choice for assassins."

"Oh, don't act afraid of a little assassin," the Dragonborn said. "None of the ones Tullius sent for you came back alive."

And none of them made it past his guard. One particularly inventive assassin had attempted to scale the side of the palace; he'd been discovered some time later with his brains frozen to the ground. But, regardless of creative attempts on his life, Ulfric didn't exactly have a guard sworn and dedicated to protect his own life with theirs. The Dragonborn slowly raised her bottle of bright red potion to her lips, taking a slow drink as he found the words to reply. "Angry mobs and well-paid assassins are two enemies I no longer have the resources to defend against."

"You’ve been relying on your reputation to protect you and your assets so long," Lydia said. "He doesn't have your reputation! It reflects poorly on you to drag him from Hold to Hold like some simple mercenary. People talk, my Thane. How long until rumors fly of you being some traitor to the Empire? You're lucky the rumors've focused on Ulfric, not you."

A thin line of potion dripped from the corner of the Dragonborn's mouth. "I'm accelerating things, Lydia," she replied. "I have an army of dragons, now. I killed an aspect of Akatosh and took his Soul to be my own. And Kynareth herself named me the Shezarrine. Since when do rumors dull the shine of divinity?"

Ulfric's stomach churned. The Dragonborn was claiming to be a god. Not just any god, either.

Talos, or a step away from Talos. By Kynareth herself, no less.

She was lying. She was delusional, and that was that. Ravings about him being High King, about her being Emperor, they were all as obtainable as dreams.

But Talos was once Tiber Septim; Dragonborn. And before that, He was Wulfharth the Ash-King, and before that, Pelinal Whitestrake. And if some theologians were to be believed, Talos is ultimately the reincarnation of the dead god Lorkhan. Of Shor. And who better to be Shor in mortal form than the woman who had just walked through Shor's own realm and returned to speak of it? Who better to announce it than the wife of Shor?

"You need to rest before the Jarl comes by," Lydia said. "I'll help you upstairs--"

"No, I want to sit by the fire," the Dragonborn interrupted. "I haven't been warm in weeks. Stormcloak, how are the Companions? Do they miss me?"

Chapter Text

Ulfric kept the Dragonborn occupied by answering her little inquiries into how each and every Companion was doing. Every time he thought she had finally dozed off and he let his words trail into silence, she wondered aloud about some little quirk of Jorrvaskr and egged him to continue. And then he finally heard her wheezing slow, deepen, saw her arms slack on the chair.

He waited one minute, two minutes in near quiet, waiting for her to pop up and ask about the state of the Companion's beer or something of similar irrelevance. When she didn't, Ulfric slowly stood up and made his way to the back door as silently as he could.

Lydia was outside, shooting arrows at a practice dummy with passable accuracy. Ulfric walked behind her. "Your arm is too tense."

"Nariilu's lost her damn mind." Lydia loosed an arrow; it missed the dummy completely and bounced off the stone walls of the house. She stopped her foot and cursed as the arrow dropped. "Stealing Akatosh's Soul, talking to Kynareth, she's gone too far this time."

Ulfric wanted to agree with her. He wanted to assure Lydia that, yes, the Dragonborn was going mad. How had they let her go on unchecked for this long? Surely, she was in need of intervention. Ulfric bit the inside of his cheek. But stealing the Soul of a dragon, even if that dragon was an avatar of a god, that was simply what the Elder Scrolls had prophesized of her. And talking to Kynareth? How was that any different from any priest receiving a visit in a dream from their chosen Divine? He wanted to push aside the almost flippant claims of the Dragonborn as nothing more than delusion. Instead, he shrugged.

Lydia couldn't see him; she nocked another arrow and continued. "Damn what I said about her secrets; you know she wants to be Empress?" She fired the arrow for emphasis. "Yeah. It's those Graybeards' fault. Crazy Elf thinks being Dragonborn makes her Talos or something. I think that's why she got obsessed with saving your life." Her arrow hit the target in a small cluster of arrows. She had a tendency to aim slightly up and to the right.

"What do you mean it's the Graybeard's fault?" Ulfric asked. He wanted to march back inside and wake up the Dragonborn, force her to give a complete rundown of every tiny detail that'd happened since she flew away on Odahviing.

"She wasn't the same after coming back from High Hrothgar," Lydia explained. "Especially not after taking them that horn. Says the Graybeards called her Talos, and she decided that means she gets to found her own Empire."

Well, the last time all the Graybeards spoke was to recognize Tiber Septim as…well, Tiber Septim. And now they'd spoken for her, three times. Talos himself only received two recognitions from them. Still, he'd assumed the Dragonborn had such lofty ambitions simply because she was the Dragonborn. Not because she believed herself to be a god reborn. "So, you knew of this for how long, and are just now taking issue with it?"

"I thought she was joking."

"The Dragonborn is out here founding cities and marching on Holds and making deals with Jarls and you thought she was joking?"

"Not about the Empire thing, I knew she was serious about that," Lydia snapped. "The…the other thing. Maybe she's still joking. Laughing at us for believing her." She reached down to an empty quiver and chuckled.

Ulfric crossed his arms and watched the Housecarl relax. Lydia lowered her bow and tapped it on the ground. "Two questions," he said. "One, what if she's serious?"

"Then she's crazy and needs help."

He wanted to agree with her simple answer. "Two, why does this change anything for you?"

Lydia turned and stared at him. "Isn't it obvious? All of her goals are because she thinks herself to be a Divine. She's not, obviously, but she's been helping people all this time.  Empress has never been obtainable to her. She's just a woman with her heart in the right place and her head in the clouds."

"She's 'just a woman' who happens to have the Soul of a dragon, and just returned from Sovngarde!"

Lydia sputtered. "You actually believe her! Ulfric, you're so desperate to move back up in the world--"

"Do you think Tiber Septim's allies had the same discussion about him when he walked on Nirn?" Ulfric argued, cutting her off. "You can't deny that she is Dragonborn, blessed by Akatosh, as was Talos before her."

"That doesn't make her Talos," Lydia dropped her voice low, tapping her bow to his chest with each word. "That just makes her Dragonborn."

"What about the other things she said?" Ulfric pressed. "About Alduin's Soul? About Kynareth?

Lydia wiped at her face with her free hand. "Hold on, hold on. You actually think she's telling the truth? Come on, Ulfric, you're exhausted. You nearly died yesterday, and I can tell you didn't get much sleep last night."

Ulfric frowned and threw his good hand towards Breezehome. "By Ysmir, Lydia, you were just trying to convince me she's dead! Why don't we just wait and see before we pass judgement?"

"Because I don't want to be skeptic about this!"

"If the Divines strike her down," Ulfric said, "then she is delusional. A false god in the Thalmor sense of the word. If not, the Dragonborn isn't serious or…or actually--"

"Pelinal Whitestrake? Which is it, Ulfric? Is she Shor or Talos? Maybe Akatosh? Baren-fucking-ziah?"

"Maybe we wait and see what she says when she isn't half dead!" Ulfric argued. "You say I'm too tired to form my own thoughts, what about her? I wouldn't be surprised if we have to carry her corpse to the Hall of the Dead before Balgruuf arrives."

Lydia bit her lip. "Fine. But she is not a god. No one is."

"You sound like the Thalmor," Ulfric spat back. Lydia fumed at him and thrust her bow on the ground, shoving him back  as she turned and left the yard through the ruined wall.

4E203 FS 29

Nariilu,

Word arrived yesterday morning on the end of the war. I suppose I owe you a case of Illiac Brandy! I hope to share it before my wedding. I'll be hard-pressed to have a reception that outclasses these celebrations! You'd best return to Solitude in time for my vows! Sofie asked to be my flower girl--act surprised when she tells you. I assumed you'd allow it.

I can hardly believe my wedding is only five months away! Oh, I know you hate talk of love, but let me be as much of a romantic as Mara herself. Asgeir…I fall more and more in love with him every day. Of course, we can only correspond through letters, recently. He's been so busy in Riften now that Maven Blackbriar is the Jarl. She doesn't have as much time for the business, but the Meadery is exploding!

How I look forwards to these times of peace. Hopefully with the end of the war and my marriage into a Nord family (and vice versa) will be just what the Empire needs to rally itself and stop all this infighting. Titus wrote me recently about the need for a symbol of unity, so I've written back for him to officiate my marriage.

Blessings from the Eight (and your favorite neighbor)

Vittoria Vici

~

4E203 RH 3

Nariilu,

Rumors are flying. Did you take Ulfric Stormcloak as your prisoner? How long were you planning this? Please know I was joking about having him propose to Elisif upstage my wedding.

Speaking of our capable Jarl, she's barely been seen since news of the end of the war. I had tea with her two days ago, and she was quieter than usual. I think she's afraid of having to follow through with her promises to take over her late husband's position. Poor girl doesn't have the heart for politics; she's far too much of it. Erikur and Bryling have apparently been seen conversing, which is about the most concerning thing I've ever heard. But, that's only according to

Anyways, not to worry you with foolish rumors. You'll likely soon arrive. I imagine returning order to a conquered city isn't the most timely activity, especially the seat of the Rebellion. Give Ulfric Stormcloak my best, if he truly is with you!

Blessings from the Eight (and safe travels)

Vittoria Vici

~

4E203 RH 14

Nariilu,

You absolute madwoman! News of that dragon in Whiterun has traveled faster than any scandal. Oblivion, my dear cousin could be assassinated (Divines forbid such a fate) and I'd find out slower than this. Nobody quite believes it, but could you blame them? Capturing a dragon, only to let it go free? I trust you've planned this further than I, and see some benefit to it.

My last letter to you was on the life of Ulfric Stormcloak, at least briefly. It seems rumors fly around you (just like that dragon has flown away), though you've gotten him out of the town gossip with this little stunt. I fear for your reputation; Ulfric wasn't the most popular man here, for obvious reasons. Discussion on his escape from death at the end of the war has been centered not on him, but on you. Nobody quite knows why you spared him.

I believe consensus was more or less that General Tullius wanted an execution in front of the Emperor and Senate, and you're simply escorting him to the Imperial City. On the other hand, I've also heard a rather convincing drunk claim you've been shacking up with each other for years now, and the rebellion was all a ruse to run away to Atmora together.

I suppose only you two know, but, please, at least attend my wedding before fleeing the continent with your scandalous lover. And name a child after yours truly!

Blessings from the Eight (Dibella especially)

Vittoria Vici

~

4E203 RH 27

Nariilu,

I doubt you've been receiving my recent letters, so I'll forgive you for your slow responses. I ran into Jordis in the market today and she's told me that she received word from your Housecarl in Whiterun that you've gone and flown away on that dragon! Even more, apparently your destination was the Nord afterlife (the specific name of it escapes me) to kill Alduin. Now, I'm as familiar with Nord myths as any upstanding Imperial who lives in Skyrim, but I do recall you telling me of Helgen. Isn't Alduin the dragon at fault for that catastrophe?

My dearest neighbor, I've been in the Temple praying for your safe return since I heard and until the priests kicked me out. Even writing it makes me laugh. A safe return from the afterlife? You'll return necromantic to compliment my romanticism. But do not worry; I'll find a dying Nord to pass along my greetings to you.

Blessings from the Eight (seems you've great need of them)

Vittoria Vici

Ulfric scanned over the Dragonborn's letters, fallen from her lap and scattered across the floor. Some had landed close enough to the fire that their corners curled and darkened, ink moistening under the heat. Only the letters from Vittoria Vici and a few that were almost unreadable under frequent use of single-letter substitutions for words and phrases signed only as cities they originated from had been opened. Ulfric didn't dare break the wax seals on other letters; some decorated with simple stamps of initials and others with ornate crests, including one that was obviously an Imperial general's official seal.

He folded the letters closed and gently placed them on the low table next to her, removing an empty potion bottle. Up close, Ulfric noticed her breathing was just out of sync. He studied her wounds; they almost reminded him of the kinds unfortunate travelers received if they took a 'shortcut' through the hotmarshes. But, her wounds were scabbing over where they could rather than bubbling with pus and heat.

Ulfric wondered how far they reached beneath her robes, whether the injuries on her face connected to the similar scabs on her hands or if they were completely separate affairs. And what else was hidden from sight? The gash on her head wasn't clean around its neat little stitches; it was jagged and rough as if someone had cut through the wound over and over with a dull knife. At the very least, her robes were free of blood. Perhaps that’s why he couldn't see any visible bandages; the Graybeards weren't equipped for injuries beyond headaches from meditating too hard. Treating the Dragonborn had likely used up a century worth of medical supplies.

And that's likely why they allowed her to leave in her condition, he realized. If she could walk enough to…well, to ride a dragon, she was well enough to seek more equipped healers than a handful of old monks. Which she hadn't, not really, not beyond getting a few health potions. How had she escaped an overnight stay with much worse injuries than him?

"You look like Ysgramor."

Ulfric stepped back, he'd been leaning in far too close to inspect her. The Dragonborn's eyes were still closed, her eyes sunken with dark circles ghosting her lower eyelids.

"You woke me up. Quit stomping around so loud."

"Oh. Sorry."

The Dragonborn rolled one shoulder after the other. Her bones popped louder than the fire. "It was her spell wasn't it?"

He froze. Ulfric refused to think about who had given him his own injuries. He'd much rather focus on who gave the Dragonborn such painful looking scars. No, it'd be no use to crawl into his own head and drown in whispers of guilt, to let himself focus on that little tingle of lightning that lingered and ran over his skin every time he moved just a little too fast.

At least the Dragonborn hadn't said her name. Ulfric could at least live in ambiguity; there was another female Thalmor with…Yes, the one who had paralyzed him. He'd already forgotten her name. It was nice to be able to forget little useless bits of information like that. Useless, just like all he'd amounted to over the years.

"Ysgramor, huh?" Ulfric replied, digging his nails into his palm. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he felt uneasy on his feet. He moved to lean against the wall, trying his best to make it look natural, instead of an attempt to keep from collapsing. He'd collapsed, yesterday. More than once. The quilt behind him gave way; he'd put his weight right over the hole where his Dossier was hidden.

"Yeah. Same face. His beard's far more impressive though," she said. "Don't worry, he's had a few thousand more years to grow it out than you. And Ysgramor's taller. Somehow."

Ulfric opened his mouth to respond, to try and go along with her little mood-lightening banter, but couldn't find anything that fit. Of course he'd never live up to Ysgramor, even if it was something as mundane as in beard-fullness or height. And if Ulfric couldn't grow a beard worthy of an Atmoran, how could he ever hope to live up to Ysgramor's leadership, his wisdom, his strength?

"Oh, and Wulfrend Stormcloak says hello," the Dragonborn said. "Says he's proud of you, for all that's worth to you."

His mind swam with the names of his ancestors, little quips of their great deeds clearing the fog of his own failures from his thoughts. Wulfrend, his great-great-grandfather's younger brother who went and actually completed his training with the Greybeards. Or, she could mean Wulfrend, however many generations back, from the mid-Third Era, married to the Count of Bruma. No, she definitely meant Wulfrend, the Jarl of Windhelm appointed by Tiber Septim himself.

Yes, she definitely meant Jarl Wulfrend. Ulfric had ended the six-hundred year Stormcloak dynasty in Windhelm. What an awful insult for him to say he was 'proud'. Proud that he'd destroyed the legacy of his entire Clan. And the Dragonborn had missed the dishonor in his message, provided she hadn't made up the entire conversation with Wulfrend. Lydia would probably claim she'd been digging in some history tome just to get a rise out of him.

"I've never heard of him, but I don't go climbing around in your family tree," the Dragonborn continued. "He was Thane to High Queen Sidgne. Never heard of her, either. He was Dragonborn, though."

That Wulfrend. One of the first prominent members of the Stormcloak Clan, from all the thousands of years back in the closing days of the First Era. While his family tree didn't quite take root with him (that honor went to Ysgramor), Wulfrend was the foundation of a solid trunk that twisted and turned through Housecarls and Jarls and High Kings and Queens. And while the little list of deeds included his marriage to Sidgne's sister, his ferocity as a warrior, his mastery of the Thu'um, his status as Dragonborn had been lost to history, if it had ever actually been the case.

Even worse, Wulfrend's cause of death was listed as a dragon attack; his twin daughters' deeds listed the avengement of their father. Dragonborn were exceptionally equipped to fight dragons; the Last Dragonborn sat before him admittedly worse for wear, but having survived a battle with Alduin himself. Wulfrend wouldn't've fallen to a dragon had he truly been Dragonborn. Ulfric cursed himself, perhaps Lydia was right about her mind.

Unless. He'd fought more dragons alongside the Dragonborn in a scant month than he'd received reports of across all of Eastmarch in two whole years. She openly admitted they sought her out for challenge; she wouldn't fare well unprepared or in old age. Who better to die against a dragon than a Dragonborn, now that he considered it? But, still, for all he knew or cared, the Dragonborn had raided Wulfrend's tomb, read about his great deeds on his own sarcophagus, perhaps even in Skuldafn. Not entirely proof of having a conversation with a dead man.

"His daughters weren't Dragonborn, though. Jhunya and Marla, right?" The Dragonborn continued. Ulfric studied her; her eyes were still closed, though her forehead was pinched in a frown. "They started the tradition of carving their tutor's names in the wall of their nursery. Wulfrend wishes he'd told his girls to carve smaller if he'd known it catch on. Instead, he made them polish the guard's helmets."

Ulfric leaned harder against the wall, feeling a bit of burnt wood break off behind him. His heart beat in his chest; the nursery off-limits to all but the most trusted few guard, the family of the Jarl, their handpicked nursemaids. Not even the steward was allowed that deep into the quarters. Even more, the wall in question carved with hundreds of names by little hands, was covered with a grand tapestry.

A quick glance or even a short stay in the room wouldn't reveal all the choice words children had immortalized towards their tutors. No, it'd taken nearly a decade for Ulfric to get bored one day and peel back the heavy cloth to hide behind it. And he'd seen his father's name clumsily carved alongside a certain 'Avesthar Milk-Face'. He hadn't finished adding his own and his tutor's names by the time he left for High Hrothgar.

But, sure enough, the biggest names, right in the center of the wall had been Jhunya and Marla Stormcloak, and their tutors, 'Rat Bottom Botriva + Svalof the Stupid'.

"How do you know about that wall?" Ulfric asked. His voice sounded like no more than a whisper by the time it reached his own ears an eternity later. No one knew about that wall. Even he had almost forgotten about its existence over the years.

"You've quite a few ancestors in Sovngarde," the Dragonborn said. "I thought you'd like a little proof that your family still watches over you."

No, they couldn't--shouldn't watch over him. They saw failure after failure, weakness and disaster and downfall of everything. Ulfric's eyes stung with exhaustion, his stomach churned with the weight of all he'd done. And to think the Dragonborn meant to reassure him by reminding him of the great deeds that he'd undermined. Destroyed.

"And…" she trailed off into a deep sigh. "I'm not supposed to say anything. But Sovngarde is a place outside of time. Alduin himself was outside of time. I've seen great deeds from you. Your family is so proud of you--" Ulfric clenched his hands into the quilt on the wall, trying to force himself to feel each woven thread, each stitch rather than listen to her. How could they possibly be proud of him? "--not just for what you've done, but for what you will do."

Ulfric shook his head. "You're lying. I know what my ancestors value. I am nothing to them." He was nothing to anyone, really. He'd just be a footnote in history, no matter who wrote it, and that would make his Clan proud. He'd no longer be a stain on them once he was dead and gone. Maybe it was a blessing that the Dragonborn was here since she'd overshadow him and his misdeeds in every song just by virtue of being the Dragonborn to slay Alduin.

He realized he was crying for the second time in a day; the burning behind his eyes wasn't exhaustion, not completely. Ulfric decided the gods had some mercy for him since the Dragonborn still had her eyes closed, but the gods wanted to laugh at him since she opened them and looked at him just as he felt another tear run down his cheek and catch itself in his beard. "Stormcloak, I swear on my life, I'm not trying to make you feel worse than I do," she said, sitting up straighter. Now she was pitying him. "Your father told me to tell you this: 'After every winter, the bear wakes'."

Ulfric slid down the wall, trying to convince himself he wasn't collapsing. Those were the last words he'd ever heard his father say, right before he marched his army to Markarth. And those were the words Ulfric's father said to him every time he was unsure, nervous, about to go off to his mother's funeral, to High Hrothgar, to war. Words that the Great Bear of Eastmarch never wrote down, and he surely hadn't, either. Words that were only whispered in reassurance on a handful of occasions.

She really had spoken to his father.

Chapter Text

Those were his memories she was rifling through.

Wulfrend almost wasn't aware of it at first. The pain of death was beyond comprehension; his body shattered into a thousand frozen shards and scattered, dissolving, nothing. Perhaps that was because he hadn't felt much since he ascended to Sovngarde. Perhaps dying a second time hadn't hurt all that much, but instead he'd been overwhelmed with the first true sensation he'd felt in two thousand years.

And he focused on that pain for a while, since the only alternative was to rage at her. The Last Dragonborn. His murderer. Her Soul lorded over his own and a hundred others in…well, Wulfrend wasn't entirely sure where he was. He figured he had been absorbed by her in some twisted fate that Akatosh had set into motion for his own amusement.

There were others, too. Most of them were dragons that idled around, occasionally pushing against the invisible walls of a dark, swirling void. Their souls were multicolored, large things that seemed to have already contented themselves with being prisoners of their murderer. They whispered songs of revenge, of power they would take from their self-proclaimed overlord, how they would rise once her mortal body finally failed and they were released. The dragons Wulfrend himself had devoured in life followed him, sharing similar sentiments towards both himself and this Elf that held them all.

Six others raged along with him, the other Dragonborn he'd grown so fond of over the millennia they lounged in Sovngarde. Smaller than the dragons, and a different kind of multicolored. Wulfrend had seen the Aurora form over a golden sunset, once, the Dragonborn's Souls reminded him of that beautiful scene, rather than the white base of the dragons.

And Nariilu Therel's Soul--Wulfrend cringed, she hated him thinking her name--had started out that same golden color, too. He'd only seen it briefly, before its gold began to swirl with an impossibly deep black above them all. The dragons had screeched out for the death of Alduin, watching a new Soul stream in, almost forming into another to crowd up the space with an endless void before it disappeared almost completely, save for a sliver that embedded itself in her own Soul.

If Wulfrend stared at her Soul enough, he could almost see through it. It was different than seeing, feeling, experiencing life through her own body, which, granted, was awfully painful at the moment. Her memories were close to the surface of her Soul, yet buried deep. And it felt like every time her Soul lashed out at them, to get the dragons, the Dragonborn to submit to her, he came that much closer to breaking through.

He realized with growing dread, anger, fear, that connection went both ways.

She pinned him down and dug through his essence almost methodically, looking for something she could use. Wulfrend fought her at every step of the way, but not having a body was disorienting and the dragons were helping her. Helping her keep his Soul still and vulnerable, helping fight back the Dragonborn that could never get close enough to her to do anything to stop her. She'd beat them into a sort of scornful subservience since she devoured them, and they raged against her even as they dutifully obeyed, like a child making a show of chores.

And then Wulfrend saw his memories play out above him, heard her voice portray their events. His two little girls--don't you dare touch them--complaining of their noses burning from the polishing he'd made them do, with their bright little eyes and red heads. He'd not gotten to see them like this in forever; they were grown women in Sovngarde. And tears came to his eyes, because he'd never get to tuck them in again or even remember tucking them in again without her taking all that emotion for her own.

But he felt his sadness drip into her, if only by so much.

She dove deeper into his memories, looking for…for…something. He heard his descendant's voice, Ulfric Stormcloak, sounding in an echo above him. And then Wulfrend heard his own voice, layered by Nariilu Therel's--how dare he speak her name--as she spoke his own words again, twisting them for her own means. Sifted through what he'd seen watching over his Clan as if she was playing in the snow. Her Soul laughed as he tried to resist, and she finally found what she had been searching for with a satisfied glow.

Wulfrend shouted at her with all the voice he had in him. He tried to remember what it felt like to breathe, to Shout, what it felt like to swing a weapon, to fight back an enemy that wanted to destroy you and all you stood for. Nariilu Therel--she roared above him, pushing a sharp cold pain through him--did not care what he tried to do. Her body had opened its eyes; Ulfric Stormcloak looked so much like his father, but where Hoag's shoulders were firm and wide, Ulfric's were fallen upon his chest.

He looked through Nariilu Therel's--his Overlord--eyes and into Ulfric's, begging him to get rid of that spark of trust, pleading with him to kill her.

Balgruuf arrived with a choice bottle of wine in one hand and another tucked under his arm, knocking once before he let himself in. "Make yourself at home," the Dragonborn muttered. She'd been dozing on and off all afternoon, only rising a few times to drink water like she was trying to drown herself or to poke the fire back to life with her new staff. Ulfric almost managed to take a nap himself, but decided to busy himself by plucking all of Lydia's arrows out of the target (and unfortunate surrounding areas) and sharpening them for her after he woke from a dream of corpses and pain. She hadn't returned from earlier, though it was well into dusk by now.

"It's my city," Balgruuf responded. He dragged the free chair opposite the Dragonborn, a simple cloak and tunic replacing his usual embroidered garb and fur cape.

"It's my damned house."

"Consider it a tax on unlocked doors, my Thane. Where are your glasses?"

Ulfric pulled four glasses from the cupboard. Balgruuf thanked him in a grunt and poured too much wine in each glass from a dark green bottle. "Water mine down," the Dragonborn said as Balgruuf filled the last glass. He grabbed his glass and sat down opposite her. "I'm serious. I know how strong that is. You'll kill me." Ulfric took a long drink of the dry, earthen wine until the glass was closer to half-full. He ladled water in the goblet, watching the deep blood red turn to a light crimson.

The Dragonborn glared at him, but still took the glass from him in a slow, stuttered movement when he offered it. He shrugged at her and sat down backwards on the dining bench, waiting for someone to speak. "Well, Jarl, let's hear it."

"First trial's tomorrow," Balgruuf said simply, "For the entire Graymane Clan. Other arrests haven't started yet. Those four Justiciars that you saw are staying. From what I can figure, the Ambassador is staying long enough to decide if I should be put on trial for that Shrine and then leaving."

"She won't get you, Jarl," the Dragonborn said. "It's likely nothing more than theatrics to scare you in line. Where are they keeping the Graymanes?" She raised her cup and took a sip that barely wet her lips.

"You're not breaking them out, if that's what you're thinking," Balgruuf stated. "They're in my dungeon, and she knows what happened to the last Justiciars she sent my way. Whiterun is on very thin ice."

"Well, since there's a trial, I suppose you and I'll be on the court," the Dragonborn said. "There's that, at the very least."

Ulfric bit his tongue. "Actually, the Thalmor are holding the trial," he said.

"What? No, Talos Trials are the same as treason trials," she mentioned.

"Turns out, having a Talos shrine in the city center makes you biased," Balgruuf spat. He took a long drink from his cup. "I…The Graymanes may be beyond help."

The Dragonborn was silent for a while. "I think it might be time to start thinking long-term. Where will Whiterun be in a year, ten years, a century?"

"What kind of question is that?" Balgruuf raised his voice.

"Do you intend to stay Jarl of Whiterun?"

"Of course!"

"Then you can't get arrested. Or dethroned." The Dragonborn put her glass down and leaned forwards. Ulfric almost missed her wince as she moved. "They want a second Great War, eventually. Now that peace is here, all they need is one incident. One little thing to justify retaliation. How do you think your people would react if you were arrested and executed for Talos worship?"

They'd rally. A martyr of one of the most popular, no, the most popular Jarl in Skyrim would have swords raised throughout the province. Even if they ghosted him away and had him killed in some backwater town, word spreads fast. Ulfric had seen a harsh jump in recruitment after rumors of his almost-execution in Helgen started to get around. "You want me to sit back and do nothing," Balgruuf formed each of his words slowly, deliberately. "Watch as my people are killed."

"I really think you're overreacting, Jarl. Markarth's had a Justiciar for years, and he's not managed to arrest a single--"

"Do you have any idea what's been happening in Windhelm?" Balgruuf cut her off. Ulfric looked up, Balgruuf was staring at him, that same strained look on his face.

"What did those bastards do to my city?" Ulfric pressed. He bit his tongue. It wasn't his city, not anymore, but--Kyne's Breath, he wished it still was. Someday, perhaps it'd be his again. Return to Windhelm as its ruler, return Windhelm to its former glory.

"Windhelm got three Justiciars," Balgruuf explained. "And three hundred dead. Three thousand more are set for trial."

Ulfric felt his heart drop. What was Free-Winter doing over there, to let such devastation happen? But, on the other hand, he knew damn well that over half the Hold could be tried and executed for Talos worship. Those numbers could easily inflate to the tens, hundreds of thousands, if the Thalmor cared to make such a statement.

"That's not that bad!" The Dragonborn protested. "Not compared to what happened in the Imperial City, and the rest of Cyrodiil after the War. Hell, even my Siege took far more…What I’m saying is, we have to look on the bright side of things. For all we know, the Graymanes will be let off and things will settle down, like they have in Markarth."

Yes, Ulfric thought, things settled down in Markarth quite well after thousands of deaths. The place went backwards in terms of peace; sometimes Ulfric wondered if he should've ignored the call for aid and just let the Hold work out its own chaotic equilibrium. He realized his wine had been long finished; he hadn't noticed himself drinking.

"Markarth isn't a place I strive to emulate, my Thane."

"Talos was never exceptionally popular in the Reach," Ulfric muttered. Balgruuf had also noticed his empty glass and refilled it without a word.

"Forget about the Reach," the Dragonborn said, waving away their words. "I should've led with this rather than that fool of an Agent they've got over there. The Dominion can't afford another war right now. The Great War devastated them, and Altmer age slowly, even by Elven standards. Their first generation after the Great War are barely in their first years of magical training. They've got to be on their best behavior so as not to provoke anyone, even a weakened Empire. They want a war, but to end us, not themselves, which is exactly what they'd get if they mess up in the near future; five years to a decade."

Balgruuf sat back and crossed his arms. "Regardless, you want me to sit back and play along? With the Thalmor? Ulfric, you're hearing this, right? And you're not complaining? Screaming insults at them, how they undermine the True Nord Way?"

Ulfric shrugged. "'Playing along' is likely just what the Thalmor expect. They've made puppets of us all," he said, trying not to outright agree with the Dragonborn, not in front of Balgruuf. He'd never let him live it down. "However, their arrogance could be to our advantage. Lure them into a false sense of security by playing the good defeated Jarl."

"Like you have been, eh?" Venom slipped into Balgruuf's words, whether he meant it or not.

"I--don't try me, Balgruuf," Ulfric warned. "Take the gold and sign the treaties like everyone expects you to."

Balgruuf moved to stand, Ulfric began to push himself up as well, but the Dragonborn's shrill wheeze caught them both in their tracks. "And since I've found myself the leader of an army of dragons, the Thalmor's days are numbered. Would you two like to hear the story, or bicker like children?"

Nariilu realized she'd have to pause to catch her breath during her retelling of her time in Skuldafn and Sovngarde. And Lydia would just have to miss it, wherever she was. She'd been vaguely aware of a shouting match of sorts that'd occurred in the yard, but about what, Nariilu couldn't say. And she wasn't sure if she even wanted to know, after seeing the state Stormcloak had been in all afternoon.

If she didn't know any better about her Housecarl, she'd think Lydia had decided to give men a try and gone and broken Stormcloak's heart. Which he apparently had one of. One that could be poked and prodded, just like Elenwen detailed in the Dossier. He was exceptionally susceptible to family, and family secrets that he thought he only knew of had just solidified that much more trust in her. And considering his deep eye circles and the ghastly wounds Elenwen had given him, she'd almost felt bad lying to the man.

But he'd never really trusted her in the first place, and rightfully so, after everything she'd put him through. Destroying his army and philosophy, dragging him from place to Thalmor-infested place, putting him in front of danger after dragons, even managing to sour his opinion on Maven Blackbriar, and whatever other slights he definitely held against her, it was nothing short of divine intervention that he was still here. And while they shared a goal or two of destroying the Dominion, of strengthening whatever Empire she crowned him in, shared goals were alliances at best. Not trust. Not like what she'd need to actually pull it off without making enemies of the entire continent.

She knew it'd be damn near impossible for her to get his trust, he was the famed Elf-hater, Empire-damner, Ulfric Stormcloak, after all. Nariilu figured she'd have to find a way to remind the man that she was Ysmir, Talos reborn, which would be easy enough to do if she could get him to climb to High Hrothgar, but it was so convenient for Wulfrend to lend his Soul to her. She made sure to thank him after he'd shared his memories, thank him for keeping such a close watch over his Clan for all those millennia.

Still, Nariilu wasn't just Talos, was she? No, Talos was Dragonborn, Dragonborn were all Akatosh. Hence, that giant dragon avatar of Martin Septim in the Imperial City. Even the blood of a Dragonborn diluted a hundred to one could invoke that kind of power to close the Oblivion Gates, to stop a rampaging Daedric Prince. And in its pure form, Nariilu could ascend to her rightful place as Divine. Head of the Divines, Dragon-God of Time, yes, those titles rather suited her.

"Well, I suppose I'll start at the beginning, then," she said. "Riding a dragon isn't that difficult, surprisingly. Fairly comfortable, all things considered, as well. It was only a few hours to Skuldafn. There really is a portal there, powered by this staff." Nariilu picked up the staff from where it leaned against her chair and twirled it once, almost twice--she sat it down, feeling its magic start to get restless, her arms pulling against the weight of the metal. "Well guarded, of course. Whole city is untouched and crawling with Draugr and Dragon Priests and dragons. All of them under Odahviing's command, which means my command, now."

Balgruuf uncorked the second bottle of wine, having emptied the rest of the first into Stormcloak's glass. Nariilu figured they'd both be heavyweights when it came to intoxication, but even the slightest buzz would keep them from protesting the few embellishments she'd decided to add. The Jarl's method of drowning his sorrows would drown any confusion he had concerning her tale. She continued, "So, after a week of crawling through the city and the crypts--I really could spend a whole day talking about it. Fascinating place, full of well-preserved…everything." She paused to cough. "Regardless, Sovngarde is what you're interested in, no?"

"I'm most interested in what's got you looking like a Draugr," Balgruuf said.

"Alright, I'll save the details of my trek through Skuldafn for the ballad they'll sing of my great deeds."

"Short damn ballad," Balgruuf muttered. Stormcloak snorted. Nariilu chose to ignore him. At least the men were finding some levity, even if it came in the bottom of a bottle.

She huffed. "Well, every Nord since the beginning of time was right; Sovngarde is to die for." Nariilu made sure to follow up quick, lest one of them make some quip about her admitting Stormcloak was right about something. "Even more to die for now that Alduin isn't devouring every single Soul. He Shouted a horrible, deadly mist that enveloped the land that took my breath away. Still haven't quite caught it back.

"So I Shouted for Alduin and he didn't answer my challenge, the coward," Nariilu lied. "He hid in the mist, and every time I tried to Shout and clear it, it would come back thicker than before. So I went to the Hall of Valor to find some old Tongues who could help get rid of that fog." She paused, half for emphasis, half to catch her breath, half to gather her words before the next part of her story. Because it was quite possibly the most critical part to get Stormcloak and Jarl Balgruuf to accept her as Divine.

"I should've read up on Sovngarde," Nariilu said, "because, well, you two probably know this, but it caught me quite off-guard. There's a giant whale skeleton bridge you have to cross to get to the Hall of Valor, and the bones are so far apart I thought I'd fall into the Void." The two men looked contentedly bored, each sipping wine at occasional intervals. "But there's not actually a gap; it's a solid force, though it doesn't look like it. So do try and remember that after you die. Honestly, the worst part of the whole ordeal was opening the heaviest damn doors in the entire Aurbis. But Ysgramor greeted me as soon as I entered--"

"Wait," Stormcloak protested. Nariilu barely kept her smile to more than a twitch of her cheek. "What about Tsun?"

She put on her best 'trying to remember but can't quite place the name' face. "I…Was it someone you knew? Because I don't think--"

"The Master of Trials," Jarl Balgruuf said. "The Guardian of the Whalebone Bridge."

"Oh, yes, him. What about him?"

"Well? What did he say about a Dark Elf trying to pass through to Shor's Hall?" the Jarl pressed.

"He didn't mention it," Nariilu continued. "He greeted me as Ysmir, just like the Greybeards do, and he let me pass."

Stormcloak's eyes narrowed. "And you didn't fight him?"

"No, he fought Alduin with me. Can you let me tell my own story in order?" Nariilu paused and took a sip of her wine. It was still a bit too strong for her liking, but she'd grown tired of thin broth and vegetables stewed to easily swallowed mush. "Nobody fought me, not even Ysgramor. I know, I couldn't believe it either! But I suppose he never saw a Dark Elf in his life, and I kept my helmet on."

The Jarl held up one hand. "Hold on, hold on. Tsun tests all who pass to Shor's Hall."

Nariilu would've shrugged had she been able. "All dead, maybe. His exact wording was 'Welcome, long awaited Ysmir, Dragon of the North, blessed Breath of Storm and Ghosts.' And he knelt and let me go on the Bridge." And she paused for them to process what she'd just said, watching the gears turn individually between them both. "Anyways, Ysgramor--"

"What about Kynareth?" Stormcloak argued.

"Kynareth comes later."

"What about Kynareth?" Jarl Balgruuf asked.

"No more interruptions! By the Nine, I'm trying to keep this fairly short, my lungs hurt enough as it is. Ask for detail at the end." She took a breath, not as deep as she'd like. "So, Ysgramor."

The Dragonborn was utterly hopeless, when it came to things that mattered. She'd expected Ulfric to trust her blindly not an hour after she captured his city, captured him, stripping him of his honor. It was like she didn't understand why he didn't go along with her every whim, and he was fascinated with how she frustrated herself when others couldn't read her mind like she seemed to expect. No, demand.

And now, he wasn't even sure if she understood the scope of what she was saying. Because Shezarrine didn't quite cut it. Ulfric wasn't quite sure if calling her Talos would be entirely true; the Dragonborn almost flippantly quoted Kynareth heralding her as 'The Last Twilight Dragon of the North', a title that invoked Alduin more than he was comfortable with. But he supposed that devouring his Soul gave precedent to such a name.

It seemed her titles almost fell over themselves as she continued on to her recovery with the Greybeards. Ysmir, Last Twilight Dragon of the North, Breath of Storm and Ghosts, Stormcrown, Dragonborn. He wasn't sure if he should present her to the Thalmor as proof of a mortal Ninth Divine or start invoking her name in curses or what.

Balgruuf seemed just as dumbfounded as he did as her story went on and on, getting more outlandish as it developed from a meet and greet with half of ancient Skyrim into a brutal fight against Alduin alongside Tsun and the three warriors from the Elder Scroll she read at the Throat of the World (and a quick aside that Elder Scrolls won't cause blindness if you read one about yourself--Ulfric had chosen to ignore the undeniable about the Dragonborn being the center of a prophecy written before the beginning of time), and finally into a reception just outside of Sovngarde with Kyne and Mara where she all but ascended to divinity.

"And so Kynareth sent me back to Nirn, and I landed at the Time-Wound of the Throat of the World. Drug myself to the Greybeards and they healed me as best as they were able. Then, I called Odahviing and flew back here," she finished in between gravely pants, motioning them to speak with a weak wave.

Ulfric didn't even know where to start. His mind jumped from memories of the meditative chants the Graybeards drilled into him over and over to the theories scholars of the Divines put forth, hundreds of years of arguing over the unity of the gods throughout Tamriel.

~

Balgruuf spoke first. "And how does this help us with our little Dominion problem?"

"What are they going to do against a bunch of dragons?"

"That's not a solution in the slightest."

"How so? If the Thalmor are dead--" Nariilu stopped and held her breath. She heard the faintest crack of a spell being cast, or it was just someone stepping on a stick.

"What--"

"Shh!" The Men perked up, glancing around in tandem. Stormcloak placed his unbound hand on his sword, Balgruuf carried a simple axe on his belt that he didn't reach for. "Laas," she Shouted, barely forcing the Word from her throat. Nariilu gasped for air as a purple wave ran across Breezehome, lighting up the two Nords in bright blue, moving through the walls and identifying two tall, red figures standing and leaning at the side of her house.

She stood up and clutched her staff heavily, speeding towards the door by her standards, hobbling by anyone else's. The two figures stood up straighter, moving to the door faster than she could. And a knock sounded just as she reached the door to throw it open. And sure enough, two Thalmor Justiciars stood before her in enchanted robes, almost masking that they'd just been pressed to her wall.

The woman carried a staff of her own on her back, decorated in pearls and opals, a style of staff Nariilu wasn't versed enough in to name the school of magic it represented. And the man's fingers danced with fading purple whisps; he'd been altering the wall to be thinner, more likely than not. Listening in. Probably not long, unless he'd just had to recast the spell. Jarl Balgruuf and Stormcloak scrambled to their feet, making far more noise than necessary; both bottles of wine rested empty on her table, her own glass was barely touched.

"Alteration, eh? I'm rather fond of Destruction, myself," Nariilu said. She tapped the staff on the ground, shifting her weight so she rested more on the doorframe than the staff. "Speak. You know damn well you're interrupting something."

The woman reached inside her robe and pulled out a letter, ornately decorated with fine golden ink. "An invitation, from the Honorable First Emissary Elenwen, Aldmeri Dominion Ambassador to the Kingdom of Skyrim," she said.

Nariilu snatched the letter away, hating how she had to look up between them, though smooth skin and plump cheeks marked both of them as not quite past early adulthood. They weren't much older than thirty, and for a second Nariilu felt nostalgic for her first position after she graduated as a fully-fledged battlemage. She took a second to thumb open the wax seal, skimming over the…invitation to a party…at the Thalmor Embassy…(please refrain from trespassing, stealing, murdering, freeing prisoners, and causing spectacles while on the premises). "Ha! You know, you two look awfully young," Nariilu said. "What, were you promoted after the untimely deaths of your predecessors? Did you hear of what happened the last time I was at the Embassy?"

The man blinked once, the only emotion that showed on his smooth face. "The Honorable First Emissary Elenwen, Aldmeri--"

"Get on with it, kid." Nariilu smirked as the woman made an almost imperceivable motion to move her hand towards the strap that held her staff. She wondered why she held a staff; they were useful for novices as a source of magicka to supplement ones' own natural ability, and for masters to channel powerful spells too dangerous to hold in the body for long. Either was troubling; apprentice mages were little firecrackers of danger, and giving a staff unsupervised to one was asking for someone to be turned inside out. On the other hand, a mage this young and still powerful enough to hold a staff confidently would speak volumes of the training the Justiciars received.

"…Jarl Balgruuf the Greater's invitation is waiting for him with his steward," he finished after a pause and a breath to recompose himself. "Good evening to you all." And the pair turned and left without any fanfare. Nariilu slammed the door shut behind them with all the force she could muster.

"Well! Jarl, it's been a pleasure, but we've both got a rat problem to deal with," Nariilu turned and said. "Until then, I'm afraid I'll have to conclude our discussion."

Jarl Balgruuf stomped to the door. "A dragon army isn't a solution. It's a problem."

"Well, then I suppose it's a rather good thing we're friends, my Jarl."

"You're living in a fantasy of your own devices. If dragons bow to power, how long until they notice you're half-dead as it is? What about after you're dead and gone? You'll pave the way for the dragons to enslave all of Tamriel again."

"I never said I wouldn't slay every dragon. Just that they have their uses."

The Jarl chuckled as he opened the door, letting in a night breeze that made the hearth stutter before it roared in warmth. "Perhaps…Perhaps you are cut out to be a scheming politician after all. You've been a horrible influence, Ulfric."

Chapter Text

Stormcloak's questions were starting to get on her nerves, even if Nariilu had to admit she was rather pleased his tone was more curious than suspicious. She was sure the Jarl's wine had made him more than a little more open to what answers she gave, and the slight calm spell she cast did more than its part, even if it about drained her magicka reserves for the week. That last little aside from Jarl Balgruuf had left him flushed from more than just alcohol.

She'd have to refrain from using any sort of magic for a while, if she wanted to have even a fighting chance against even a skeever. Nariilu had been keeping her reserves low for far too long from first Skuldafn, then against Alduin, then spending what she could to try and heal herself when she was conscious. And with her body as sore as it was, melee weapons weren't much of an option, either. And even one Word of Aura Whisper had left her lungs feeling full of…something that wasn't air. At the very least, her spell was keeping Stormcloak lighthearted and would wear off before he sobered up; he'd never know he'd been charmed.

He didn't seem to care much about her religious claims, especially not after she admitted to not having much religious upbringing; there wasn't a shrine of any sort by the slums, and the refugee Dunmer and other impoverished people had more or less abandoned any god that wasn't printed on either side of a coin. And for some reason, that seemed to give her claims more credence to him, like she'd never thought to pick up a book and read up on a few Aedra and Daedra, especially after she learned she was Talos reborn.

Instead, he pressed her more on what Sovngarde was like, who was there, what they said, and, once Nariilu had run out of people to tell him about, he moved on to asking her exactly what had happened at the Thalmor party. She gladly told that story, hoping those damned Justiciars were back to hear exactly how she slaughtered those fools, broke into Elenwen's private office and robbed her blind at her own party. At some point, he'd drained the glass poured for Lydia, still missing. Nariilu hoped she was alright.

All the while, she slowly wrote letters, mostly to the Jarls. Her fingers were stiff, cold, broken, and it felt like it took minutes to trace out a single sentence. Nariilu wanted them all done before the morning so she could send them and then maybe, just maybe, they'd know not to attack Odahviing if and when she came flying into whichever Hold. She almost wished she'd saved a little magicka to operate the pen without straining her hands, but Nariilu knew that each little movement, as much as it hurt, would pay off in the long run. There was no magic without her fingers moving in delicate little runes.

"We'll be stopping by the Blades before Solitude," Nariilu said, filling the space where Stormcloak yawned. She glanced over at him; he had the blank look of a man who'd drained an entire bottle of strong wine within an hour, his eyes still tinged green with her fading spell. "And I don't want you going to the trial tomorrow. You've been a mess all day."

"You're in worse shape. You can't even walk," Stormcloak answered.

"And you're drunk and exhausted."

"I can walk, though."

"Prove it, then," Nariilu dared. "Go walk to bed." Stormcloak didn't move. "Well? Scared you'll trip over yourself?"

"They…they got you too, right? You said in Riften, you gave up more than me," he said after a long pause. Nariilu froze, staring at her letter. She'd smeared ink all over it; no way it was going to Jarl Ravencrone now. "They kept me for nothing. That's what my Dossier said."

Of course he wanted to talk about the Thalmor. Get any soldier drunk, they'd ramble on about the blood, guts, gore, pain, death as long as you let them wallow in emotions. And Nariilu still never knew what to say when someone got started down the dark path of their own memory.

"How do you stop the dreams?"

You don’t, Nariilu wanted to answer, not until you accidentally gain the favor of a Daedric Prince. "Dreams can't hurt you." She crumpled up the ruined paper and started again.

"You know that's a lie," Stormcloak muttered with only the slightest slur. "You're a liar." Nariilu opened her mouth to defend herself, but Stormcloak continued. "You're no Nord. True Nords don't lie."

"I'm an Elf, Stormcloak."

"I hate Elves."

"I know."

"I don't hate you, though."

Nariilu spilled more ink over her page. That was the calm spell talking. She looked over, no green tinge was left in his blue eyes, as bright as they could be in firelight, as clear as possible with enough alcohol in his system to send her back to Sovngarde. Her mind drifted to the conversation they'd had the night before she left for Skuldafn. 'I hate the Thalmor more than I hate you,' he'd said. When had he stopped hating her? "Why's that?" She almost felt bad for asking him in such a state. She crumpled her paper again and started fresh for hopefully the last time.

"You don't hate me. You got me my crown!" Stormcloak's voice rose. She shushed him, and his voice dropped down to a whisper. "And the Companions like you, and so does my Clan. And Balgruuf, too. And I trust all of them." Stormcloak paused. "Maybe not Balgruuf. He's an idiot."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Nariilu warned. She was on the verge of deciding that a drunk Stormcloak was just as much fun as any drunk Nord. His answer gave little insight into his feelings and more on his inebriation.

"He knows it," Stormcloak announced, his voice rising again. He grabbed her glass of half-finished, diluted wine, draining it in one pull. Nariilu was thankful he didn't knock into her inkwell. "You know, I used to beat him up when we were kids. Pissed him off, since he's…two years older than me, I think. He hasn't beaten me to this day."

"That's nice."

"I bet I could beat you up, too." Stormcloak stood, only stumbling slightly. Nariilu looked up at him; yes, this was probably the only time he'd ever be able to out-brawl her. When she was regrowing half her skin and healing from too many fractures and dislocations to count on her fingers, not to mention whatever internal damage Arngeir warned her to take it easy for the sake of, and all he had to contend with was inebriation and rather nasty lightning burns. "Never fought you unarmed. I bet I'd win if you didn't have a damned sword in your hand."

"We can bet on it later, after you get some sleep," Nariilu said in her most convincing tone. Why in the name of Magnus had she wasted her magicka to calm him when he was already calm? Now he was acting…well, almost like Uthgerd. Definitely like a Companion. She'd never seen the man drunk before, but she imagined that spending a month with those barbarians had loosened Stormcloak up.

"You get some sleep," Stormcloak answered. Nariilu didn't dignify his childish retort with a response. "I'll bet you can't even climb the stairs to your bed."

Nariilu rolled her eyes. "My morning started with a climb to the peak of the Throat of the World, a flight on the back of a dragon, and a descent from Dragonsreach to my house. I can climb ten stairs," she answered. "I'll bet you can't go to sleep."

Stormcloak paced around, running his hand along shelves as he passed them. She was grateful the oaf didn't knock anything down. "I don't want to sleep."

"You're drunk. You won't have any dreams."

"I'm not drunk." Nariilu didn't respond. "I haven't been drunk in a long time."

"Obviously."

He went silent, idly inspecting her upper shelves and half-heartedly wiping them of dust. Nariilu finally finished her letter to Jarl Ravencrone, starting on her next, her last, to Maven Blackbriar. Gods, how she wanted to tear the woman to shreds. She made a mental note to mention something about their little deal, how she'd be going to Solitude and hoped to see her at the wedding! Ugh, even the thought of having to be pleasant to Maven set her scabs crawling. She decided to be awfully blunt in her warnings of Odahviing. If my dragon dies, Riften burns. No, Maven wouldn't care if Riften was suddenly the caldera of a volcano. Perhaps she could convince Vittoria to convince Asgeir to completely take over the meadery.

"Wuunferth used to make a tonic that would cause a dreamless sleep. It was like blinking, but an entire night had passed," Stormcloak slurred, running his finger along a carved mammoth tusk mounted to the wall. He stopped and turned to her. "Can you make it?"

"I'm not much of an alchemist."

"What good are you, then?"

Nariilu bit her cheek. How long did Stormcloak expect to bother her? She was tired; her eyelids grew heavier by the second, and her body was more sore than anything. She wanted to go lie down for a week or more, but didn't want to risk Stormcloak doing something stupid, like marching up to Dragonsreach to try and kill the Thalmor himself. "Actually, I might have some of what you're describing," she said, bracing herself to stand. "Go lie down; it'll work quick."

She moved to the side hall, reaching under her alchemy table and taking a quick inventory. She didn't have much in the way of…well, anything, but a potion of magicka resistance wouldn't hurt. Perhaps it'd even help him heal from his wounds, given their nature--or it could hinder whatever salve he had underneath his bandages. But the alternative was a magicka regenerative potion that could cause permanent damage to those without any real magicka reserves of their own. Nariilu grabbed the bottle and turned to hand it to him; Stormcloak was still idling in the doorway rather than on his bed, tightly made in the style Nariilu had beat into her head once she'd finally ranked up in the Legion enough to earn a cot rather than a simple roll.

An expression ghosted along his face that Nariilu could've sworn was pity. Perhaps it was because of the soft groan she couldn't quite choke back as she straightened her spine, perhaps it was because she really did look that bad, perhaps it was because he'd felt the distinctive wane and lingering haze of an illusion spell. "Here," she said, offering a bottle with a shaking arm.

Stormcloak took it, and she moved back into the main room to maybe finish off her letters to the sounds of Stormcloak snoring. Nariilu stumbled stepping down from the wooden floor of the living area to the stone floor surrounding the hearth; her staff slipped on the unevenly smoothed cobblestone. She righted herself before she went face-first into the fire, guiding herself back to her chair with one hand placed firmly on its back. She dipped her quill and tapped off the excess ink carefully. All the while, she felt piercing blue eyes on her.

Jarl Blackbriar,

I am pleased to inform you that Alduin has been defeated. Because of this achievement and the ancient, timeless laws of dragons, I am now widely considered to be the most powerful of all the dragons. As such, I now find quite a few dragons in my service. This includes one named Odahviing, a particularly powerful red beast with white wings. Should you see this dragon over your Hold or City, there is a high likelihood that I am with him, and I urge you to refrain from attacking. Should I or Odahviing fall, there will be a rather unfortunate power struggle amongst the dragons, and I will not be able to protect you or anything you hold

"Hey!" Nariilu's voice caught as she felt her skin tear as Stormcloak suddenly hoisted her over his shoulder. She hit his back once, twice, harder once he turned and she saw that her inkwell had spilled all over the floor and her nearly completed letter. "Put me down, you idiot!"

Stormcloak placed one foot on the stairs, pausing to steady himself with his free hand against the wall. Gods, he'd fall and crush her. "I'm helping you up the stairs," he said. "You almost fell walking back, and I have to help you before I fall asleep, since you could fall and die and everyone would think I killed you."

"You're killing me now!" Nariilu argued, feeling harsh warm blood against the cold sting of reopened wounds.

Stormcloak took another deliberate step up the stairs, making some noise that vaguely sounded like denial. But what he muttered next was as clear as day. "Can't kill a Divine."

Nariilu almost laughed. She'd finally convinced him of the truth, and all it'd taken was some well-placed exaggerations and a coincidence or four and a bottle of wine. She relaxed into his hold; struggling was only stretching her skin further beyond its breaking point.

"Except another Divine can, I guess."

Frantic pounding at the door woke Ulfric up the next morning, his head lightly echoing the rhythm. He swung up to sit as the pounding turned to yelling and the obvious clicking sounds of a lockpick, and paused in an unfamiliar chamber, methodically checking his surroundings for any sign of danger as he stood and moved to the stairs. And it was a simple loft, with bookshelves and a bedside table, a bed with green blankets stained brown under the Dragonborn's dried blood. Arkay's mercy, that was a lot of blood. But a sharp scowl on her newly-awoken face at least marked her as alive.

He didn't have much time to dwell on the fact that he'd woken up next to her, save that he was wearing all his clothes down to his boots, before he took the stairs three at a time and stepped onto the main floor just as the door swung open. Aela stood beyond it, already yelling, even as she tucked a lockpick back into a little pocket on her quiver. "Lydia! Nariilu, I know you're back! You missed it--Ulfric!"

Aela stood and grabbed him by the hand, tugging him to the door. "The Graymanes, they've been killed, and…"

Even though Aela kept speaking, Ulfric couldn't make sense of her words. Dead. He hadn't saved them. He hadn't even been there to defend them. He felt the cold floor push through the fabric of his pants, uneven stone on uncomfortable on his knees. And he'd been asleep through it. Drunk and asleep, the almost carefree events of the previous night came rushing back. The Dragonborn had virtually no plan for taking care of the Thalmor, what she swore to destroy alongside him, though she was admittedly shaken by her time in Sovngarde.

But he wasn't. He should've attended the trial, perhaps lead the Graymane's defense by himself. No one knew the relevant sections of the White-Gold Concordat like he did. For all the hours he spent pouring over every cursed word in the treaty, he hadn't been able to save anyone with it. Time wasted.

And then there was a crash and a sudden weight against his back; the Dragonborn fell down the stairs and was screaming something that he didn't quite hear. Not that it mattered, because he'd failed to protect Vignar, Vignar's entire family.

He'd let down the people who dared to trust him yet again.

Eorlund and Vignar's funeral was an awful affair, but at least they were permitted to hold one. The Companions gathered around the Skyforge as Kodlak gave a speech that carefully danced around the reasons their bodies were shrouded, rather than open to the sky. One of their heads, Nariilu couldn't tell which one, had drifted awkwardly in its shroud on the uneven funeral pyre foundation, giving a grim reminder that a swiftly conjured axe had ended their lives after a short trial.

Nariilu had been certain that Eorlund would at least escape whatever fate awaited Vignar, even if the rest of his family didn't; the man was dedicated to Kyne. But, here he was. And Eorlund's children and sister waited in the Hall of the Dead for the Priest of Arkay to consecrate their bodies after the Justiciars found one Amulet of Talos too many in the Clan Hall. At the very least, his grandchildren had escaped any such fate, even the unborn one that grew inside of Tilde, his daughter-in-law. She was somewhere in the dungeons until she delivered the child, likely any day now with all the stress and fear, her execution scheduled for the second they found a wetnurse.

The four grandchildren huddled tight around Jarl Balgruuf when Kodlak invited them forwards to help him light the pyre. Two twin boys squeezed the hands of their sister, the Jarl holding the smallest toddler on his hip, the only one of the four who wasn't crying. Nariilu doubted she knew what was going on. They'd be off to Honorhall soon enough, likely before the week closed.  One of the letters from Iona mentioned a new governess coming to help Constance Michel; with any luck she'd been vetted more than that old worthless hag had been.

Jarl Balgruuf guided the children towards the forge, helping them hold the torch and throw it onto the wood. And the flames erupted bright in the sunset, almost reminding Nariilu of the way a dragon's body would dissolve as she drew near. One of the twin boys broke into sobs and pressed his face into the Jarl's cape. Nariilu brought a hand to her mouth as the other children were spurred to emotion one after the other, crying for the Jarl to bring back their parents. She was glad she sat on the retaining wall behind most of the crowd where none could see her, even when they looked away from the scene of the forge.

Stormcloak stood beside her, looking to the ground and clenching his fists so hard Nariilu wondered if he was dead set on breaking his fingers. And on the other side, Lydia stared ahead, arms crossed. She turned around once, during Kodlak's speech, to glare at Nariilu, and then sent a pointed look at Stormcloak before she turned back and hadn't moved since.

And she didn't miss the two soldiers that stood at attention by the stairs that led back down the main plaza of Jorrvaskr. They were there to make sure that the funeral didn't get out of hand, didn't invoke Talos. She caught their eyes; the rest of the mourners were in armor forged by Eorlund himself, and she was in College robes. Nariilu considered warning them there was a better chance of Daedra worship at the funeral, just to catch the Elves off their guard. Instead, she clutched a piece of ruined platemail from her armor and considered the most painful way to kill Thalmor.

Chapter Text

"You know what to do."

Aela, Farkas, and Vilkas nodded. It'd been a pain to get them away from the rest of the Companions, but Nariilu finally managed to pull them over to a corner of Jorrvaskr. She wasn't even certain if even this level of secrecy was necessary, but Kodlak would never approve of what Nariilu had in mind, Skjor would blab to Kodlak like the good second in command he was, and anyone outside of the Circle didn't need to know anything about it.

A somber celebration of life carried on behind them, a far cry from what had occurred over a year ago when some Companion died clearing out a den of trolls somewhere near Dawnstar. This was nothing like the high-energy send-off they'd thrown for him, for a death in battle protecting the citizens of Skyrim. At least Kodlak was able to slam the doors in the Thalmor's faces; Companions only in Jorrvaskr.

But the trick to this would be to find a way to lure the Thalmor out of the city, at night preferably, and Nariilu figured rumors of some illegal shipment would be enough to provoke a search of a caravan. Or she could spread word of some little Talos Shrine out in the plains somewhere, let the Justiciars search for it and get caught unaware by a few werewolves.

"It'll look like an accident," Farkas assured.

"It needs to look like more than an accident," Nariilu replied. "Thalmor don't just die to bandit and bear attacks, and they're already suspicious of the previous murders." She was surprised when Aela drug the twins along with her; they'd seemed reluctant to…turn into…Nariilu wasn't quite sure of the proper term for it. Transform? Regardless, they danced around questions she forced on them before she fled the Companions, even when Farkas was trapped in that tomb with her, very obviously a werewolf.

Aela shrugged. "The only thing I'm worried about is the Silver Hand getting more bold if they hear of blatant werewolf attacks."

"I'm more concerned you won't be enough to take them down. If it's just the soldiers, yes, but with even one Justiciar, I'm not sure how long you'll hold out," Nariilu admitted. "Perhaps we should focus on just the soldiers."

"We can handle it," Aela said. The twins hummed in agreement. For a second, Nariilu remembered how young the three were under their war paint and impressive builds. She recalled Farkas mentioning something about being born after the Great War.

"You haven't seen what a Thalmor wizard can do," Nariilu said. "Not one that's really fighting. Elenwen wasn't even trying when she killed the priest and destroyed the statue. Neither of you have much experience against any sort of mage that's worth their spells. One of them paralyzed Stormcloak for hours. That's not a skill that comes easy, but if one of them managed to conjure a battleaxe, I'm more concerned about her."

"So what? An axe is an axe, magical or not," Vilkas argued. "I saw the way she handled it. Amateurish."

Nariilu shook her head. "It's more difficult to summon a weapon than a Daedra, and Daedra-summoning isn't exactly child's play. It's more about what she can summon that's not an axe." She skipped over how it was more likely than not that the conjured axe had trapped the Graymanes' Souls in whatever gems the executor had on her. Perhaps Farengar had noticed the telltale signs of a Soultrap if he was present for the execution.

"I've torn apart my fair share of mages and whatever little hell-beasts they summon," Farkas said, crossing his arms.

"You've torn apart Winterhold rejects and failed apprentices," Nariilu said. "Look, a bit of caution never hurt anyone. I'm not planning on another funeral any time soon."

"Yeah, we weren't even planning on this one," Aela said. She cast a glance over her shoulder to the crowd, trading stories of how they slew enemies with Eorlund's blades or how Vignar somehow always knew who to bet on for brawls. The mood had lightened from the funeral. Nariilu imagined it had a huge amount to do with the lack of sobbing children. "Is he going to be alright?" She motioned to Stormcloak with her chin; he sat cross-armed and somber a seat away from everyone else, staring at the fire like he expected it to jump out at him.

"He blames himself," Nariilu said, dropping her voice low. He hadn't spoken much since that morning when Aela had broken in. "Even though there wasn't much of a trial, he thinks he could've stopped it, somehow."

Farkas scoffed. "Yeah, more like get himself killed. Even I know nothing could've stopped those executions."

Nariilu made some noncommittal sound of agreement. She'd had a breakthrough the night before, and now he was back to being just as depressed as before he realized she was a god. He just needed time to mourn, she assured herself. After he saw her taking steps towards reforming the Blades, towards gaining the subservience of the Jarls, he'd come back around.

Lydia, on the other hand, was pissed about something Nariilu couldn't quite sniff out and she hadn't found the time to ask Stormcloak about. She'd stomped off while the bodies were still burning on the pyre, muttering about going to sleep early.

"It's not about the executions, I don't think," Nariilu said. "He fought a war to keep the Thalmor out of Skyrim. Two wars."

"And he failed," Aela concluded. They all stood in silence for a while before Aela added, "And he blames you."

"What? No," Nariilu said. But of course he blamed her, why wouldn't he? It was her army, her sword that brought him to his knees. She bit her lip and tasted blood as the almost healed split cracked open again. Stormcloak was a man that held grudges; against the Empire, against Dunmer and Argonians, against the Thalmor, against…her. She just wished it wasn't so obvious.

"Why wouldn't he? You took him prisoner, for one, ignoring whatever happened to his army," Aela said.

"I didn't take him prisoner," Nariilu lied. That was supposed to stay quiet. Purely need-to-know basis. And, even then, she didn't really capture him. He'd been free to do whatever he liked since they passed through Windhelm's gates.

Vilkas rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure if Ulfric would agree. He gets touchy whenever topics like 'being captured' or 'rescuing a hostage' come up."

"That's because--" Nariilu caught herself before she finished her statement. Because he was held and tortured by the Thalmor and held as an Imperial prisoner for years. Instead she sighed. "This is irrelevant. Just don't try to fight that Conjurer two nights from now, and every eighth day after that. It'll be the Necromancer's Moon."

The Companions shuddered. "I don't even want to know what that means," Aela said.

"I'll watch the gates every night, 'cept those," Farkas said. "And, Nariilu, sorry again for scaring you."

Nariilu slugged him in the arm as hard as she could; Farkas didn't flinch, though she felt a sharp tug at her shoulder and the familiar icy burn of a pulled muscle, a tear in her skin and a trickle of either pus or blood sink into fabric. "I've seen gruel more fearsome than you."

Kodlak watched Nariilu speak with the youngest members of the Circle from the corner of his eye, unwanted Wolf's hearing picking up every word and little hummed pause between them. And he didn't blame them for wanting vengeance against the Thalmor, atonement for killing two of their own and their entire bloodline. Blessed Kyne, Kodlak wished he'd ordered the extermination of the Silver Hand years ago, before more joined their ranks and they were armed with holy silver and charms to weaken the Circle, their damned lives.

Vengeance had its place especially within the hall of Ysgramor's Companions, conceived in adventure and forged in revenge.

But what Nariilu suggested, what Aela and the twins agreed to--Kodlak wanted no more bloodshed. He'd thought Farkas and Vilkas were as tired of the Curse as he was, but he smelled the agony in the air. Failure to protect their pack, even if neither Vignar nor Eorlund cared to accept their rightful places in the Circle out of fear that they'd put their families in danger.

He felt eyes on him, Aela's. He met her burning gaze; she knew he knew what they'd been speaking of. Aela, always so in tune with the Wolf. Sometimes it felt like she was able to see right through him and the rest of the Circle, to look and sense and feel through them. It was always a little disconcerting, but she loved nature and the hunt in a way only Hircine could match. She'd have found a way to get her Curse--her Blessing--no matter where her life had taken her. Kodlak was glad it had led her to stay with the Companions, to their family so tight nit and ever growing, ever shrinking.

Without moving her eyes from him, she easily reached out to catch Nariilu before Kodlak even noticed she was swaying to fall. Her staff scraped against the floor with a harsh sound as she regained her balance, drawing half-interested looks that only acknowledged the source for a split second before they returned to trading stories of Vignar and Eorlund. Aela nodded at Kodlak's wordless request, saying a few words to Nariilu and leading her away from the twins towards him, allowing her to lean heavily on her, modifying her gait to disguise her limp. Kodlak rose to meet them more than halfway, near a pillar where Nariilu could rest against it as Aela left her to wander around the Hall and tempt a few unlucky Companions to a drinking contest.

"I'll cut right to it," Kodlak said, sensing exhaustion in her, sickness, weakness that made his predatory instincts prick stronger with each whiff of blood. She was bleeding from no less than three places across her body, a slow trickle that renewed the dried blood along her skin, clothes. She'll hold back the pack. Hold back the pack. Risk to us. See how she stumbles, weak! She cannot hunt, no. Dangerous times. Cannot hunt, cannot protect her. Not now not now, she is a risk now. The pack is at risk. My pack. Kodlak prayed to the Divines to still his Curse, for at least a moment.

"I…I've been a bit busy, Harbinger," Nariilu replied, too fast for him to continue with what he meant to say. The Wolf grew stronger as he approached death. Kodlak figured it was preparing him to enter the damned Hunting Grounds, to serve Hircine for all eternity. She fiddled with a piece of metal in one hand in her insecurity. "I've done some preliminary reading, but Battlemages never really deal with curses, I'm afraid, especially not those of Daedric origin--"

"I understand. Don't worry yourself, child," Kodlak cut her off, and she bristled a bit. "What I wish to discuss is a development of the unfortunate events of earlier, may their Souls rest in joy in Sovngarde." And he almost felt her heart drop into her stomach; the blame and guilt dripped off of her. "We need a Companion to tend to the Skyforge. I believe that Companion should be you."

She relaxed somewhat, but stood silent for a while, staring at some point just beyond him. "Why?" She finally spoke, "Why me?"

Yes, why her, she who is injured? She who is frail in a world of enemies! The pack stays together, stays strong. She leaves. She is a stray. She will betray the pack to save herself. She who fears the  blessing  of our  most powerful Lord Hircine !  Blessings  to be accepted on bent knee! How weak to fear power she so desperately needswantscraves.

"Eorlund never did special requests for anyone," Kodlak answered. Had she really never noticed that his only variations were in armor sizes? Out of respect for the ancient molds, Eorlund kept everything standard. Exact. Perfect. And he'd dedicated weeks to creating her a set of armor that belonged in a museum. "Except for you." Nariilu clutched that piece of metal. Kodlak paused. He'd thought she was too injured to wear such a complex set, even if it was much lighter than all but a set of leather, but the metal was held with too much shame. "I know you were once a valued smith, both in the Imperial City and in the Legion. I can think of no one better to succeed Eorlund."

"I am honored to have been considered worthy by the great Eorlund Graymane and by you, Harbinger," Nariilu finally spoke. "But I must refuse. I am Dragonborn. A smith, yes, but my destiny calls me elsewhere. I know you understand the cruel twists and turns our fate leads us down. I have already made one promise to you, and I intend to at least fulfil that one before taking on another."

It wasn't her destiny that led her from the Companions, no. Her eyes were distant, distracted. Her destiny was fulfilled, and she had the scars to prove it. Battlescars. Noble in origin. Weak in persistence. The Hunt has no space for weakness. She is to be hunted. The prey to be hunted. Sanctioned by merciful Lord Hircine, she fulfils her place. No place in my pack. "Aye." Kodlak agreed. "May Talos guide you along your path."

"Talos guide all of us."

Nariilu left Jorrvaskr alone; Stormcloak didn't seem to care when she announced her leave after one hour too many of stories about the Graybeards that left a bitter taste in her stomach, unrelated to the spiced mead that flowed freely. And as the atmosphere lightened along with everyone's cups, more Companions dared to ask her about Alduin, had she really been to Sovngarde, flown on the back of a dragon? She answered the basics, swearing to tell the entire story later, at a more appropriate venue than a memorial.

She stepped down from the Companion's Hall, Skyforge darkened when it would usually be tended to throughout the night by Eorlund.

Of course he had to die when her armor was in shambles.

Perhaps it was a blessing; he couldn't scold her to Oblivion and back for bringing ruins of some of his best work (by her own opinion, the old man would probably say his masterpiece was some mundane sword) to him to fix. Nariilu wondered when she'd be able to lift a hammer to fix it herself.

The plaza was empty in the early night save for a few guards on patrol and stationed around the Winds District. Nariilu wandered with little aim; she almost felt like she was looking for trouble to start, though she knew she couldn't finish it in her state.

"Keep moving, Elf." A guard posted by the stairs to Dragonsreach ordered with a jerk of his thumb. Nariilu realized she'd stopped in front of where the Shrine to Talos had once stood, her free hand offering a coin to nothing. It'd been replaced with a banner of Whiterun, a fresh mound of dirt holding it up in front of the obvious ruin of a statue pedestal. She lifted the hood of her cloak over her head and continued wandering.

Wandering past the House of Clan Graymane, its windows dark and a single board nailed up to block the door. The house loomed over her and breathed down her neck as she sped up her pace as much as she felt comfortable. "They got off easy," she spat at the house from over her shoulder, muttering to herself and hoping that no one was around to hear her curse the damned place. Perhaps she'd purchase the once-grand estate, once the ghost stories that would no doubt be surrounding the hall soon died down, decaying with its former owners.

The Hall of the Dead was brightly lit in contrast, its windows an inviting golden streaming down on nightshade and lavender that grew outside of the ancient walls. The priest was probably inside preparing the bodies, even at this late hour. He was only one man, if she remembered correctly, and an influx like this would keep him busy. Nariilu thought back to the days after the Siege of Whiterun, when the Hall was overwhelmed with bodies stacked up outside, more being delivered from the Temple of Kynareth every hour for days as soldiers succumbed to their infected wounds.

Her breath caught in her throat. The Siege wasn't the last time that priest had been up to his coffins with bodies. Nariilu swallowed hard and tried to force her feet from carrying her inside the Hall.

The door was heavy, the air inside the Hall heavier with scents of oils and incense and leather and blood. The chapel to Arkay was neatly maintained, though the rugs had little drips of blood leading from the entrance to the catacombs, still a fresh off-red. The door was slightly ajar, sounds of clicking tools and gentle sobs carrying up to the entrance.

And the sobbing stopped as Nariilu made her way down the stairs, through the chapel; her footsteps were uneven and loud, louder still was the muted thud as her staff hit the embroidered rugs. The priest pushed through the door to the catacombs and closed it behind him. "Blessings of Arkay upon you," he said, his face not marred with tears.

"I'm here to mourn," Nariilu said, hearing her own voice shake against the clot that suddenly appeared in her throat. When was the last time she'd been in a Hall of the Dead? Had she ever been in one for a reason other than to deliver a soldier's corpse?

"The catacombs are closed while bodies are being prepared, I'm afraid," the priest replied. He motioned to the shrine and its pews. "You're welcome to stay in the Temple as long as you'd like, however. I pray Arkay guides you in comfort." The priest turned to slip back in the Catacombs.

"Wait," Nariilu said, holding up a hand. "Do you only take Nords?"

That gave the priest pause. "Elves are more than welcome to be interred in the Hall of the Dead. If you give me your name, I can have you put down for a cremation when the Wheel of Life turns upon you, in a style similar to what you'd receive in Morrowind. But I urge you to enjoy your life, rather than dwell on death."

"I--no, this isn't about me." Nariilu didn't care to think about her own death, especially when such a thing would never occur. Or, if it did, she could care less about what happened to her mortal body as her Soul ascended to its rightful place as a Divine. "What about Khajiit?"

"There aren't any Khajiit in Whiterun," the Priest answered.

"No, but there was one." She tasted salt in her mouth, salt mixed with rust. "When the dragons came. I…He died." Nariilu blinked, seeing a flash of J'zargo's ruined corpse spread out before her. "Did you--"

The priest looked her up and down. "Yes. He was cremated and given all the proper blessings as Lord Arkay commands."

Cremated. Not even embalmed; he wouldn't get up and start walking like the dead were prone to do a few centuries after their deaths. She'd never see him again. Nariilu almost wished her mind would fool her just once more. There was a steady hand on her arm and another at her back, just between her shoulder blades, leading her to sit at a pew. "Can I…" Nariilu stumbled over her words. How many Nords would approve of spending an eternity with their ashes next to a Khajiit's? "Where?"

"Please, rest here," the priest urged. "Come back in a few days; the catacombs will be open for visitation."

Nariilu stared ahead at the altar, incense rising between little stacks of coins and what looked like handmade sigils for Arkay. A soft thud sounded as the door to the catacombs closed behind the priest. 'Khajiit is in no hurry to die,' he'd said. Nariilu could still hear them clear as day, Elswyrian accent cutting through the winds of the Great Porch. He was probably laughing at the irony of his last words.

She rose from the pew and cast a cutting stare at the shrine, imagining she was staring at Arkay himself. When she ascended, she'd have some choice words for him.

Jon Battleborn slipped into the Clan Hall late at night, his nose clogged and his cheeks undoubtedly swollen from sobbing over his lover's body. Andurs finally kicked him out of the Hall of the Dead; the priest refused to let him see him embalm Olfina, though he wordlessly carried out the rituals over the rest of the Graymanes while he was there, staring into Olfina's closed eyes, her eyelids just as delicate and as beautiful as they'd been in life. He pulled her death shroud down to just cover her chin, not daring to reveal any more of her ruined body, blood pooling around where…where she'd been--

"You've got some nerve, boy, I'll give you that."

Jon blinked and stood up straighter, his father standing at the peak of the stairs silhouetted against the candles behind him. He looked larger than life, with the same fierce glow he had when the first catapult shook Whiterun during the Siege. Jon squared his shoulders, promising himself to stop turning a blind eye to whatever kid was bullying Lars all the time. "Thank you, father," he replied. "Good night."

He stepped up the stairs, keeping himself as close to the wall as possible to maybe slip by his father. Instead, Jon was caught by a firm hand on his shoulder as he neared the top. "You disgrace us all."

Jon didn't answer. He'd heard similar before, after he decided not to join the Legion, and to go to the Bard's College instead. And he'd gotten a similar critique when his father came to the Bannered Mare and heard him rouse the patrons to a drunken dance, even though his father had been clapping along during the song before he noticed who the Bard was.

"How long?" His father asked, grip tightening.

"I've been out all evening," Jon answered. "Hulda's been short on help ever since Saadia was arrested. I heard she was taken to Hammerfell."

"Don't act stupider than you are." A warning. "How long have you been whoring around with the Graymane bitch?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere Jon couldn't see; someone else in the family was listening in. Probably Idolaf, his waste of a brother-in-law had been extorting him for free drinks at the Mare ever since he'd caught the two together a year prior. Jon was at a loss for words; he wanted to defend Olfina from his father's taunts, he wanted to draw his sword and thrust it through the old man, he wanted to burn down his Clan Home.

But there wasn't really much reason to. Olfina was dead.

"Get out of my house."

The lump in Jon's throat shrank. Get out? Leave? To where? "Father, I--"

His father's face twisted into a pained scowl. "Outside of the disrespect you've done to me, to your Clan, you've invited suspicion upon us. Would you see this entire family beheaded, just so you could rebel like a child against your Da?"

Rebel? No, he'd never rebelled. Snuck around, defied idiotic decrees made only for pettiness from one Clan to another, yes. But rebellion? Jon scoffed. His father had categorized him in the same level of hatred he held for the Graymanes and the Stormcloaks. "Not rebellion, love," Jon said. There was no turning back now. His father had never once changed his mind, not even for the most mundane things. "You wouldn't understand, since I dared to love something other than bloodshed or money."

The stairs pressed against his back once, twice, the floor scraped as he skid back. Jon's mouth filled with blood, his tongue on fire in a way that a bard's tongue never should be. He looked up at his father, arm still extended from where he'd shoved his own son down the stairs. No, Jon supposed he wasn't his son anymore. "I SAID GET OUT!" He yelled, standing firm as his mother came around the stairs and protested against him, trying to reason with him.

"You'd let this feud pull apart more than Clans?" She shrieked, grasping at his father with frail hands. "You'd cast out your own son? He's been punished enough by that girl's death, Olfrid. There's enough rifts in Skyrim already. Don't you dare build another between your own family."

His father looked down at Jon, to his mother, to some point far beyond the wall he stared at. "He tore it himself, the first time he decided a woman was worth more than the Empire. Look where it got her, boy!" Jon grit his teeth as his father growled, a dull ache rising in his bruises, in his heart. "There's other legs out there to pull apart, especially for a bard as talented as you think you are. I won't see the Battleborns follow the same foolish path as those worthless Graymanes. Now go find your own to tread, Jon."

Jon pushed himself up and spat, aiming for the nice rug that came from somewhere in High Rock. "G'bye Ma." He didn't let the same slight quiver worm its way into his voice as did his father's. "G'bye Da. Blessings of the Nine to you." And Jon gave a slight bow and left, closing the door softly behind him. His hands shook almost as much as his breath.

Chapter Text

Ulfric laid still in the Jorrvaskr barracks, listening to the soft snoring and tossing of the Companions. He wondered how they were able to sleep so easily, so soundly, knowing that two of their own had just been murdered. How long until the Thalmor decided the Companions were blasphemous? While they didn't worship Ysgramor they certainly idolized him, a Man with as much Elven blood on his axe as Talos.

They needed to die. Soon. Now. Years ago.

He wanted to be the one to do it, to watch as the life left the eyes of every single Thalmor by his hand, but storming the Isles with thousands of dragons was the next best thing to storming the Isles with hundreds of thousands of mortal men. Dragon lives were expendable where they weren't immortal.

A dragon army, if it could be controlled, would be the most powerful force Nirn had seen since, well, since Alduin commanded them. And the Dragonborn had killed Alduin, commanded Odahviing, desired the destruction of the Dominion, coveted the Ruby Throne, wanted him to rule Skyrim. At least two goals of theirs aligned; Ulfric had allied with others for far less.

And, sure, perhaps it wasn't quite the most developed plan, but who could have planned to find themselves the leader of the dragons? An entire army of dragons…Ulfric shuddered at the power the Dragonborn had. The power she accidentally stumbled into. The prophecy she never intended to fulfill. It was amazing how the gods had granted her what she'd never dreamed of, never seemed to work for, when he'd spent his entire life living up to a legacy he'd never earn.

To think a poor Cyrodillic Elf would find herself a reincarnation of the god of Man, an avatar of the god of Time.

To think that he'd spent his entire life fighting for the freedom of the Nords from the Empire, from the Elves of the Dominion, only to find the path to salvation in an Elf of the Empire.

And she had no idea what she was doing; all goals with only vague paths towards them. But Ulfric was nothing if not a politician, a strategist, a powerhouse of influence and ideology, a puppet newly aware of the puppeteer. He was sick and tired of being used by others; the Empire, the Dominion, the Jarls, by Oblivion probably the Princes and Divines, too. And how he'd never caught on, how he'd always believed himself to be one step ahead of his enemies, his allies--Ulfric felt the shame of ignorance, arrogance rise in his stomach, his heart beating that much faster against the sleep he'd told himself he'd finally get.

Everyone else likely felt that way too; a step or ten ahead of whoever stood in their way, stood alongside them. But they all had something left to lose, no matter how small. Ulfric had given up everything, and in turn, gained the opportunity for everything. And the Dragonborn wanted to deliver it to him, even if it was nothing more than a byproduct of her own goals.

He couldn't wait to help her reach them.

Jon knocked on the door to Breezehome softly; it was late and he didn't want to wake anyone up. He could come back in the morning easily enough, but he wanted to get this over and done with before word spread of what his father--what Olfrid had said to him.

The door cracked open, a heavily wounded Elven face peered out from around it, shadows dancing from her enchanted robes. The Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun and just about everywhere else. Hero of the Civil War. This was a mistake. "What?" She asked simply, her Cyrodiilic accent sounding harsher than it had months ago. Granted, Jon had only briefly heard her speak to the Clans before the Siege, and then jovially addressing his…Olfrid, both of them exhausted after a hard fought battle.

"I…uh, is Ulfric here?" And for what? Like he'd help. Like he wasn't allied with the Dragonborn for whatever reason Jon didn't care about. The end of the War was supposed to bring peace between the Graymanes and Battleborns, not more bloodshed and hatred and true loneliness--Jon was getting ahead of himself, acting rashly after everything that had happened that day.

The door opened wider. "Who's asking?"

"Jon…" He trailed off before he said his former Clan name. "I have information he'd like to have." Or not. He was traveling with the Dragonborn. A Legionnaire, just like Olfrid had been, just like Idolaf was.

Her eyes narrowed up at him, looked him over, settling on the sword at his waist. Not like she had much to be worried about, even if she weren't as renowned with a blade as she was. The steel weapon had been neglected, allowed to dull in its scabbard, ever since the feud started. Adrianne never had the time to sharpen a blade with no enemies to draw it on. "Well? Let's hear it."

"I'd rather tell him." He'd never get anywhere like this. Sure, he'd seen Ulfric leave the Graymane Clan Hall, sure, he'd seen him take that spell for Vignar, but why would he care? Why would anyone care? It was probably too late to do anything about it.

Because Olfina had died wanting her brother back, praying her unborn nibling would be able to meet the man.

"Lots of people in this town have things they'd like to tell him," the Dragonborn said. "Here's some advice: next time you try to kill a man, don't knock on his door."

"I know where they're keeping Thorald Graymane!" He blurted. Jon bit his tongue and looked around; there was no one to be seen.

She opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.

"Let's make this quick," Nariilu said, shutting the door behind them and leaning against it. "Where is he, and how do you know?" Northwatch Keep of course, like all but the most worthless of the war prisoners, they ended up in shallow graves at best, but she was far more interested in why this man was knocking at her door in the middle of the night, looking like an absolute wreck, why he had information available to nobody lower than a Tribune could know. If this was all a ploy to kill her or Stormcloak, she figured she could take him, as nervous as he looked. She was looking for a distraction, after all.

"Northwatch Keep," Jon said. Thorald was either dead or close to it. "My…my father's the one who ordered his capture."

"Your father is--"

"Olfrid Battleborn."

"Ah." That's where she recognized him from; this was the even-voiced bard from the Bannered Mare, the one who was sweet on Olfina Graymane. Judging from the shaking hands and blotched cheeks, the day had been rough on this young man. Still, Olfrid had been invaluable during the defense of Whiterun; a shrewd strategist who rightfully predicted most of the Stormcloak army's moves even without the knowledge held in the Dossier--the Battleborn patriarch thought like any Nord Barbarian. And his son, Idolaf, a Praefect with more than enough talent to work up to Legate and eventually take over Whiterun Hold from Quentin Cipius. "When and why did he order this capture? And to whom?"

"Because of the feud. With the Graymanes," Jon explained. "He said he wrote to General Tullius--this was not long after the siege, but I think he might have ties with the Thalmor. And the Thieves Guild."

Nariilu paused. Then it'd been nearly half a year since Thorald's capture, far too long for the Thalmor to still have him alive, unless he was being used as target practice for their young mages. "You wouldn't make such serious accusations with no evidence. Against your father, at that."

"He's not my father!" Jon's voice cracked at the end, and he took a few shaky breaths, eyes glistening in the low hearth light. "I…I've lived with him my whole life. He told me things that he didn't tell anyone else, I think to try and scare me into line." His hands clutched his shirt. "I've seen letters, from the Embassy, I think. Letters with golden eagles around the paper. And the ledgers for the farms always include a few hundred bushels of apples, but we don't own any orchards."

She waited for him to continue, but he lingered in silence, perhaps figuring that what he'd said was enough to convince her to march up to the Winds District and…what, arrest Olfrid on the spot? "What do you want me to do with this information?"

That simple question threw Jon for a loop. He shocked from being on the verge of tears to staring at her, wide eyed and sputtering. "What?"

"You wouldn't be telling me this without a reason," Nariilu answered. "What's led you to come here in the middle of the night to accuse Olfrid Battleborn of treason and thievery?"

"Because you can do something about it, right? Free Thorald and exchange his place for my Da."

Nariilu bit the inside of her cheek. She felt so much pity for the young man, his life turned upside down with the death of his lover having been the last straw against Olfrid. She recalled the sobs she barely heard when she visited the Hall of the Dead--It had probably been Jon that the priest was trying to protect, his fault she had been kept from visiting J'zargo's ashes. No, she wouldn't be doing much for him, not that she could if she wanted. Thorald was beyond help and taking down the only influential Clan left in Whiterun, the longest standing Thane of the Hold--She had other political affairs to meddle with.

But Jon wanted to take down the Battleborn Clan for his own reasons. And while Nariilu needed a stable Whiterun now, she couldn't discount the possibility of using her relative popularity in the Hold for a complete takeover sometime in the future. And why should she discount a potential ally, one with evidence of such serious crimes performed by a Thane, a respected elder, a former General? Any one of those titles held enough influence in various places to upset the natural order of things. "I can't make any promises," Nariilu admitted, "but I will give you my word that I'll see what can be done. If what you've said is true--not that I doubt it--I'd advise you to watch who you mention this to if you value your safety. Especially in Whiterun."

And Jon was a blubbering mess of thanks and appreciation, of blessings to the Divines in her name. Nariilu held his arm and gently led him to the threshold as he swore to find some way to repay her for even considering avenging the Graymanes, all the while blaming himself for their execution for on being complicit and idle in his father's actions. "Please, please, if you ever need anything of me; a bard, a steward, a servant, anything," Jon sobbed, "I…I'm leaving for Solitude on the next carriage, if there's space. The one after that, if not. To the Bard's College, hopefully. If not there, one of the taverns in the city."

"I look forward to hearing you play after you've graduated from the College," Nariilu said, cracking the door open and holding it with her staff. Yes, a possible heir of the Battleborn Clan in her debt could come in use, even if--especially if--he hated his family as much as he seemed to at this moment. "Give Giraud my name when you get there."

Ulfric was sure dark circles were growing under his eyes as he squinted against the midmorning light; he'd spent most of the previous night deep in thought and contemplation, how to assure that his goals were reached alongside--or perhaps in spite of--the Dragonborn's ambitions. At the very least, it had kept his sleep short enough to make dreaming impossible where wine or ale couldn't quiet his mind.

He took breakfast with the Companions who handled their memorial alcohol better than others either through experience or personal restraint; the barracks below were full of whelps still passed out or groaning from a late night and deep cups. Tilma had prepared an easy breakfast of nut bread, eggs, and honeyed tea, the same little meal she'd made the morning after Ulfric was accepted into their ranks, probably the same meal she made whenever the ale flowed more freely than normal. The atmosphere in Jorrvaskr was almost similar to how it normally felt, back when they would count the minutes before Vignar would show up in time to complain about how no one understood the proper way to pin down an opponent anymore, when Eorlund's hammer and bellows would be a steady metronome to time the hours by.

And that tension kept stable as the other Companions rose one after the other from the basement, rubbing eyes and heads, lumbering straight for the tea or hurrying outside to empty the drink their bodies couldn’t hold anymore. The quiet little conversation about nothing in particular, nothing of consequence Ulfric half-heartedly participated in--all of them half-heartedly participated in--left enough of his mind free to wander back to his fatigue.

Mid spring was turning to late spring, threatening to give way to summer. Ulfric held his hair back with one hand as he got used to the sudden heat of the sun, so different from the chill of the night, from the springs of occasional snow flurries he was used to in Windhelm. He suddenly realized he'd never thought to consider that he'd need to change to a linen tunic rather than the wool that was necessary even in the summers of Eastmarch. At the very least, a cool breeze typical of the Wind District followed him even as he made his way down into the Plains District.

He circled around the back of Breezehome, half-expecting to see Lydia there practicing her form with a sword, adding weights to her shield and doing her damnedest to knock down the training dummy securely set deep in the ground by charging the thing with her full weight, but of course she wasn't. During the funeral, she hadn't said a single word to either himself or the Dragonborn as far as he knew, save for a curt greeting of "my Thane" and the stiffest nod in his direction that Ulfric had ever seen, which was really saying something. She was still beyond pissed at him for daring to think that, just maybe, the woman who made it back from killing a god in Sovngarde might just have a bit of her own divinity, still beyond pissed at the Dragonborn for daring to compare herself to the others that held her title throughout history.

Ulfric didn't blame Lydia one bit for being pissed off; he would've been ready to condemn the Dragonborn of blasphemy not half a year ago. Divines, he could easily see himself scheduling her execution for making such a mockery of the divines, especially of an Elf claiming to be Talos…adjacent. But she had still helped her Thane dress yesterday in what should have been an easy garment to put on; the Dragonborn's College robes were nothing more than a tunic and cloak, with no difficult fastenings or lacings or buttons. The pins in the lock clicked harshly as he turned his key in the backdoor. It opened with a nasty scrape along the stone floor. He stepped in and paused, waiting to hear signs of life beyond a single pop from the hearth.

Nothing. He turned to shut the door behind him, eyes drifting over the Dragonborn asleep in the single bed, curled up tightly on top of the covers in a bloodstained chemise carefully embroidered with what was obviously dragon language. She laid so still Ulfric nearly panicked to think she was dead, but a small twitch of her nose stilled that fear--fear? Ulfric cast the thought that he could be afraid of the Dragonborn's death from his mind, instead distracting himself by comparing the black dragon runes on the wool to what he remembered of his own shaky needlework done and chastised and torn out and redone over months of meditation over the Way of the Voice.

And he couldn't tell, because what a horrible distraction it was to study the embroidery of a half-dead woman's chemise when it was of greater importance to study the size and age of bloodstains blooming across the fabric, if he had to study it at all. And Ulfric decided quite firmly that he didn't; he noticed the color of the dried blood indicated that it was probably from the night before last. Probably caused by him throwing her over his shoulder like…like a fool of a young man Ulfric sometimes wished he'd been given the fate to become. And that was all the mental energy he'd dedicate to reminiscing on how Balgruuf's alcoholism led him to finish entire bottles of undiluted fruit wine that was sweet enough to drink like juice.

Perhaps it was simply Whiterun that caused Balgruuf to turn out the way he did. Ulfric had to get out of the Hold before any more of its corrupting influence affected him. He stepped away to the main hall to let her sleep, over a discarded pile of her gray and brown robes, finding the hearth nearly cold. Ulfric grabbed the flint and steel off of the little shelf under the stairs and knelt down to strike it, pausing when he heard soft, uneven footsteps behind him.

"You're up early," the Dragonborn said, her voice rasp with sleep. She cleared her throat, nearly choking on her own cough.

"It's past midmorning," Ulfric mentioned, watching a promising spark burn out just as it hit tinder. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Then learn to walk quieter."

A spark caught. Ulfric struck another just in case and let the tinder smolder for a bit before the smoke gave way to a small flame. He placed it along some kindling and watched the fire grow until he was certain it wouldn't go out if someone walked past the hearth too quickly. It was colder in Breezehome than it was outside; he wondered how long the hearth had been neglected. It had already been low when they left for the funeral yesterday.

The air was too tense, but it was a tension Ulfric wasn't in charge of. This was different from him actively deciding to be as cold to the Dragonborn as he could, to ignore her for all but what he felt necessary. Instead of hostile, it felt more like guilt, on both sides. Like they both felt they'd failed. Ulfric didn't know what the Dragonborn had to feel guilty about; Alduin was dead. She won the war. She lived to tell about everything.

"We're leaving for the Blades headquarters soon," the Dragonborn said.

Ulfric stood and glanced over to her. The Dragonborn leaned heavily on the doorway with a cape pulled around her shoulders, its hood resting inside out on her shoulder. "Any reason?" The Blades. She'd mentioned them before, mentioned them as a safe haven for him if she hadn't returned from Sovngarde. He'd always respected the Blades, even if the Graybeards scolded them as weak-minded mercenaries who cast aside allegiances in exchange for power--perhaps it was more apt to say Ulfric respected what the Blades once were, before the Empire corrupted them to be nothing more than a private guard for a weak old man, ignorant of all their thousands of years of history.

"Well, to give the couriers time to deliver my letters, for one," she said. "I'd rather not have to face the entirety of the Solitude guard."

"What? You think some little letter will keep my head on my shoulders?"

"No, no, not that. We're flying there on Odahviing."

"What?" Ulfric waited for the Dragonborn to laugh and say it was a strange little joke, but she didn't.

"I flew from Whiterun to Skuldafn in a few hours," she continued. "From the Throat of the World to Dragonsreach was an hour. I'll bet Odahviing could fly from Solitude to Riften in under a day. Have you any idea how much time that would save? Not to mention we won't have to spend time camping and risk bear attacks or bandits." She supported herself along the wall with one hand, making her way to sit down heavily on the table bench, the other clasping shut the cape. "If you want to walk there, that's fine."

He didn't even know where to begin to protest this. The Dragonborn was unable to walk unassisted, barely able to dress herself, and she wanted to fly to the headquarters of the Blades, wherever it was. If she fell off that dragon, either through losing her shaky grip or just plain passing out, she'd be dead. If she was betrayed--Ulfric didn't put it past Odahviing to be playing some sort of long con to gain as much power as he could--she'd be dead.

"I…Hold on. You want to fly a dragon to the Blades? The group descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard? The same Blades that killed all the surviving dragons from the Dragon War?" The same Blades the Dragonborn said were murdered down to a handful of Agents, Ulfric left unsaid. They'd have little chance against Odahviing with their numbers in such a state.

"Not the same Blades, for the most part," she said. "I'll tell you more after I've checked around for rats and their little listening runes. But yes, getting there on foot is…more trouble than it's worth."

Of course they were being listened in on. He was one of the Thalmor's most valuable assets, after all. He vaguely remembered those Justiciars showing up through a haze of drink--he remembered more the sound of the door opening and the rest of the night was a blur of surprisingly easy conversation. Ulfric waved his hand, because who the Blades currently were didn't much matter, especially when at least one of them had made her so angry to elevate to screaming at the mere messenger. She didn't seem to be much on good terms with the Blades, but she seemed to be on much worse terms with her own health. "Regardless, how soon were you thinking?"

"Well, when's the soonest you can leave?" The Dragonborn asked. "Have you taken any contracts for the Companions, or something of the sort?"

And that's exactly why Ulfric asked, because the Dragonborn came off as allergic to taking a moment to rest, to recover. Ignoring his own arm, bandaged tight to the point where he'd had some difficulty holding forks, let alone a sword or even a dragon, the Dragonborn was obviously in much worse shape. At least he could walk without assistance, if his leg did get a bit numb after all the stairs from the Winds district to the Plains district. It was only the second day since she returned from the land of the dead, and she looked the part. "I'm supposed to get my wounds inspected after a week of healing," Ulfric said. It was the truth, after all, and perhaps a small push was all the Dragonborn needed to go to the Temple of Kynareth herself. He quickly added, "At the Temple of Kynareth."

The Dragonborn frowned. "How many days from now? I'd rather leave as soon as we can."

"Four." Long enough that maybe the Dragonborn would take some time to heal, short enough that she might not complain about the delay. She shrugged, but didn't immediately argue or sigh or scowl. "Perhaps you should go to the Temple--"

"What, so they can delay us even more?" There was that scowl, or most of it. One eyebrow didn't knit; it stayed firm under the stitches keeping her forehead gash intact.

Ulfric weighed his next words carefully, tasting a sour silence in the air. The Dragonborn knew she was wrong and was daring him to disagree, but he had no desire to hear her argue some bullshit point with the same nonexistent logical backing of how she'd keep him safe in Haafingar. "Most people I know with such high self-importance tend to prioritize the care of even minor wounds."

The way she narrowed her eyes, Ulfric figured the next thing out of her mouth would either be some protest or a grudging word about how she'd go just to get him to shut up. And then her face softened to the point where it was almost on the edge of being nonconfrontational, and she opened her mouth, shut it again, and Ulfric decided she couldn't bring herself to admit that he was correct and was scrambling for some semi-related point to deflect the subject.

And then she opened her mouth once more. "What has you suddenly concerning yourself to such lengths about my wellbeing?"

Ulfric blinked for an answer. "I'm not concerned with your wellbeing any more than I would be for anyone else who looks as close to death as you," he said, and the Dragonborn scoffed and shrugged.

"I suppose if you care that much about me, I'll give into your whims and visit the priests," she said.

"I don't--" Ulfric started, but stopped himself halfway when he realized that he did care about her, if only in the way that the Dragonborn cared about him; as a means to an end. "How much do you trust Odahviing?" He asked, trying her method of changing the subject whenever he didn't have a sufficient quip to deflect away.

"In terms of suddenly betraying me? Less than I trust you," she admitted, "but more than I trust the Jarl."

The Dragonborn trusted him more than Balgruuf? She probably meant Jarl Blackbriar. "You understand he's dangerous."

"And? We're both soldiers. Not exactly a profession known for its security."

"Beyond that. Beyond most dragons you've fought, save Alduin," Ulfric pressed. "He commanded the entire dragon army in the closing months of the Dragon War."

"He still commands the dragon army," the Dragonborn said, playing with the tie at the neck of her robe. Her fingers shook as she twisted the loose strings; she couldn't tie it if she tried. "And now I command him."

Ulfric paused. What was her obsession with commanding the leaders of opposing armies? He briefly wondered if she would try and have the Thalmor pledge fealty to her rather than destroy them outright. "He could be playing a long con. Now that Alduin is dead--"

"By my hand," she cut him off. "Were you too drunk to remember that I told you all of this already? I am the strongest dragon. By their timeless customs that makes me their leader as much as Alduin himself once was. Odahviing serves me, his army serves me." She stood with a slight wince and stretched. "Not quite Numidium, but no matter. Let me check that these damned Thalmor haven't been scrying, and then you can make sure I don't stub my toe and keel over dead on the way to the Temple."

Chapter Text

Four days' delay would turn to four months, if Nariilu let that Danica Purespring have her way. And she was almost forced to, after the priestess held her fast on one of the healing beds with only a light hand placed upon her chest; even the gentle pressure was enough to have her groaning in pain and keep her from pulling herself up. And Danica had seemed content to allow her to leave once she could stand up until Stormcloak made some foolish aside about how Nariilu thought she could ride a dragon when she couldn't even sit up properly.

So instead of a nice day of quiet healing, Nariilu got to spend most of it fiercely arguing for her release when she saw fit rather than when the priests saw fit. It was a welcome distraction from the sensation of having her body knit itself back together under spells and potions and needles. She adamantly refused any sort of sedation--Nariilu didn't trust the priests to knock her out until their healing had her as healthy and scar-free as the day she was born. She didn't need that, she just needed to be able to draw both swords at once, to breathe without a quiet rattling in her chest.

Which she would have been able to do after the first day of being confined to a healing bed; the priests healed the last of her torn muscles easily, it was her skin and festering wounds they were wasting her sweet time with. Unlike the Graybeards, the Temple of Kynareth had no shortage of medical supplies and magicka potions for the priests and, even worse, Nariilu's wounds--something similar to magical acid burns--were rare enough Danica had the younger, less experienced priests inspect and practice on. Nariilu didn't mind, with the Thalmor out and about chances were at least once of the Justiciars in Whiterun knew how to spray acid from their fingertips or throw a vial of the stuff at some unfortunate soul. She focused on the little lectures and lessons where she could, both for her own benefit and as a distraction from the uncanny sensation of someone else's magic weaving under her skin.

But having multiple healers work at once, even when they were almost entirely unfamiliar with injuries beyond a nasty fall down stairs or a stab from a bar fight gone wrong, made rather short work of healing the open wounds left around most of her body. What took the damn longest had Nariilu wondering if it was all a plot by Danica to keep her as long as the priestess damn well pleased--Danica claimed that Nariilu's skin was growing back as pure scar tissue, rather than soft skin. Her dexterity would take a hit if she didn't allow them to peel back the flesh and build her back up.

It was a compliment to Danica that Nariilu found that convincing enough to stay, even if she knew damn well that scar tissue could be torn soft and flexible until it was just as well as the baby-soft flesh Danica and her priests grew underhand, letting Danica work and demonstrate technique on the complex areas of her arms and hands, letting the priests practice on the broad areas of her back and abdomen.

Even worse, she'd need time to build back the calluses she'd spent decades forming. Nariilu rubbed along bare skin and it felt like what she'd imagined a noble's skin was made of, but it certainly didn't feel like her own. Danica explained it would feel back to normal soon; it would be fairly sensitive for a few weeks. But the right feel would never be back even if Danica was right, even if Nariilu spent the next twenty years smithing and fighting, not without hundreds of raised cuts and burns and gashes from war and torture and battle. Calluses returned. Scars did not.

It almost felt like she was denying a lifetime of struggle, wiping away proof on over half of her body that yes, she'd fought for the Empire, betrayed the Empire, become the Empire. And she had nothing to remind her of the stories attached to each little scar, from the little dark splinter mark in her hand she'd gotten from the front door of her childhood home, to the deep gash on her calf she'd gotten fighting Mirmulnir seconds before she learned of her destiny. Of course Danica knew exactly what she was thinking when she ran her fingers over her arms, with a well-practiced adage of new stories and battles to be had.

And she'd make more than enough stories to fill an entire library of epics. Nariilu could close her eyes and imagine resting in her grand palace, a true grand palace for a true Dragonborn Empress, leafing through pages of her biographies, hearing soft melodies of her deeds. And her dreams would be pleasant, without any of the complaining and restlessness of the lesser Dragonborn, once they settled into their places like was so easy of the dragons. The dragons were used to subservience, first to Alduin, then to her. The unprophesized Dragonborn had mortal arrogance about them, undeserved arrogance, especially after dying not once but twice. What would it take for them to rest, to serve her, aid her?

They were beginning to slow in their defiance; Nariilu could barely feel the presence of Wulfrend Stormcloak beyond a gentle drone when she searched for it. And the Dragonborn that had been less accomplished in life seemed to shrink down in response to Wulfrend's resignation. Even the notable Dragonborn with songs of their own had let up on sending stabbing pain and fire through her veins, or maybe she was more resistant to it now that her physical condition wasn't as dire. Still, Nariilu had her eyes on the Soul of a certain Tsunilde of the Dragonguard, once the personal dragon hunter of Reman II, judging from what she could glean from the surface of her Soul. She'd pick apart Tsunilde when she got the chance, and she'd give up all her little secrets about how the Blades once served the Dragonborn. Worshipped them as gods.

Siphoning memories and knowledge from dragons was easy compared to Dragonborn, almost automatic, especially for knowledge of Words of Power. And she'd never tried much, outside of trying in vain to get any information as to Alduin's whereabouts and correctly identifying how to summon Odahviing. But even that was freely given by the dragons. They were resigned in death to serve their slayer, their conqueror, their Thuri. All these Dragonborn wanted to do was rebel. Nariilu wondered if it was a Nord thing.

Nariilu was discharged from the Temple on a day with low clouds and more wind than usual; not weather suitable for flying, especially if the dark cloud in the west blew over the city. The priests had laundered her college robes and powdered the inside with crushed leaves from the Gildergreen, helping to lighten the weight of the garment on her shoulders. She thanked the priests for their help, promising a donation that they piously insisted was not required, and stepped from the Temple of Kynareth, mocking a limp and resting her weight on her staff. Perhaps she'd fake serious injury for a while longer, until someone dared to use her frailty as a reason to attack.

She didn't notice any Thalmor wandering around the Winds District, thank the gods, nor any more guards than usual as Nariilu made her way down the stairs to the Plains District to Breezehome. She was stopped every so often by townsfolk who thanked her for slaying Alduin, noting that apparently she had another song written, a slow ballad performed at the ends of the night when tavern goers were exhausted from empty tankards and dancing songs. Nariilu wondered which tune and words Giraud had settled on, and, more impressively, how he'd managed to get bards singing it so soon.

A quick circle around Breezehome revealed no runes, no suspicious stones, leaves, anything that could be enchanted to send her words directly to Elenwen. And there had been nothing on her last check a few days ago. Nariilu didn't feel relieved; perhaps the Thalmor had revolutionized divining magic to the point where it was nearly undetectable.

Her key turned easily in the lock just as she felt the first of what would no doubt be many fat raindrops falling in the late spring storm. Nariilu stepped inside and leaned her staff up against the corner, stretching her fingers and legs against the tingle of forming soreness. It was a different type of pain than what she'd come so accustomed to over the past few weeks; instead of a deep, omnipresent throb, it was a sharp threat of her muscles to just give out if she pushed them too hard.

The rain picked up and drummed against the roof as she made her way to the side room, her ruined armor still resting there in its bag along with that mask and Alduin's scales that had been caught in Tsun's Shout along with her. A single piece of platemail laid on the alchemy table in a mess of shattered glass and spilled salt; she threw it there after the funeral. Nariilu swore she'd fix that armor, fix it better than even Eorlund could do, because that man would never fix a masterpiece like this, not after she'd ruined it--after Alduin had ruined it. He probably would've blacklisted her from ever using any of his creations for what she did to this armor, even though it had saved her life far more times than she could count on both hands in the short time she was able to wear it. Just like armor was supposed to do.

To think that he was able to create such a unique design, an alloy Nariilu had never heard of before, when he spent the better part of his life pouring steel into molds, following ancient template after template. Never creating, truly creating, before this. And it was apparently a sign of his good favor, a sign that he marked her as his successor. The least he could've done is run it by her first.

Still, the plates were more or less intact; fixing the armor would be mostly a matter of fixing it to a leather or chainmail base, repairing the straps, hammering out dents. The hard work of creation had already been done, it was simply disassembled. Yes, disassembled, not destroyed. She could repair it, more than repair it. Improve it, weave enchantments along the metal. Malachite held magic much better than other metals, and while it didn't have moonstone as a channeling device, ebony, the blood of the gods, would more than do.

She plucked the piece of metal from the glass on the alchemy table and tossed it in the bag, pulling out the dark, pure ebony mask. Nariilu ran her fingers along the ancient curves of a single, carved piece of impossibly hard metal. It was once polished to a blinding shine, she could tell, but thousands of years of dust and grime left it almost dull beneath its enchantment. And what an enchantment it was; even holding it she felt a small boost to her magicka, the chillingly hot tingle of elemental destruction magic, and…something else from another school she couldn't quite place with just a glance. It almost seemed to stare back at her, this mask that once controlled armies of men, served hundreds of dragons.

The mask was heavier than the ones she'd found on the Dragon Priests at Shearpoint, at Volskygge. And in far better condition, too; this priest had been cared for by an entire city of cultists rather than left at the tops of mountains. She looked at her staff, another boon granted to the Dragon Priests by the dragons, wondering what other treasures they gave their most loyal. A wonderful question to ask Odahviing, to force him to answer if he didn't have the sense to speak freely.

The front door scraped against the floor, a long exhale sounded as it latched shut and locked behind whoever entered. A quiet curse towards the rain--Lydia. Good, Nariilu wanted to discuss things with her before they left for Sky Haven Temple. The letters from the other Housecarls had been exceptionally optimistic, especially after the end of the war what with trade finally picking back up. Lakeview already had a few people who'd moved to the area, young lumber workers looking to be more than someone's employee, soldiers deciding their last posting near Falkreath or the Pale Pass was as good a place as any to settle down.

"Hail, Lydia," Nariilu said, stepping into the doorway. Lydia relaxed from alert, seeing that it was simply her Thane and not an intruder. And then Lydia's eyes narrowed, her jaw hardened. "Keeping well?"

"Keeping fine," she replied. She pulled a sack from across her body and set it down in a chair, clinks of glass bottles and jingles of coins almost muffled by the burlap. Her tone was tense, short. "You seem…better."

"The priests at the Temple are quite skilled." Nariilu leaned on the doorway and smiled, overtly casual. Lydia never was much for sharing her past, her present, her anything. No, she kept things bottled up inside, her outside a formally content woman, cordial to a fault. She'd only seen Lydia like this a handful of times; after they'd nearly died on Shearpoint, after Erik had died on their quest for the Elder Scroll. She wondered who died, or nearly died, in her absence, since she'd been like this before the Graymanes were arrested. And she wasn't close with them at all, or anyone in Whiterun, really. "I'm back to fighting condition."

"Good. Then I suppose you'll be leaving soon?"

Nariilu nodded. "Did you discuss the specifics with Stormcloak?"

"No."

"Did you discuss anything with him?"

"Nothing of your concern." Lydia moved to stomp up the stairs. Nariilu grabbed her ankle through the slats in the stairs. "Let go of me."

"Sworn Housecarl," Nariilu used Lydia's title as a threat; she was bound by honor to remain loyal, unwavering in her commitment to her Thane, "speak freely." Lydia kept her mouth shut, leather gloves squeaking as she clenched her fists. Nariilu clutched her ankle harder.

Lydia scoffed. "Nothing pisses you off more than not being in control, does it?" She kicked her free foot into Nariilu's hand. She let go, moving out from under the stairs to look up at Lydia. "The Elder Scrolls never guaranteed your victory, just your part in legend. And now you've moved past their prophecies. You're just as weak as the rest of us mere mortals."

Lydia backed down the stairs, moving around until she was just in Nariilu's face, chin tilted up and eyes pointed down. Nariilu met her challenging stare with her own soft smile. Lydia would never feel comfortable speaking like this if she weren't fresh from healing, no swords on her hips. "Well, I'm sorry you're not content serving a Thane that's nothing more than a weak Dragonborn."

"I am content serving a Dragonborn, weak or strong," Lydia replied, carefully forming each word. "I am not content serving a mortal woman who dares to compare herself to the Divines! No mortal is a god, no mortal can become a god--"

"Have you ever been to the Imperial City?" Nariilu cut her off.

"I--what?"

"Big statue of a dragon, right in the center of the Temple District. You may have heard of how the Oblivion Crisis ended when Martin Septim turned into Akatosh?" Nariilu argued. "Or, that statue of Tiber Septim that was in the Winds District up until a week ago, since he turned into Talos, a god? Or St. Alessia, Reman, I can keep going."

She shook her head. "You aren't them. You aren't St. Alessia, you're not a Septim, you're not a divine. You have no right to compare yourself to any of them! People have been saying for years the gods have abandoned Skyrim, and if you keep on you'll have them returning just to burn it to the ground."

"Why don't I have any right, Lydia? Because I'm as much a Dragonborn as Tiber Septim, far more than Martin Septim--I killed Alduin, a god, Lydia, depending on who you ask--"

"To the dragon cultists!"

"--and spoke to Kynareth. I am the latest aspect of Lorkhan, I am Talos, I am the Shezzarine as much as Tiber Septim before me. I have been blessed with a dragon soul by Akatosh. I am his avatar."

"You're insane," Lydia said, after a long enough pause that Nariilu thought she was finally coming around.

"I'm simply telling you how things appear to me. How the Divines have presented themselves to me. You were not there when I read the Elder Scroll. You were not there when I entered the Hall of Valor."

She exhaled, throwing her hands up and circling around the room. "How convenient! No one was!"

Nariilu crossed her arms, squeezing her lips together for a second. "Then I'll take you to the portal to Sovngarde at Skuldafn. You can go and ask Shor yourself. But make sure you get on Tsun's good side; you'll have to ask him to Shout you back to Nirn."

"You know no one can do that."

"Then go to the Temple of Kynareth and pray to her! The Divines have appeared before the faithful before, they'll do it again."

"You know what else has appeared before the faithful? Before you?" Lydia challenged. "Daedric Princes. You know how they love to appear right in front of you and you love to do what they say."

Nariilu took a second to collect her thoughts. Lydia seemed satisfied that she had caught her off guard, at least a little. And she had to give it to her; Nariilu never expected that anyone would accuse her of Daedric deals. "First of all, that was one time."

"Three."

"Twice!" Nariilu admitted. "But you didn't seem nearly as upset when we killed that priest on Vaermina's orders. So, you put serving Vaermina as better than daring to interpret the will of the Nine?"

"You're twisting my words," Lydia spat. "We swore to never bring that up."

"Fine. Then what has you just pissed about my claims now?" Nariilu pressed. "I'll remind you I first brought this up when the Graybeards literally named me Ysmir, Dragon of the North. You cannot deny that. You heard it yourself. All of Ivarstead heard it."

"It was just a title then, and it's just a title now," Lydia replied. She gripped heavily on the back of a chair.

"So now that I'm acting in line with my title, you've got an issue with it?"

"No. You're letting a title go to your head."

"Then may the Divines strike me down if I do not count among them!" Nariilu outstretched her arms and waited for her death to come. It didn't. The Divines knew not to let one of their own die and ascend just yet. She relaxed, squared her shoulders. "Perhaps I am not the only one who should act in line with their title, my Housecarl."

Lydia bit her tongue. "I am trying to protect my Thane from danger, since that danger is herself, and to protect the great city of Whiterun from my Thane."

"Then perhaps I should stop directing funds to the good people of Whiterun, since I am such a danger to them," Nariilu replied as calmly as she could. She heard a small quiver of anger in her own voice and hoped that Lydia didn't pick up on it. Nariilu hadn't expected this much opposition from Lydia of all people; after Stormcloak readily accepted her lies as well as he did her truths she hadn't expected much opposition from anyone but the Thalmor. Maybe an errant priest here and there, but they were all skeptics of everything not a few hundred years old and covered in dust and written in gold ink.

"Ha! See, you only help others as far as it helps you," Lydia spat. "You've been blinded by power few have had before. You take and take and give only to take more."

"You may find no reason to believe I'm telling the truth, but you have fewer reasons still to believe I'm lying," Nariilu replied, ignoring Lydia's latest accusations. They weren't entirely relevant to the debate at hand, and Nariilu didn't have much to say in response, not without a second to think. She couldn't let Lydia go down that line of thought. Perhaps she'd left her Housecarl alone far too long, but it's not like much could be done about it, not when there had been a war to win, a god to kill.

"I never said you were lying," Lydia responded. "Not knowingly, at least. Delusions require intervention, not encouragement. And you don't want to even consider that you may be mistaken. You once told me that a dragon told you--one that you swallowed!--that all dragons craved power more than anything. Now, I don't know if it's just your own dragon soul or maybe Sheogorath--"

"Then I have either been chosen by the Divines or by the Princes, by your own admission. Doesn't sound like delusion to me, Lydia."

Lydia looked up at the ceiling for a while. She spoke carefully, each word cutting from her lips, "How do you plan to use your new title?"

"What?"

"Let's say you are a Divine. Or the avatar of one. Or a Daedric Prince's Champion. Whatever. Who gives a shit?" Lydia looked back down to face her. Her fingers tapped the back of the chair, the sound catching and mixing with the rain on the roof. "How will it affect what you do now? All of your plans?"

Nariilu shrugged. Lydia was giving up hope on her. She couldn't have that, not from her central Housecarl. Her longest friend--friend?--in Skyrim. "I suppose it will legitimize my claim to the throne. Maybe I could use it against the Thalmor. They might like an Elf as Talos a little better, get the shrines back, that sort of thing. I haven't put much thought to it," she lied. "What, were you afraid this changed anything, anything at all? I told you, I've been considering this since the second trip to High Hrothgar." The last word caught in her throat and she coughed; she was speaking far too freely when there could be a Justiciar waiting outside to arrest her for blasphemy, or whatever else. Elenwen would taunt her with her deification somehow, skew it to suit the Thalmor's needs.

"And the second you tell anyone about your grand, godly station, you drag unwilling people into your little scheme. If you're right and I'm wrong, fine. Good. Great, even! I’m happy for you," Lydia said. "But if you're wrong, you're putting more people than just yourself at risk. Suppose it takes for you to sit upon the Ruby Throne before the Divines take notice of what you're claiming? Would you put an entire Empire at risk of complete destruction just to rule it for a day?"

Nariilu kept silent. They both knew she would, and she would rather have it be an unsaid truth.

"Like it or not, there are forces outside of your control. Outside of the gods' control." Lydia finally dropped her voice from a near shout to a normal speaking tone, still spiked with anger. "And the Scrolls are some of those forces. Your life is no longer written in the Elder Scrolls."

"You don't know a single damn thing about the Elder Scrolls outside of what little I told you."

"Not many people do, do they? Convenient how all of your power is ancient and half unknown, isn't it? So easy to trick the masses into believing your wealth is the result of ancient dragon hoards, rather than from the graves of their ancestors, or that you got your swords after helping the Vigilants of Stendarr, or that you're Talos come again to save Skyrim from the Thalmor! I'm not letting you lie to the people of Skyrim. They need a figurehead now more than ever, and you want to take advantage of the void you created and put yourself in that position, o great hero of Skyrim." Lydia finished with a little flourish and bow, rising in a scowl.

Nariilu nodded softly along with Lydia's scowl, bringing one hand up to her chin. "The unspoken assumption here is that I am not fit to be that figurehead."

"No. You're not."

"Because you believe I'm delusional at best, and attracting the ire of a few gods at worst."

"Because I know how damned determined you are to get your way, and I don't want to see Skyrim go through more shit just so you can sit in a fancy chair." Lydia exhaled and shook her head. "Intentionally or not. I thought maybe J'zargo could convince you to stop--"

"Excuse me?"

Lydia froze, shocked for a split second before she steadied herself and doubled down into a glare. "I thought maybe you'd listen to him. You only ever listened to him."

"Well." Nariilu swallowed her anger. Her swords were in the room behind her, out of reach in display holders. Her magicka reserves were low after healing herself to speed her way out of the Temple. And her Voice…her lungs almost burned with the need to Shout, to blast Lydia through the wall. Shout her to bits. Pull her soul from her body and show it godly power once and for all. Because her last conversation with J'zargo had been nothing more than Lydia's little scheme to get her to…to what? Abandon all of her power? Everything she'd worked so hard for? Everything she deserved? Nariilu finally spat, "I suppose that was because he was the only one worth listening to in our little group."

Lydia bit her cheek, her face flushed bright red. "Because he was the only one you could dazzle with promises of…Gods!" She kicked the chair in front of her hard enough for it to topple and skid across the room, crashing into the base of the stairs next to Nariilu with a thud. "You're doing the same damn thing with Ulfric right now--"

"You know exactly why he's here--" Nariilu cut off, raising her voice.

Lydia kept speaking over her. "--acting like you need his help to take over Skyrim--"

"--and it's for damn sure not the same reasons as J'zargo! I fucking do need his help--"

"--like he wasn't a half-year away from doing it himself and better than you could ever do, if you hadn't shown up!"

"--to take over--" Nariilu choked on her words. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. You're a Stormcloak? Since when?"

Lydia brought her hands to rest on the top of her head, throwing them up in the air like she was hailing the ceiling. "Really? You never picked up on…No, I'm not letting you do that shit you do where you change the subject! I fucking pray you're deranged, rather than just a manipulative, lying little tyrant."

"Let me ask you this, Lydia: what do you intend to do about me, then?" Nariilu heard her voice crack around her raw throat. She was yelling, almost catching Thu'um in her words, catching Thu'um in her throat instead. She felt bile rise around the pain, and forced it down.

She had caught Lydia off guard, eyes wide, lips scrambling for words. Lydia never intended to have a plan for what to do, outside of perhaps taking her right back to the Temple of Kynareth to have Sheogorath's influence purged from her. She had been planning to be on the pure offensive the entire time, finally getting whatever comeuppance she felt she was owed though shouting at her Thane, of all people. But, her accusations were…almost too sound. But unconfirmable. Just as unconfirmable as Nariilu's own claims.

"You obviously intend to stop me somehow," Nariilu continued, "from going around, using titles, claiming things, telling people who I am. What I am." Lydia steeled her jaw. "So, have you raised all your concerns, my loyal Housecarl, sworn on your honor to serve and protect me until either of us falls, lest you fall upon your own sword in eternal disgrace upon you and your bloodline?"

It might've been a low blow, invoking her bastardized bloodline like that, but Lydia struck the lowest a month ago. Poisoning the last time she'd gotten to hear an Elsweyrian accent.. Lydia looked ready to pounce, even as she resigned herself to squared shoulders, a final squeeze to the back of the chair. "Yes, my Thane." The word dripped like venom, spat like the Thu'um. "Thank you for the opportunity to speak…freely. I pray to the Nine that you will consider what we've discussed."

Nariilu caught a joke about appreciating prayers on her teeth. "Of course, Lydia." And she smiled as sweetly as she could, wishing she could bite the woman's head off instead. Lydia's returned an expression in kind.

Farengar had missed the Great War in his youth what with being no more than a boy and all, but the way that the Justiciars lingered and snooped and tipped up their chins had him itching to make up for lost time.

He sat at his desk and pretended to give a damn about the ledger he'd been given, but he couldn't find any reason to care about the same list of alchemical supplies and petty soul gems that came in and out of the Hold every month. Nothing suspicious, ever. The mundanity of it all was usually a welcome relaxation, a quick mindless distraction in between research that once seemed dead set on eluding a breakthrough at every step, but now was highly sought after and kept under careful wraps by the Jarl. And now it was too dull to justify giving more than an hour to before returning to that research with a Justiciar peering over his shoulder. He almost wished the Soul Ward hadn't faded just so he could see the Justiciars' smug faces slam into the invisible barrier, watch them trip into poison he just happened to leave out.

But one Justiciar was better than two, Farengar figured, even if the one Justiciar who was present stared him down enough for all her colleagues. Silenya was her name, with long hair slicked back into three braided buns that each mirrored the large opal wired on the top of her staff. He was still trying to figure why she needed such an impressive conduit, especially after she conjured that wicked battleaxe on her own the other day, holding it steady for both the trial, as short as it was, and the executions. Farengar figured it must hold some Valkynaz or other sufficiently nasty Daedroth too powerful for a Conjurer to control on their own.

The other Justiciar that normally accompanied Silenya to snoop and pry and generally threaten him was Meranion, an unusually buff Altmer who wielded his tree branch of a staff much more loudly and often made asides about how Farengar's own research was liable to suddenly explode and turn his flesh inside out, accidentally. Farengar was rather pleased to see him absent. A bit of his own prying wormed a stark explanation out of Silenya; Meranion was officially on a scheduled inspection of Whiterun's Hold borders along with another Justiciar, Trinimale.

Anyone with any ear to the ground in the Cloud District, probably anyone across Whiterun at this point, knew the truth; Trinimale had been mauled half to death somewhere in the plains, with two of his soldiers' remains having already been devoured by sabre cats and vultures and whatever else was scavenging around by the time some curious hunters from town decided to check out the site of the attack. Meranion was apparently the designated healer of the four Justiciars, and, according to the maids, had spent most hours since trying to keep Trinimale from meeting the same fate as the soldier who died in agony in treatment.

If the Ambassador hadn't already left for the Embassy, Farengar imagined she would've been furious at how Jarl Balgruuf refused to launch an investigation--the two Justiciars with free time to petition him had been met with shrugs and an almost too enthusiastic denial to waste guards on such a task. And Jarl Balgruuf was right, nobody in their right mind would wander from the roads into the plains at night. Sudden drops, roaming sabre cats and the occasional bear, hidden hunters' traps, bandits, dragons and whatnot were all difficult enough to navigate without head-high grass and the dark of a moonsless night.

But if a quarter of their soldiers were dead and one Justiciar out of commission not even a week after their arrival, Farengar supposed they were making good time disposing of this batch of elves. Perhaps this would be the final push to get the Thalmor to realize that Skyrim was wild through and through. Any civility pushed upon the region would be met with violence until it was tramped down by the ancient tradition of unbound strength, unquestioned loyalty. Farengar sighed; a little civilization would be long welcome in his study.

"Ready to go?"

The Dragonborn called down from the loft in the lulls between Ulfric stomping the floorboards back down. The Jagged Crown was in his hands, wrapped in burlap, almost identical to the scales and bones the Dragonborn had carefully packed in a nondescript bag alongside her ruined armor. He nodded, placing the Crown among the other pieces she swore she'd repair and improve with her own little touches. Ulfric wouldn't let her dare attempt to 'improve' the crown.

"Well?" She asked, leaning over railing and poking her head down to the main floor. The scars on her face were still present, but faded from an angry red to a soft pink that stood out harshly against gray skin and black hair. It disappeared into her hairline, a pink bald section peeking out between short, choppy strands. Her face was still marred with new and old scars, a stark contrast to soft, smooth skin that peeked out from under her sleeves. Ulfric nodded again. She continued, "Good. Are we forgetting anything important?"

"Horses."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared back upstairs, a motion that was almost fluid, almost without a wince. Repairing skin wasn't easy, definitely wasn't painless. Ulfric almost wished it'd rained longer, just to give her a bit more time to heal. But the priests had allowed her to leave and confirmed it with him when he went to check on his own healing, discharging them both with orders to take it easy.

An order that had obviously gone over the Dragonborn's thick head, the way she sheathed her swords around her waist, donned her boots, about the only part of her armor that had survived Sovngarde. Her swords rattled in their sheathes unbecoming of such a swordsman as she, a far cry from the near perfect silence she had once been able to carry them in. She had made a flippant comment about breaking in new sheathes when she caught Ulfric staring concerned earlier. And then, another one about how College robes weren't meant for swords.

She stomped down the stairs, pack strapped to her back and staff in one hand, casually rather than as a walking aid--on second thought, Ulfric supposed a magical staff couldn't quite be held casually like any old walking stick. A few vials of red potion jingled with each step. "Well, if we've gotten everything, daylight is wasting," she said, stopping briefly at the bottom of the stairs to shift the pack on her shoulders. The Dragonborn had a shallow scowl on her face; the rainstorm hadn't let up for three days, and even now distant thunder threatened to delay them again. "Potions, food, cloaks, armor, books?"

Books. She was bringing books, journals, letters, anything she didn't want the Thalmor to get in the raid she swore they'd run on her house the second they left for wherever the Blades were. And he was bringing the Jagged Crown; the Thalmor would never lay a finger on it, not while he still had breath in his lungs. "Stoke the fire," Ulfric ordered.

"What, so you can burn down my house…?" The Dragonborn trailed off, probably avoiding a mention of his ill-fated siege where he did burn her house down to some degree. Yes, scars of ash ran through the walls of Breezehome, right behind this old quilt, still vibrant even in the dim light. Small windows weren't enough to bleach the dyes over however many years the dusty thing had hung from the wall. Ulfric stared her down while he moved the quilt out of the way, reaching into the wall and catching his bracers against damaged wood before his hand closed around his Dossier. "Oh," she said, not moving for the flint or bellows or any sort of scroll that could liven the low flames.

Ulfric traced his fingers over the emblazoned leather once, throwing the cursed book onto the fire. The Dragonborn cried out as ash, embers, little flaming chunks of wood scattered onto the stone floor. And then she reached down and picked the book up, its pages barely beginning to catch on embers. Ulfric scowled and moved to jump and grab the Dossier, rip it from her hands, throw it back in the fire to destroy it, but the Dragonborn spoke up, "Leather doesn't burn."

She hissed and dropped it to the floor, taking off her pack one shoulder at a time. She shook out her hand, now smooth deep gray, soft and blister free where a week prior it had been a mess of mangled flesh, and kicked the Dossier over closer to him. "Rip out the pages. I can destroy the leather where we're going, or with any leatherworking tools. Or, if you want to, take your sword and shred it. Gods, that shouldn't've hurt that much." The Dragonborn went into the back room, and Ulfric heard glass bottles clinking.

Ulfric picked it up, barely feeling the heat around his gloves. Ripping out each page one at a time, two at a time, ten, hundred, until the book was nothing than a bundle of ripped stubs and burning pages. Red glow turned to black ashen edges turned to flaming curls turned to…nothing but a memory. And that memory turned to a weight off his shoulders as the pages of pain, horror, torture, lies, everything, turned to rising, curling smoke, sweet with paper, sour with ink and evil.

He turned to glance at the Dragonborn. A small dribble of potion was soaking into the neck of her robes. Her hand didn't look burnt. Still, she shook it as she walked back to her pack. "Alright, now are we forgetting anything?"

Chapter Text

The Dragonborn stopped faking most of her limp when they got out of sight of the city guards, only picking it back up from a small uneven pace to a leaning drag supported with her staff when a merchant's carriage rumbled into view. She didn't seem to care if farmers noticed her faking, and she mentioned something about looking like any old travelers when he asked. And Ulfric supposed they did, to some degree, even if his ebony armor was more than visible under a long cloak.

She finally led them off the road and down a deer trail, chest high grass marking either side of the trampled path. Well, chest high for him. The Dragonborn likely couldn't see very far over it, but she didn't seem particularly concerned as she followed the trail with her head down for a time. Ulfric didn't much like the noise of animals scurrying through the plains. He was well aware of sabre cats, bears, all of those nasty things that only jumped out of caves in Eastmarch that could be lurking not a foot away in Whiterun.

The grass cleared around a small crop of stones, a mockery of a hill only a bit higher than the grass, but still the only high point for probably an hour's march through the plains. She tossed her bag to the ground--Ulfric winced when he heard the clanging of armor and the Jagged Crown inside--laid her staff beside it, and scrambled to the top. She looked around, calling down, "I don't see anyone. Guess we're not important enough to follow." She slid back down, grabbing her staff and planting it firmly on the ground to steady herself. "Catch me if I fall, alright?"

Ulfric wondered to himself if he could call a dragon as she inhaled once, twice, each a little too shaky and shallow for what he would allow himself to follow with a Shout, and then wondered if Odahviing would care to respect his call or just swoop down and swallow him whole. He stepped a bit closer, just enough to rush over and grab her if the Dragonborn looked ready to fall forwards and bust her head open on the stones.

"Odahviing!" Despite her sub-par breathing, the Dragonborn's Shout left his ears ringing as he watched her knees buckle beneath her. She went down straight, catching herself on her elbow in the dirt, staff slamming against the rocks, chest heaving with every breath. A distant roar sounded from all around, echoing on the plains. Ulfric stood behind her, wondering if he should offer a hand to help her up or if she would just swat it away. He decided there was no harm in trying and bent down to help her up. She stood up on her own as if she didn't notice him.

She stood swaying slightly in one place, leaning far too heavily on her staff. Ulfric stepped closer as the echoing roar dispersed into the powerful beating sounds of Odahviing's wings, sounding alone. No army this time, at least not yet. He held one hand up to block the sun, watching the dragon speed past Whiterun's distant silhouette on the plains, ever closer, wind rising as he grew close and hovered over the rock, preparing to land.

Ulfric carefully caught the Dragonborn by her back when she threatened to sway a bit too far off her feet; she stumbled back to a steadier stance with her feet awkwardly far apart. "Drem yol lok," Odahviing grumbled, settling on the pile of stones. It was too small for his massive body, and he eventually settled on a strange lean with one wing extended and crushing the grass. His head towered over them, casting a shadow that graciously blocked most of the sun's glare off his scales. "I see no battle. Yet you call for assistance."

"We're flying somewhere," the Dragonborn said, suddenly standing tall. She crossed one arm over her torso and clutched at her ribs.

"We," Odahviing repeated. Deep golden eyes turned to him. Ulfric understood why deer sometimes froze when they noticed an archer with an arrow nocked. "Wo daar joor? Who is this…mortal?"

"He's travelling with me," she said. "You might recognize him as one of the mortals who helped me capture you. So watch your tongue."

"Pah joor balaana Dovah."

All mortals are worthless to me, Ulfric translated to himself. He narrowed his eyes to stare back into the endless, timeless glance of Odahviing. This was only a fleeting sliver of his immortal life; no wonder he had no issues serving the Dragonborn. The Dragonborn furrowed her brow, and Ulfric wasn't sure if it was because she had no idea what Odahviing had said, or because she was troubled by what he said. "Hi los ko zaamhus wah aan joor," Ulfric responded. "Daar tinvak dol balaaniil, sahrot Dovah?" (And yet you serve a mortal. What does that say about your own worth, mighty dragon?)

Odahviing growled low in his chest. "Zu'u gro Thuri nal zin. Joor aam nal sil." (I am bound to my lord by honor. Mortals serve by their nature.)

"Alright!" The Dragonborn cut in, swiping through their conversation with a sharp thud, banging her staff against the ground. She had the same look on her face Ulfric had seen at parties and meetings when one person was suddenly cut out of conversation when the language switched. She hadn't had a clue what they were saying, even though he'd heard her speak perfect Dov before on the Porch, even though she Shouted with flawless pronunciation. "We're heading north. I'll tell you when to land."

"Ah. I forget that the Old One never taught you Dov," Odahviing sneered, lowering his neck. "My apologies, Thuri. Brom--north, we will fly."

~

And north they did fly, well above the clouds with wind freezing him inside his armor. Ulfric kept one hand tugging his cloak's hood over his ears, the other clasped firmly to a spiky scale, feet pressed firmly against scales behind him. He sat kneeling between Odahviing's wings, not looking down as they soared over Skyrim. It was surreal, the air whipping past him, knowing that only birds and dragons ever got to experience this unique form of fear--no, creatures with wings had no reason to fear the ground far beneath them. This was much worse than when he accidentally flew on the first dragon he'd ever fought; this was a choice. He'd chosen to climb on the back of a dragon and let it fly off with him only secured as far as his fingers could hold.

It was a smooth ride, for the most part. Odahviing flew more like an eagle than a finch, his wings were solid, steady, rarely flapping as he kept in the same direction. The Dragonborn seemed almost lax in her position further up, astride his neck like it was an oversized horse. A quick banked left turn had him abandoning his hood in favor of keeping himself upright. "We're about a third of the way there!" The Dragonborn turned at her waist and shouted back at him. Her words were almost lost in the wind. "We really only needed to head west, but I couldn't risk any Thalmor following us!"

"You said it was impossible to get to the Blades by ground! Why would you be worried about them following?" Ulfric shouted back. He wiped blood from his hands on a smooth section of Odahviing's scales. What he wouldn't give to have proper leather gloves, rather than thin wool ones protecting his hands.

"What?"

"You said we couldn't get there on foot! I thought the Thalmor couldn't follow us there!"

"I said it was difficult!"

"You just didn't want to take a horse, did you?"

"I sent the horses ahead to Solitude!"

Ulfric shook his head and waved the conversation away. The wind helped carry her words to him, his words were ripped from his mouth and left in the sky behind them both. It'd be no use to even attempt to speak to her until they were safely landed. Or, Ulfric supposed landing at all would be a blessing in his current situation. Men weren't given wings for a reason.

West, a little north. The Blades were hidden somewhere in the Druadach Mountains, probably in the Reach, maybe as far as High Rock, since the Dragonborn wanted to fly there. And he didn't half blame her; the Druadachs, and the entire damned Reach as a whole, was a huge deathtrap of canyons and avalanches and bears and Forsworn. The perfect place for someone to disappear in without a trace, either on purpose or from a tiny misstep on a weak cliff face.

They finally descended after hours of flying, through a thick cloud that moistened Ulfric's wind-chapped face with dew that was too close to freezing to be called soothing. And from around Odahviing's massive head, Ulfric saw the barest bit of an obviously Akaviri temple, it's distinct roof mimicking the sharp peaks of the mountains it was built into. He sighed with relief, adjusting his grip for what felt like the thousandth time, shifting his weight on his knees to relieve the pressure on one of them, hopefully for the last time. Only a minute or two more and he wouldn't have to worry about falling to his death again. Until the Dragonborn decided to fly to Solitude, or wherever else.

His grip tightened as the gentle descent jerked into a rapid turn, up, left, right, up. An arrow whizzed through Odahviing's wing, past Ulfric's head close enough that he could've grabbed it. Odahviing roared and pumped his wings, moving the scales Ulfric was clinging to, nearly crushing his fingers with the flex of muscles, skin, scales. The Dragonborn screeched ahead of him, words garbled by yelling below, by Odahviing's roars, by his blood pumping past his ears.

"Feim, zii gron!" The Dragonborn Shouted, standing up on Odahviing's neck. She threw herself from the rising dragon as if she was diving into a lake, and Ulfric wished he had time to ask what in Oblivion she thought she was doing. He looked behind him, seeing her tumble through the air to the temple below, barely missing Odahviing's spiked tail. A small crowd of people were below, growing smaller by the second as Odahviing flew higher and higher, sending another barrage of arrows up at them.

Odahviing howled as they found gaps between his scales. One hit Ulfric in the back with enough force he was sure it dented his armor. He held on, pressing himself down to Odahviing's back and prayed to every Divine to let him live just long enough to have the opportunity to tell the Dragonborn he told her so. Odahviing leveled out, Ulfric held on tighter, feeling the slight downturn in his path, hearing him curse in the ancient tongue of his kind. Circling down, down, until they glided to a stop on the stone courtyard.

Ulfric picked himself up, staying on Odahviing and checking his surroundings. The Dragonborn waved at him with a hand he could swear he could see through, a scowl already crossing her face. A handful of Blades in mismatched armor surrounded them, weapons almost lowered out of a guard, focused more on the Dragonborn than the dragon in the courtyard. The Dragonborn waved again, more violently this time, other hand moving to a hilt at her waist and Ulfric realized she was calling him over.

He climbed down from Odahviing, half sliding, half catching himself on sharp scale spikes, meeting eyes with the odd selection of a dozen Nords, Bretons, Imperials wielding Akaviri weapons, wearing fur, hide, steel armor, the odd piece of Elven or Orcish or ebony make here and there. He stumbled to his knees, catching himself on the heels of his hands, legs weak from staying in the same position for hours, stomach churning like he was a young sailor in his first storm.

Standing was a chore, and Odahviing's low growl echoed in his chest, heavier with every shaky step he tried to mask as he moved towards the Dragonborn. And it suddenly hit him that she was speaking, her mouth moving in a flurry as she gesticulated with the hand not threatening to draw a sword, directed at the older Breton woman raging at her, at Odahviing, an Akaviri sword held steady in both hands. Their words melded together with the fading echo of the wind swirling inside his head.

"…no idea…dragons are plotting…millions have been murdered by them and…", the woman yelled, her speaking over and in tandem with the Dragonborn.

"…done playing Blademaster! You complete…revenge for a faction you barely even…," The Dragonborn shouted right back, Ulfric's hearing half returning, her chest heaving with every word. "…before I make you!"

"…Thalmor have resurrected them, damn the Elder Scrolls, and you lead one of their dragons here?"

"It was my blood that got you here in the first place, Delphine! The Thalmor have nothing to do with this. I'm making changes around here, and you're either moving out of my way on your own or I'll slay you like I did Alduin!" That sent ripples through the assembled Blades, catching a pair running out of the Temple in their tracks. Weapons faltered, grips relaxed and tensed up again, waiting. Ulfric stopped and took a defensive stance just beyond where Odahviing could lean forwards and swallow him, just behind the Dragonborn.

"You bitch!" Delphine spit at the Dragonborn's feet. "Blades, slay the dragon!" And the Blades raised weapons to the ready, aiming them at Odahviing, but not one moved to attack with the vicious looking swords half of them held, or to release a dripping arrow.

Odahviing laughed behind him, snorting with heavy warm breath. "Daar los sahrot Bruniikke? Koraavi mul kal dii Dovahkriid nikriin faas." (These are the remnants of the mighty Dragonguard? Look how the descendants of my slayers cower in fear.) Still, he slowly backed up until his legs were out of the courtyard, over the edge of the cliff, the rest of his massive body resting just off the stones. Ulfric looked around, noticing more than just fear in the eyes of the Blades. Fear, confusion, uncertainty, not a single one of them wanted to be the first to make the next move.

A knot tied in his stomach--Torygg's personal guard had the same look when he accepted his final duel, drew his sword only to drop it with cold hands after barely getting the chance to swing. Ulfric bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

"The dragon serves me," the Dragonborn responded all too breathlessly, her swords halfway out of their sheathes. "Take note; you're not fit to be Grandmaster. Blades, it's about time we went back to our roots as the Dragonguard, followers of the Dragonborn. 'We were not hunting dragons, we were searching for a Dragonborn.'" She finished drawing her swords and turned to address the Blades. Delphine--the Grandmaster of the Blades--twitched, Ulfric watched her stare down the Dragonborn's back, her eyes fixated on the staff secured there. "Who among you is tired of the endless hunts? How many siblings in arms have fallen needlessly? I offer a more noble option, one for the Blades to return to the nobility of the era of Dragonborn Emperors, Reman and Septim."

Delphine lunged, taking her sword in both hands. Ulfric's body reacted before his mind, his shoulder slammed into the Dragonborn. She hit the ground with a soft thud of all flesh and robes, no armor. And Delphine's sword cut into his simple cloak, slicing wool, catching his left bracer with a teeth-grating cling as he guarded his abdomen against her.

Ulfric drew his sword, meeting Delphine's wild, bright, furious blue eyes below him. A yell, powerful wings, strong wind came from behind him, a harsh laugh from the Dragonborn beside him as she pulled herself up to stand with a wince of pain. Delphine pulled back, daring a glance up at Odahviing, flying away with a triumphant Shout, "Wuld Nah Kest!" and all sounds ceased.

It was silent for one second, two breaths, three heartbeats, some distant eagle cried. "You let him get away," Delphine stated flatly. She pulled her sword back with too much speed, too much vigor, thrusting it towards Ulfric like it was a dagger and not a three-foot long blade. He twisted out of the way, letting it pierce the space he'd just been standing, wondering if the dark metal could stab through the chinks in his armor like the Akaviri--like the Dragonguard weapons of legend.

He caught his sword underneath hers, catching the strange curved blade on his. Ulfric stepped in far too close to parry the blade, his reach more than made up for the difference. And that mistake cost him; Delphine drew a dagger with her off hand and swiped down low towards his thighs, catching on the metal of his cuisses and then the leather of his pants, slicing through to cut skin.

The wound on his left thigh stung, then throbbed, then burned, even through the adrenaline of battle as the blade was angled, serrated just so to separate skin from muscle. Ulfric cried out in pain, barely catching her next sword swing before it crashed down on his shoulder guard, bouncing on his blade but still nicking his plate armor, deflecting uselessly. He stepped back, seeing the Dragonborn finally standing and retrieving her swords out of the corner of his eye.

Delphine ducked under his sword easily; she was too short for him to fight without stooping down to meet her aggressive bend towards his legs; she could see he couldn't easily guard low, not that it usually mattered, except against a Breton woman, already short for her race. The way she ducked almost reminded her of Aela in the wrestling pits, but Delphine was less feral in her attacks, more…desperate. A style common in the Reach, a frenzy of improvised weapons, tiny Bretons dodging and weaving to make up for lackluster strength. Ulfric let her sword slide against his chest plate as he moved to sweep her feet out from under her with his sword. She caught herself on her arm, grip still tightened around her weapons, already twisting herself to leap back up.

Ulfric braced himself to dodge or return an attack, but Delphine turned to her left at the last second, crossing her arms over her to catch an attack from the Dragonborn, slicing down from overhead with one sword. The Dragonborn followed with a high swipe from her second sword, obviously aiming for Delphine's neck, connecting with a quick-raised leather bracer. She pulled back, blood pouring from a gash in Delphine's bracer in short spurts.

The Dragonborn's breaths were quick and heavy, sweat beading on her face and catching on the neck of her College robes. Delphine took a guard, backing up a jump and a step, eyeing between the two of them as Ulfric raised his sword surely where the Dragonborn's arms just barely trembled. "Paarthurnax's teachings at work, eh, Graybeard?" Delphine sneered at him. She turned to the Dragonborn, "Some bullshit you fed Uthgerd."

"You'll never get the vengeance you crave," the Dragonborn huffed back. "Not without me." The Blades had all but forgotten the weapons they held, staring wordlessly at the brawl, watching with chewed lips, clenched fists.

"I'll never work with you rot of a Thalmor." Delphine stared at him, spat at him--was she calling him a Thalmor, of all things?--raised her blades and lunged at him. Ulfric countered, Delphine stumbling, deflecting his attack and moving in close, her eyes fixed on the gaps in his armor plates. She dodged just out of reach as he grasped for her with his free hand, his fingers catching air, almost scraping a buckle along her arm.

The Dragonborn stepped behind her, bringing her swords across too slow to be called a proper attack; her blades missed Delphine, her body jolting forwards to stab hard towards Ulfric. He prayed her attack would miss anything important, and brought down his sword. He let her momentum carry her towards him, connecting with his torso, glancing off, Ulfric's own sword missing his target of the space between her neck and collarbone. Instead, his blade caught beyond her pauldron, sliding down inside her rerebrace.

Flesh split along her arm down to her elbow, likely deep to the bone, Ulfric's sword stuck inside Delphine's armor, hilt standing beside her face like a flagpole. He stumbled back as Delphine dropped her sword and cringed in pain, mouth open not with a scream, but a whimpering groan that made more than one Blade shiver. The Dragonborn's swords crept their way around her neck, pressing just hard enough that twin trickles of blood formed.

"I'll offer mercy," the Dragonborn said. Delphine plunged her dagger behind her, burying it in the Dragonborn's stomach.  She wailed, catching the noise in her throat and choking on it briefly, slicing her swords across Delphine's neck and letting the woman collapse in a gurgling, dying heap.

Chapter Text

"Right, then," the Dragonborn wheezed. She sheathed a sword and brought her hand to hold the hilt of the dagger in her abdomen steady. "Where's Esbern?"

"He's a healer?" Ulfric asked. The enchantments on the Dragonborn's robes flickered around the dagger and died like a candle out of wax, replaced with blooming red over the dull grey and brown fabric. What useless enchantments mages wore, to allow that small dagger to slice through to the hilt.

She shivered and repeated, "Where's Esbern?" The Blades in the courtyard mostly stared at the scene, a few hurrying over to examine it closer, to surround the Dragonborn and inspect Delphine's stilling body, rasping breaths coming in shallow and more of a last reflex than any proof of survival. Ulfric stumbled back, an easy few steps turning to a near fall as his wounded leg burned with every movement on uneven stones. "Go get Esbern!"

"Nine, Nariilu, what did you just do?" A thickly built Nord woman offered a hunched shoulder to the Dragonborn, the other arm holding a greatsword as tall as Delphine had been. The Dragonborn shuddered and half-doubled over, and the woman dropped the sword with an echoing clatter to bring her free hand to hold her chest still. Ulfric almost reached to grab the blade, but it fell away from him.

A Redguard woman moved in, sheathing her sword and taking off her helmet in a smooth, practiced motion, kneeling beside Delphine. She clicked her tongue and closed the woman's eyes, stepping out of the way before the pool of blood from Delphine's neck hit her boots. "Do you think the poison will hurt her? Since she's got dragon blood?" The two Blades stared at each other for a half second. "Someone go get Illia." A Blade covered under armor--Akaviri helmet, Orcish plate mail--nodded and jogged towards the open Temple entrance. She turned to face the small crowd of idling Blades, all clutching weapons. Unsure if the battle was over, if an arrow would come streaking through the skies to strike them down, if the Dragonborn's sword would turn on them next. "And don't bring Esbern here!"

"Poison?" Ulfric asked, the wound on his leg suddenly burning more than it should.

"Don't you get Illia!" The Dragonborn called after the Blade, softly groaning as they disappeared into the Temple. The others in the courtyard idled closer, staring at the scene with wide eyes darting from Delphine's corpse--their Grandmaster--to the three women huddled together to him, grateful to be hidden behind Ebony.

"Calm yourself; it only works on dragons," the Redguard woman said without looking at him, drawing a blue scarf from her waist and balling it up in her hands, a quick jerk of her chin towards the corpse. Delphine twitched once in death, one glassy eye flew open. Nobody seemed to notice the way she stared at him.

"Oh, I've survived worse, you two," the Dragonborn said, still panting. She suddenly ripped the dagger from herself, a choking cry of pain escaping her lips. The Nord woman grabbed her wrist an instant too late, changing her aim to press down on the wound. Blood dripped from her hem. The Redguard woman cursed and thrust the scarf towards her stomach.

"I was there to watch your foolish back," the Nord woman muttered, "and keep you from doing things like that. Sit down."

"Did you give Delphine my message, Uthgerd?" The Dragonborn picked up one foot and tried to walk away; the Nord woman's grip was too strong and she didn't move an inch. Uthgerd, Ulfric figured. He barely recalled seeing her briefly in Whiterun.

"I'll tell you if you sit down," Uthgerd repeated. She pressed her hand over the Redguard woman's, applying more pressure to the wound. "I've got that, Salma."

The Dragonborn didn't sit. "I'm fine."

"Sit down anyways," Salma said, standing to address the courtyard. "Hadran, Anette, take Delphine to the Crypt. The rest of you, go about your day. These…developments don't change anything." She paused and stared off in the sky where Odahviing had disappeared into the mountains. "Go! You all look lost. No reason to be out here in this weather. Gather your thoughts before dinner."

The sky was clear, but most of the Blades seemed to understand and began to shuffle inside, those that didn't were dragged along by others. Hadran and Anette carried Delphine's corpse, both of them obviously inexperienced with hauling dead weight. Ulfric watched a blood trail drip along their path, unmistakable sounds of whispered gossip carried along the wind as the Blades cleared the courtyard.

"Did you tell her or not?" The Dragonborn shivered, doubling over with a hiss, choking out, "Did you?"

"Yes! Yes, I gave her your message!" Uthgerd answered, shifting her weight to grab her under her shoulders, catching her and trying to coax her down. "Just sit."

"Then she knew what was coming," the Dragonborn said, straightening herself. "She made her choice." She pulled her staff out from behind her and leaned heavily on it, pushing into Uthgerd's support, the bloodstained scarf on her stomach. Salma handed her a potion, tipping it back with a free hand and taking a sip. She grimaced and shook her head, taking a longer drink before pulling back and coughing. "That is vile. Stormcloak, try this. It'll make your leg feel like nothing in comparison to the burning in your stomach."

And with that, attention from the two Blades stressing over the Dragonborn moved from her to him. Eyes moved up and down, Salma's deep brown eyes settling on his wounded leg. "Ulfric Stormcloak, huh?" She chuckled, a high, even laugh. "You've got to meet the bear."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think you'd be the one to threaten him," the Dragonborn muttered, her grip white-knuckled around the staff.

"It wasn't a threat," Salma replied. She gently tossed him a second vial of the potion. "A Wood Elf joined up a few months back. Brought a bear with him, and nobody can pronounce its real name."

"So you named it after me," Ulfric finished. He took a sip of the potion and nearly gagged. Vile was an understatement, but he felt the sting around his wound lessen. Salma shrugged. He bit his tongue against demanding a reason; he didn't know if it would be worse if the nickname was an insult or compliment.

"Should've just called it 'bear'," the Dragonborn said. Her brow glistened with sweat. "Oh, you weren't joking about the poison! What does it do?" She gasped. "Other than--gods, are you feeling this?"

No, out of all the times Ulfric had been stabbed in his life, this was one of the least painful ones. The glancing blow was deflected by leather, the blade sharp enough to leave a clean-feeling gash. And, as nauseating as the potion tasted, it worked quickly against the pain, already down to a distant throb. He shook his head. "She barely grazed me."

"Barely grazed by Mara's Curse, more like, by the stain on your pants," Uthgerd muttered, pressing down harder on the Dragonborn's wound when her laugh quickly turned into a biting cry. "Shut up, it wasn't that funny."

"Compared to being stabbed?" She finished the potion. "It was side-splitting."

A grim Imperial woman in simple purple robes hurried out of the Temple, her shoulders hunching as she sped up towards the Dragonborn. She-Illia, Ulfric figured--rubbed her hands together as she walked, glowing golden light building around them with each movement. "Move." A simple command, and the women made way for her, Uthgerd pulling away the scarf, revealing bloodsoaked robes.

She knelt down in front of the Dragonborn, blocking Ulfric's view. "This is a simple wound. The potions  are enough to take care of it," Illia said.

"Well, yes, but the poison--" Salma said.

"The poison only affects dragons," Illia bit back, the glow intensifying. "You know this. I have more important things to do than this."

"She is a dragon!" Uthgerd snapped. "She's the Dragonborn."

Illia paused and sat back. "Oh. How much does it hurt?"

"Could you just go ahead and heal me?" The Dragonborn answered through gritted teeth. "It hurts about as much as a dagger in my stomach usually hurts."

Illia nodded and leaned forwards, her tongue clicking as she inspected the wound again. "Let's get her to the healing room," she said, wiping blood from her hands on a small cloth at her belt. Uthgerd nodded, taking most of the Dragonborn's weight off of her staff.

"What? No, no, you can heal a stab wound here," the Dragonborn protested. "Damn it, I'll close it myself."

"It is healed." Illia stood. "Can you walk?"

~

Respectful nods turned to whispers behind them, glares and stares in equal measure from Blades and ancient busts. Ulfric followed behind Illia and the Dragonborn, doing her best to not double over in pain, clutching her staff and barely giving more weight to Illia to hold with each step.

Ulfric followed more out of the sheer inability to decide what else he should do than out of obligation from the Dragonborn curtly mentioning that they were finally away from spies and could speak freely; the knowing glance she cast his way sent a chill down his spine with a reminder of her promise to explain 'things'--whatever 'things' were--later. Blades came and tossed water over the blood on the courtyard without waiting for him to step out of range of the splash, making it clear enough that he wasn't particularly wanted outside at the moment.

They passed through intricately carved stone tunnels out of a main chamber, each wall decorated with full-sized reliefs of fully armored Blades facing not-full-sized dragons. Ulfric realized each carving was made so he was able to get a good handle on the forms the Akaviri greatsword required to be used, with the warrior shown making only small movements from one image to the next. Then, after striking the small dragon, a bust or tablet with words in Akaviri separated one form from the next.

Illia pushed at a large stone door, it's stone carving was of a man on his knees with arms outstretched with what must've been Nirn above his head, an infant in one hand and a mess of Daedric symbols in his other. Reman, the Dragonborn ruler of the Second Empire. The Blade Tamer. Ulfric paused at the door to run a hand along impossibly intricate details; perfectly legible labels were wrapped delicately around potions at Reman's knees, and it looked as if his skirt should've swayed when the door opened.

Muffled conversation, a broken cry of pain, came from inside, centering at a grand firepit with carved stone beds along the circular walls. Most of them were stacked with crates, rolls of fabric, pots filled with thriving plants; only three beds were in any usable conditions with thin mattresses laid across them. Light pulsed from glowing mushrooms running up the walls to a neglected skylight high above, casting the place in a dusty orange-blue glow.

The Dragonborn sat leaning on one elbow on the bed closest to the door with Illia sitting beside her on a low stool, wiping a bloody knife on a cloth. The Imperial mage conjured silvery orbs in her palms before pressing them to the Dragonborn's wounds, all the while whispering spells under her breath. The Dragonborn gasped when Illia suddenly drew her hands back in a mimic of pulling a rope, a black and green dripping mass following Illia's spell. "Bowl," she suddenly commanded, staring at the swirling mass she'd pulled from the Dragonborn. Ulfric grabbed a pewter bowl from a stack on one of the beds.

He held it out for Illia to drop the orb into. It settled with a sickening plop, and a sour, rotting smell. Ulfric glanced up at the Dragonborn, and she frowned back at him, a bead of sweat dripping into her eyebrow. This had been removed from her body? "What is that?" Ulfric asked. Illia steadily returned to tending the Dragonborn's wound, pulling another, smaller glob of…something from her, ignoring his question.

She dropped it into the bowl, letting it splash and threaten to spill over the sides. "Dragon poison. An old recipe Esbern found. Dartwings, crushed soul gems, mouse hearts." Illia peered into the bowl. "It's bright orange, usually. Only turns this color after it…well, does whatever it's supposed to do to a dragon."

"Which is?" Illia shrugged in response.

"It hurts is what it does," the Dragonborn said. And it must've been excruciating for her to even admit it.

Ulfric's leg throbbed, despite knowing the potion would've more than healed the cut by now. "And on Nords?"

"It only works on dragons," Illia answered, jerking her chin at his wound. "Worst'll happen to you is a bit of anxiety, if anything. Nausea, perhaps." She pulled more beads of poison from the Dragonborn, finally letting the last drop fall into the bowl. She sat back and sighed, shaking out her fingers. "There."

"Thank you, Illia. I can handle the wound myself, if that's all the poison," the Dragonborn said. She moved a hand over her stomach, worming fingers through the slice in her robes.

"At least take a potion."

"Of course, but a little stab is well within my abilities," the Dragonborn cut off, a furrow in her brow, a muted golden glow from beneath her robes. "And if you could ask Esbern to pull tomes on the founding of the Blades, or the Dragonguard, if the records go back that far, I'd appreciate it. Tell him to expect me in the library…what time is it?"

"Nearly mid-afternoon," she answered.

"Oh, how time flies when you're flying," the Dragonborn laughed once at her own joke. Illia let a snort slip. "Ugh. I suppose tomorrow morning. Old man needs his sleep."

Illia nodded, wiping her hands on her robes and standing. "Consider it done. But, if you do need help with that wound, everyone here knows how to find me." She took the bowl from Ulfric, muttering at him, "Don't let her do anything stupid."

"Stop talking to Uthgerd," the Dragonborn scoffed, waving off Illia with her free hand until the stone door closed behind the mage. "Alright. So, two things."

"We just killed the Grandmaster of the Blades," Ulfric blurted, the adrenaline from flying halfway across Skyrim, from battle finally leaving his blood. He had no idea why the Dragonborn sliced through her neck, why the woman had tried to tackle the Dragonborn, why he jumped between them without even thinking. That was almost the worst of it, how he'd tackled her out of the way the same way he'd risked his own life to come between Vignar and…

Surely the Blade they killed--Grandmaster or not--was less dangerous than her. And, besides, the Dragonborn had her back turned, defenseless with no armor to guard her from poisoned sword and dagger.

The Dragonborn paused. "Delphine's paranoia is the reason we're here. She's--she was--utterly convinced that the dragons' return was the work of the Thalmor. Everything was the work of the Thalmor, to her."

"Is it not?" Ulfric replied. "For all we know, it could have been them that brought back Alduin."

"Alduin was Shouted outside of Time by the first Tongues. I saw it myself in the Elder Scroll."

Ulfric shrugged. "Something had to have brought him back into Time."

"Regardless," the Dragonborn winced and took her fingers away from her side, "Delphine decided that all dragons need to die. Even the loyal, nonviolent, helpful ones." She looked up at him. "Like Paarthurnax."

"Paarthurnax?" Ulfric almost laughed. To think she would consider Alduin's most fearsome ally anything other than cruel, the finality of his own name. He'd wondered a time or two where the dragon was hiding, the only dragon he could think of that was stronger than Odahviing. "Paarthurnax is likely the one brought Alduin back!"

"Paarthurnax and I fought Alduin together," she replied, wiping her own blood on dull robes, "before he fled into Sovngarde. It was actually his idea to capture Odahviing in Dragonsreach."

An awfully cruel fate, knowing that Numinex went absolutely mad within a few years of captivity. Paarthurnax wanted to take control of the dragons, to truly be the uncontested strongest, and he had to take out Alduin and Odahviing to do it. "So, Paarthurnax is dead," Ulfric stated, ignoring how she correlated him with nonviolence, of all things. She'd be his next target, if not, as Odahviing's new master.

"Paarthurnax is a devout follower of the Way of the Voice."

He waited a beat for her to laugh, to follow with a redaction and a quip that she couldn't believe the look on his face. Instead, she met his eyes and watched him go from disbelief to confusion.

"And," she continued, "he's recruited a cabal of dragons to the Way. Seems any dragon that doesn't want to serve me has put their lot in with him. That's the first thing."

"The Way of the Voice," Ulfric repeated.

"Yes."

He sat down hard in a chair. "Paarthurnax is following--"

"The Way of the Voice. He's a Graybeard." The Dragonborn paused. "The Graybeards…Master Arngeir might've mentioned their Grandmaster lives at the top of the Throat of the World?"

"No! It conveniently never came up in a decade!"

She shrugged, and Ulfric felt as if he had dropped in on a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear. He supposed he had. The Graybeards kept the identity of the true master of their order a secret for a reason. "They're not much for conversation."

"I was a Graybeard!"

"Was."

The word hit Ulfric like a knife. The Graybeards had been right to keep him in the dark; he'd left to fight a war, the antithesis of the Way of the Voice. To fight more than one war, ignoring their teachings and Shouting down his enemies. He…he couldn't blame them, not when he'd never made it past Initiate status, his prodigal progress condemned as festering arrogance rather than respect for the gods. He took a deep breath and let it out, automatically falling into the breathing pattern taught to him in High Hrothgar's thin air. "Why would a dragon follow the Way of the Voice?"

"Atonement," she answered. The Dragonborn looked genuinely surprised at how he was taking the fact that the monks who had taught him how to get into contact with the gifts of the gods, who shunned him as he left to fight losing war after losing war, had kept things from him. The same way they kept the more offensive Shouts from him--they certainly knew he would use them, the hot-headed boy he was. Is.

She continued, "Paarthurnax has decided that it's in a dragon's nature to…to dominate." She tripped over the word. "He says it's more effort to control himself than to control others. The Way is, well, his way of redeeming himself from his past."

Ulfric filled in the blanks of what the Dragonborn wouldn't say. That is why you want to be Empress, why you love to have the last word and hate others helping you, even if they're trying to keep you alive. You're a dragon, the strongest dragon, and domination, control is what your Soul is made of. And you don't want redemption, you never think you'll need it. "If the Greybeards accept them as their leader, I have nothing but respect for him." He watched her eyes widen; she'd expected him to take this poorly. And he would, later, when he had the time and mental stability to analyze how the Greybeards knew from day one that he was a flighty aggressive boy who would never follow the Way in anything other than outward appearances. To be a Graybeard as nothing more than a façade of tradition; what else of his culture was a farce? "Turning to benevolence when all he ever knew was cruelty takes a rare fortitude."

"Well, seeing as he and the Greybeards want to keep his existence a secret, I've told Uthgerd--she's the Nord woman who was in Whiterun, briefly, did you see her?, and she was out on the courtyard, with the greatsword--that most of Paarthurnax's deeds were fabrications by Alduin, embarrassed to have a brother with wings too weak to fly and too much compassion to senselessly murder," she said. "I didn't have to lie about how damned nice he is. He'll teach anyone to Shout, if they can make it up to him."

"If the Greybeards allow it." Ulfric bit his tongue.

The Dragonborn shrugged. "If I allow it. I can take you to meet him, if you want. We can fly there, or walk up the Seven-Thousand Steps the traditional way. I'll Shout away the storm for you--actually, I could teach you the Clear Skies Shout. Or another one."

"Do you even know how to teach a Shout? It's not natural for me," Ulfric replied. "It would take years of near-constant meditation for us both, synchronized in thought until I harmonize with your understanding of just one Word. And your understanding of Words of Power is different from mine; a dragon Soul and a mortal Soul don't Shout in the same way."

"On the other hand, it might be more efficient for me to teach, since I have an intrinsic understanding of the Thu'um rather than an acquired one. It might be worth a try, regardless. Anyways, that's the first thing, keeping Paarthurnax's true location and identity secret. I figured you'd want to know," the Dragonborn said. Ulfric wasn't sure what to make of the fact that she told him the maybe-truth, the hard-to-believe-but-somehow-made-everything-fit facts the Greybeards kept from him rather than the of-course-that-makes-perfect-sense lie she gave to the Blades. "She wanted me to kill him. She said the Greybeards were traitors for harboring a dragon, that they were being corrupted by Paarthurnax." She paused, looking up at him.

She wanted him to weigh in, to agree with her, or maybe with Delphine, tell her that the Greybeards should never have any dragon influence on their philosophy. But half their philosophy was reverence of the dragons' knowledge, their blessings from the gods to be able to use the Thu'um with such power, and the other half was focused on returning the Divines' blessings to them through meditation and silence and disuse of the Voice. Ulfric had always considered it a bit hypocritical to worship a gift they were never supposed to actually use as it was most effective.

The Dragonborn continued. "So I want to reform the Blades. I discussed it with Master Arngeir a bit, and you can imagine the ideas he had. He and I agreed that there's no reason to kill any dragons that don't pose a threat."

"You mean Odahviing, and any other dragon that does what you say."

She shrugged. "Well, yes. Delphine was paranoid before anything else. She spent most of her life in hiding, and the rest of it trying to destroy the Thalmor by herself," she said. "She obsessed over threats that weren't even there. One time I saw her kill a rabbit because she swore it's eyes flickered, and so it was enchanted by the Thalmor to spy on her."

"They can do that?"

"No, that's not how Illusion works. Illusion enhances what's already there," the Dragonborn explained, "like fear, courage, aggression; emotions only. I tried to tell her that the dragons were either revived by Alduin or in hiding for the past thousand years. That only made me more suspicious to her."

Most people weren't rushing to sympathize with dragons, Ulfric figured. And of course a Blade would hate the Thalmor almost as much as he did; once, the roads had been lined with heads of Blades who were lucky enough to get a swift death.

"Esbern is a lot more well-adjusted," she said. "He was a Lore-Keeper, the historian of Cloud Ruler Temple. He's the Blade that was hiding in the Ratway. I guess we'll be discussing things with him, unless you've been hiding a knack for necromancy this whole time."

"What, exactly, are your plans for the Blades?" Ulfric asked. He quickly added, "How long have you been planning this?"

"This this?" she pointed at the floor, "Or this this?" She gestured around to the entire room. Ulfric bit his tongue.  "The Blades have been a part of my plan since I found them, even more so once the Greybeards named me Ysmir after I returned the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the Jagged Crown, the Dragon Claws, was there a lost artifact she couldn't find?

"But this," the Dragonborn continued, "I knew I'd have to make changes with how Delphine believed the Blades should operate after she somehow found out about Paarthurnax and then ordered me to kill him. You know they withdrew from the Emperor's side after the Oblivion Crisis, right? For one, it's a certain level of legitimacy for me, both as Dragonborn and as Talos."

Ulfric shivered as she referred to herself as Talos. He shivered again when she didn't drop dead from drawing Talos' ire with false claims. "So, you want your own personal Blade bodyguards." It seemed rather mundane, compared to suddenly gaining control over a dragon army, mantling Talos.

"Well, I think there's a certain amount of nuance here," she explained. "Personally, I don't trust the Penitus Oculatus in the slightest. They certainly have to go. But bodyguards? I'm not sure I need bodyguards, not for a while, at least. I'd much rather the Blades serve as a Dragonguard around Skyrim. You see, I've started a few settlements--this isn't entirely relevant--"

"Lydia told me," Ulfric cut in, "about Lakestad and Windview. I figured they were more for economic holdings than political gains." A source of income outside of robbing crypts.

"Lakeview and Windstad. They are political, since I had to own property in half the Holds to become a Thane there." The Dragonborn sighed. "They won't turn a profit for years, decades maybe, for all the Septims I was charged for the land. But I haven't got any defenses for them except for my Housecarls and a few of the settlers are soldiers, and people might be a bit more fond of a Dragonguard defending them rather than, well, actual dragons. Or mercenaries. Officially, the Blades were destroyed in the Great War, and I say we keep it that way. It'll give us plausible deniability to recruit openly to the "Dragonguard", instead of taking whatever survivors of dragon attacks the Blades come across.

"I also hate the idea of the Blades more or less hiding in this Temple," she continued, "and there isn't much need for them to slay every dragon they come across, anymore. I'm sure there will be a few stragglers, but I'd rather risk a dragon than a person's life. The Dragonguard will start out small, in Lakeview, and, hopefully, be popular enough to spread throughout the Empire. And, eventually, to end the Thalmor."

'I want a loyal army with garrisons in every city.' Ulfric wondered if this was how Galmar felt when he first explained his grand, flawless plan to kick the Empire and Dominion out of Skyrim once and for all. "You already have the dragons. Why would you even risk the Blades?"

"Dragonguard. The Blades were slaughtered in the Great War," she clarified. "Do you think a dragon could do the work of a town guard? Or even that of a shieldband? The rebirth of the Dragonguard aligns with the rebirth of the Empire, the True Empire, as Akatosh intended, as well. But I wouldn't mean to risk them for much, since I have a dragon army. I don't mean to use the Dragonguard like a Legion. Not nearly enough of them, for one."

"But enough of them to do your bidding," Ulfric said. Bidding, he hated the word. Wuunferth always tossed it in with a chuckle when Ulfric asked for potions, enchanted weapons to distribute to his army, to identify a scroll the guard confiscated from the Grey Quarter, the impossibly old man's idea of a joke added on to an otherwise stiff agreement.

She nodded. "The last time I was here, it was months ago. Before I even found the Elder Scroll. So, about a year ago? Anyways, there were only five Blades recruits, and now--well, you saw how many were in the courtyard. I'm sure there's more than that; they go around hunting dragons, mostly in the Reach. So, yes, I imagine more will join once the Dragonguard spreads beyond this damned mountain."

"And what if they don't accept your ideas, reforms?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Well, you just killed their Grandmaster, for one."

Her lips thinned, and, to Ulfric's swell of pride, she paused a second too long before responding. "She wasn't fit to be Grandmaster in the slightest!" She took a sharp breath. "She wouldn't've even gotten into her precious Sky Haven Temple if it weren't for me. That bitch had no idea what I've done for her. Oh, damn." The color drained from her face.

"What is it?" Ulfric asked. "The poison?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Really, this time," the Dragonborn said. "But…but I didn't mean to keep this from you. I try not to think about it--I don't look back on it fondly, I honestly forgot I did it? Or try to forget. It was a bad situation that turned out…alright in the end, but--"

"What is it?"

"The first time I was in Markarth, I was framed for murder." She paused. "And Talos worship. I was arrested in the Shrine. Framed! Framed, for the murder, that is. I didn't kill anyone, not in the criminal sense, at least."

"You think I'd have an issue with you being framed?" Ulfric asked. Like they hadn't both been framed for better and worse than murder. Like they both hadn't committed treason. Like she hadn't just killed a woman ten minutes prior.

"It's more about why I was framed and what happened in Cidhna Mine. I went there to investigate the sudden death of an Imperial spy on orders from General Tullius. Long, complex story short, the spy had been killed by a Forsworn because she was getting close to figuring out that the Silverbloods were paying off Madanach to run the Forsworn from the Mine. All Madanach had to do was keep the Forsworn from bothering the Silverbloods' business."

"Madanach? He was executed twenty-five years ago! I personally turned him over to Igmund."

"And Jarl Igmund turned him over to the Silverbloods."

And the Silverbloods put him in Cidhna Mine, a horrible place with a horrible reputation of having petty thieves die from backbreaking labor in mere days. Better than an execution. Much more befitting a fool who would call Daedra worshipping and murder 'liberation'. "Where he rots."

"Where he commanded the Forsworn on the payroll of the Silverbloods."

Ulfric scoffed. Few were hurt more in the Forsworn Rebellion than the Silverbloods. He'd cut down many flayed corpses of their cousins and allies on his campaign, the lucky ones held up by nooses, others reanimated by their hags. "Ridiculous."

"You said the same thing about Maven Blackbriar," the Dragonborn blinked, her face steeled and still pale. Ulfric frowned and sat back, letting her keep telling her story. He liked it less and less with every word. "Anyways, the Forsworn tried to have me killed, the Silverbloods tried to have me killed, the Guard had me arrested for meddling with getting their cut of the money, the Thalmor Justiciar in the city added on a second life sentence for getting arrested in the Talos Shrine, it was all a very messy situation." She held up her hands almost apologetically, like she was embarrassed for putting salt in a pie instead of sugar. "But to get to the point, after…after I was…in Cidhna Mine, I met Madanach."

"You're here to kill me for him," Ulfric said, standing and drawing his sword. For no reason, because if that were true, he'd be dead a hundred times over. But, more importantly, Igmund was proud that few survived to serve their entire sentence in the Mine, and here she was, walking free after two life sentences.

"What? No, no, no, what would that help?" She genuinely scrambled for words, a bit of color back in her face, and Ulfric felt ridiculous. He sheathed his sword with as much dignity as he could muster; the Dragonborn relaxed a bit back into her cot, biting her lip. She let her hands drift to the belt holding her sword sheathes, working the buckle free. She placed her swords on the table. "But have you figured it out yet? How I escaped?"

Ulfric stared at her sheathes. Murdering half the Markarth Guard was the more agreeable method swirling through his mind, the other--

"How we escaped?"

Ulfric fumed, stood up, picked another bowl from the supply table, threw it hard enough against the wall that a chunk of stone flew. "You let Madanach go? Do you have any idea what he's done to Skyrim? Thousands slaughtered for the crime of having Nord blood in their veins, honest farmers and miners turned to slaves and servants of the Witchmen!" He ranted, and the Dragonborn pressed her lips together and looked off to a point somewhere on the floor. "The Forsworn cut children open for their still-beating hearts."

She frowned. "I'm not sure if that's--look. There were about thirty powerful Forsworn in Cidhna Mine, and I was the only one with enchantments on my chains, the only one without a blade. No magic, no weapons, nothing! Madanach escaped, and was grateful that I revealed the Silverbloods' betrayal to him. He let me follow along down a tunnel they'd been mining out for twenty years. So, yes, Madanach is out there. But that's beside the point."

"How is that beside the point?"

"It's impossible to get to Sky Haven Temple except through Karthspire!" The Dragonborn argued. "Do you have any idea how many Forsworn live down there? We never could've made it here if it weren't for Madanach's blessing."

"What in here could be so important that you'd ally yourself with monsters?" Ulfric scoffed and chucked another bowl. "Some dusty carvings?" He tasted blood in his mouth as a carving lost his head. He bit harder against his cheek, tongue, grimacing against the sharp taste, horrible words of the Dragonborn.

"Dammit, Alduin's Wall is here, about my Prophecy and how to defeat him. Did you want me to go chasing after Alduin with no idea if he could even die?" She winced as the destroyed carving scraped along the floor. "Stop that."

He threw another, savoring the sound of pewter against stone against stone.

"This is stupid. You're a politician. You should know--"

"I was a politician."

The Dragonborn bit her cheek. "And you will be again, if you quit acting like…this! How many difficult alliances have you made in your life? I just needed to get passage into this Temple. He'll die, the Forsworn will die, as soon as they’ve moved beyond Sky Haven. I've killed my fair share of Forsworn Cultists, too, if that makes you feel any better."

Ulfric frowned. "You've allied the Blades--"

"Dragonguard."

"--with the Forsworn, no matter how small that alliance is, it still exists," Ulfric spat. "You can say you had to all you want--"

"I did, Stormcloak. By the Nine, I did 'have to'!" the Dragonborn spat back, rising to stand. "You and an entire army couldn't break through Karthspire's defenses! I had myself and six others. An opportunity arose and I took it."

"What did Madanach get in return?"

"From me? Nothing," she said. "All I did for Madanach was tell him how the Silverbloods betrayed him. That's it. He was planning his escape for the coming weeks, regardless of if I'd ended up in that hell or not. I don't even know where he is now, but the Forsworn in Karthspire know not to attack any Blade--Dragonguard that passes through."

Ulfric scoffed. "Madanach doesn't grant requests in exchange for carrying messages. No, he's notorious for killing messengers, even his own, sacrificing them to whatever Daedra he cares to.

"Maybe he didn't twenty years ago." She placed her hands firmly on her waist. "But now? He's old. He won't last long, and the Forsworn will collapse into a dozen tribes once their leader is dead."

"You didn't want to make a martyr out of him," Ulfric hissed.

The Dragonborn had the gall to roll her eyes. "No, Stormcloak, I would've gladly made a martyr of Madanach. But when you're defenseless and surrounded by dozens of people with weapons, magic?" She thrust a finger at him, stepping towards him, each word just shy of anger. "Don't try and say you wouldn't've done your damnedest to live another day."

"If it meant compromising all that I stood for? I'd sooner fall upon my blade."

"I didn't compromise shit." Step. "I didn't even have a choice!" Another step. "Perhaps I don't have the history with him that you do, but I wasn't exactly pleased with the circumstances I made my little 'alliance' in. And that 'alliance' is in a position where I can end it, alright?" A third step, a finger poking into his chest plate as she glared up at him, a gentle chill radiating from where she pressed on his armor. "So, do you want to kill Madanach? Or, we could just let Odahviing eat him; I do not care in the slightest."

"I'd rather kill Igmund for keeping that witch alive," Ulfric admitted. That rot of a boy had betrayed his trust, his own father's legacy and vengeance, for…for what? For the Silverbloods? He had long known Igmund was a milkdrinker who only looked out for his own slimy ass, but the Silverbloods were to be put in power when his armies conquered the Reach again. The Silverbloods, who put Madanach in Cidhna Mine, a horrible place with a horrible reputation of having petty thieves die from backbreaking labor in mere days, a sentence arguably more appropriate than an execution in its own way. The Silverbloods, who, if the Dragonborn spoke truthfully, let Madanach rule the Forsworn, all while likely providing him all the wine and cakes he could ask for.

And the Reach was such a swill of a Hold, the only Hold other than Hjaalmarch that openly accepted a Thalmor Justiciar, the Hold that had arrested him with a shrug and such nonchalance after he half-liberated it, the Hold that was such a fortress of secrecy he could never get any reliable intel, barely a letter in and out; Ulfric could easily accept that it was as corrupt as she claimed. And her discomfort with the topic, this wasn't like when she discussed her own treason, no. Her tone was more akin to when she gave him his Thalmor Dossier, all unpleasant memories met with firm resolve. If he'd met her unease then like he was now, he'd have accused her of forging the entire book.

"Then we can kill him, too," she replied. "Never liked him. Truth be told, I hate Markarth. We should make an example out of the entire Hold. Demonstrate the dragons' power by wiping out the Forsworn." She paused, face softening, cold pressure dissipating from his chest plate. "The 'alliance' with them was just to secure passage into the Temple. That's it. I swear on my life, and even at the time I said that we'd clear Karthspire as soon as we could--you can ask Esbern or Uthgerd, or even Lydia about that. I told you this in pursuit of full transparency. If we hadn't flown here, I would've told you as soon as we were away from the Thalmor's prying ears."

"Fine. Let's kill them," Ulfric bit. "All the Forsworn, all their camps, before you drag me to Solitude to die." The Dragonborn bit down on a smile. He held up a hand and took a step back; she was too close, where she could just reach out a hand and touch him again--some spells required touch, right? "And, now that we're away from 'prying ears', we need to discuss everything else. Everything."

Chapter Text

4E203 SS 12

My Favorite Neighbor,

Go to the Temple and make an offering; I am returned! The tale is far too long to enclose here and my hands are tired from the ordeal, so I will keep this as brief as I can. I shall return with ample time to assist with your wedding preparations. Hopefully we will meet before the end of Second Seed. The method of my return will be on a dragon called Odahviing, a large red dragon with white wings. I tell you this now to prepare your heart for the sight-Odahviing is a terror to behold, but I hold him as a loyal ally now. This is the ancient way of the dragons, who default to serving the strongest of their kind.

I am now the strongest dragon by means of defeating their previous tyrant, Alduin. Related, the world will not end with any hurry. Please pass along the word to Jarl Elisif and the guard that this dragon is likely carrying me into the city. It's far more comfortable and quicker than horseback. The views from the sky are enchanting! Should you and Asgeir desire fast and beautiful travel to Nibenay after the wedding, I can wholeheartedly recommend a flight.

Another word to pass along to our fair Jarl; I do travel with Ulfric Stormcloak. (Dispel any rumors you hear-I am  explicitly  denying any familiarity beyond what is typical of master and mercenary.) It may ease her heart to know I hold him in my service under the Old Laws as I defeated him in a traditional duel (or, it may not do any good to mention him and the Old Laws and duels in the same conversation) and he has expressed exceptional regret for his past actions. The Nords find this form of service to be dishonorable to the highest degree; he is nothing to his former supporters but a shame. Had I executed him during the siege of Windhelm, he would have been made a martyr as much as the great High King Torygg, and I would never disrespect his life and legacy in such a way.

I do not expect Jarl Elisif to take this news well, but she should hear of it before we arrive in her city. Remind her that if Ulfric is to die by her order, she herself continues the cycle of violence entrenched in the 'Ways of Nords' that Ulfric used to murder the High King. This should be a time to heal old wounds between East and West, Skyrim and the Empire. Further, I am of the personal opinion that wrongdoings should be atoned for, and he has already assisted me with the slaying of Alduin. I trust you will discuss this matter with far more grace than I could.

Long live the Empire

Nariilu Therel

Vittoria let out a shaky breath reading Nariilu's letter over again, taking in the plain hand of her friend. She was alive, the war was over, Alduin was dead, which, according to the bards at the College, meant that Nirn wasn't in danger of being swallowed whole, or whatever catastrophe was supposed to occur. Then again, the bards had a way of embellishing even the smallest of details-Elisif's hair was far closer to shining copper than the silken gold they sang of.

And Nariilu had charged her with calming Elisif's nerves around Ulfric, as if she hadn't been trying to for the past year. Vittoria swore up and down to the girl that inviting him and other high-ranking Stormcloaks to her wedding would end the war sooner than General Tullius could. And it would honor Torygg's legacy; he was the one who let Ulfric through the city gates, after all, in pursuit of peace. Elisif wasn't fond of that last point, but the wound of her husband's unfortunate passing was still fresh, even three years later.

Word of the end of the war left Elisif withdrawn and Vittoria hated to lead their conversations. She supposed they would have something in common, being of similar age and birthright, but Elisif had only known a life of luxury, fine fabrics and perfect manners, where Vittoria herself had been trained from youth to either take over the East Empire Company or the Empire itself. Elisif was a lady of the court, a good dancer, excellent singer, perfect beauty-absolutely no grit to her. No heart, little brain; her foolish family had gotten her by to the Skyrim throne on looks and graces and kindness alone.

She didn't even seem concerned with the finances of her own Hold; Vittoria felt she knew more of the budget than the Jarl or her Steward. Well, it may have had something to do with the bustling business the East Empire Company brought to Solitude's ports, especially with Windhelm's docks frozen over half the year. The embargo was only beginning to lift, the first ships beginning to bring only the barest essentials to the city before they proved themselves past that little traitorous spell.

Not that Elisif cared in the slightest when she informed her that the docks would finally have room for ships, no more merchant vessels waiting for a spare space and dockhand to unload their goods, more efficiency, more time for guards to inspect for any drugs, blasphemous pamphlets, diseased livestock and sailors-less overworked employees strung out on Hist Sap or Skooma or throwing themselves off a rocky cliff.

No, she barely perked up when Vittoria told her about the upcoming shipments of fine fabrics from High Rock, which would've been a nice development from her previous shallow interests, but…Vittoria couldn't place this new subdued mood of Elisif's. She folded Nariilu's letter and slipped it into her silken waistpocket, another fashion development Elisif would've been fawning over four years ago-the new preferred silhouette was moving away from finely embroidered pouches on sashes and belts to a sleek figure symmetrically padded with all sorts of hidden compartments.

And the Jarl's court was so bland nowadays to match her mood. The Thanes fought amongst themselves for reasons Vittoria couldn't care about; a weaver had left one town for the other so obviously you owe me this many bolts, the snowmelt was late this year so it's your fault my farm is below quota. It was as if they were economic cornerstones in the region, like the farms they squabbled over supplied more than a few hundred bushels a year each. It was so depressing to think they had any sway beyond the walls of the Blue Palace! She almost longed for the petty gossip of who was wearing what shade of green to senate-at least the politicians knew that it was nothing more than talk.

So when she strode into the drawing chambers of the Blue Palace, Vittoria was already dreading conversing with Elisif. Letter after letter to General Tullius, to Titus had gone unanswered-yes, she'd be a fantastic puppet, but gods would it be easy for anyone to take advantage of her. Torygg had been strong in his convictions, a man who knew what he wanted, even if he had a soft spot for helpless pretty things and the lowest of society. Elisif had to step up if she wanted to keep her throne-if she wanted the Empire to make more than a figurehead of a grieving widow out of her. Vittoria didn't think she'd like the alternative.

Vittoria lounged on one of the couches in front of the hearth, tilted just so its occupants could converse with anyone in the drawing room with barely a head tilt, especially those on the couch opposite. She'd been considering spouses for Elisif for years now, ranging from Erikur, who at least understood the value of hardline business and was already running the businesses in Haafingar Nariilu wasn't, to one of the Senators in the Imperial City who could bring the other Senators to stop ignoring Skyrim. But ever since she and Nariilu had joked about it over a bit too much brandy and wine, she couldn't shake the thought that, just maybe, possibly, Ulfric Stormcloak was the best match.

She sighed. Vittoria had always figured her marriage would be political, an alliance forged, perhaps with some Aldmeri Dominion Ambassador to at least fake some sort of longstanding amicability between their Empires, fake that they didn't entirely loathe Men. She was lucky enough to find a match in Asgeir that was beneficial to her heart and her position, just as Elisif had once found with Torygg. And Elisif was still mourning three years later. Vittoria found herself understanding more and more as her wedding date grew closer; it was torture even considering that she may outlive Asgeir, much less watch him get run through in some farce of a duel. By the man that would-politically, of course-be her best choice for second spouse.

But Vittoria knew that her birthright came with certain responsibilities, and she was more than willing to ignore whatever her heart craved for the good of the millions that she might one day be responsible for. Before any of that could be discussed, Vittoria had to convince the poor girl to not act out in anger now that Ulfric was coming to her city soon enough.

She rose as Elisif entered the room, wearing a golden gown and red jeweled overdress, a tight sash embroidered with Solitude's wolf emblem cinching her waist and keeping the overdress tucked too neatly. "Hello, dear Elisif," Vittoria said. Elisif met her with a nod and a soft smile as the two clasped forearms in the greeting of two near-equals, rather than the kneeling greeting the rest of the Court had to submit to. Stewards hurried in, laying trays of bite-sized pastries and cut fruits on tables within easy reach of where the two relaxed on the couches. "Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice."

"You're not normally so urgent, Vittoria," Elisif replied easily, a grim shadow behind her pleasantly bright face. Vittoria almost laughed, but Elisif wasn't making a joke. If her grand Jarlship would walk down to the docks, take a look at the East Empire Company's ledgers for once, she'd know just how near constantly Vittoria was urgent. "Rescheduling our teas isn't like you."

"Well," Vittoria waved away her concern and the steward about to overpour her tea simultaneously, "A merchant vessel from Valenwood is scheduled to come in during our normal time. I want to be there to check the cargo myself, and speak with the captain about the journey." She had been planning to skip their tea for it. "I'm so glad we were able to still meet and chat."

"Mm."

There was no easy way to bring up the topic she wanted, the topic Nariilu had tasked to her, so instead Vittoria launched into a lighthearted discussion about her new dress, straight from the finest weavers and seamstresses in the Imperial City. Elisif's eyes didn't brighten, not even as Vittoria stood and twirled like she'd seen the Jarl do in so many of their teas years ago. Boring, broken little girl; an ornament that fell off the shelf. She couldn't even discuss her wedding with her, lest Elisif start crying or retreat to her personal chambers for days on end, leaving her and the Thanes to fend for themselves-more than usual. Vittoria sat back down and took a long sip of tea.

"I've received word from the Thane Nariilu that she will return within the month," Vittoria finally said. Elisif shifted, noticing how Vittoria's tone moved to a more serious one she usually saved for her own office or, on exceptionally rare occasions, the throne room. She continued, "I hear that we no longer need fear Helgen's fate-Alduin is dead."

"Alduin is dead, the Stormcloaks are dead, what a fine Thane she's turned out to be," Elisif replied with practiced silk in her voice. A lift of her teacup, not quite swift enough to cover the soft frown at the corner of her mouth. "How delightful it will be to have my court back in full."

"Yes, a fine audience to have when you receive Ulfric Stormcloak."

Elisif choked, red rising to her face when she cleared her throat. "What?"

"Oh, you've heard in your own court," Vittoria continued, "that Nariilu took his life as a spoil of war during the Siege of Windhelm. Your messengers weren't just reporting on rumors, Elisif, she's found a companion in Ulfric. A wonderful show of remorse from him, if you ask me, that he's learned to cooperate with the Empire rather than rage against it."

"War or not, he's still an enemy of Solitude. My enemy. I won't have him in my palace, not while his heart beats!" She was beautiful even when her face twisted in anger, sadness, tears welling on her lashes and hanging there, waiting for permission to slide down at the most polite moment. "Much less…the companion of my own Thane."

Vittoria sipped to the dregs of her tea, setting it down and twisting it to let the handle face away from her. The steward who stepped forward to refill her cup faded back into the shadows of the wall. "He was at war with the Empire, not Solitude. I'd suggest you complain now, rather than when he arrives."

"He will hang for what he's done!" Elisif's tears fell, gently falling down her cheeks, dripping into her teacup. "I will not-"

"You," Vittoria cut her off, a choke replacing the words on the girl's lips, "will not interfere with your Thane's actions-as a Legate in the Imperial Legion. I won't have you spark another rebellion because you can't see the benefit to what Nariilu has done."

"There is no benefit! That-that horror,"-Vittoria rolled her eyes as Elisif spoke. Really, she couldn't come up with something more distasteful than 'horror'-"has brought nothing but shame to Nords and death to the people he claims to care about! Does the Empire not care that he led a war against it? Thousands are dead because of him! And you let him walk free?"

"A figurehead is nothing to the Empire," Vittoria replied. Elisif had been to the war meetings with General Tullius since he'd returned from Windhelm; she had to know that it was that-what was the term?-Housecarl of his, that fanatic racist in his own court that rallied his people into a xenophobic frenzy. Honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if the same line of thinking began to take hold in Solitude if the damned Argonians at the docks kept up their recent behavior. They weren't quite to the levels her workers in Windhelm had been before the war, but if the thieving and drugs didn't stop soon, Vittoria would need an entirely new workforce and a quiet place to dispose of a few scaled pelts.

"I wouldn't suggest the Empire could fall because of the actions of a single man," Vittoria continued. "So, the figurehead has chosen a different side. Were he not disgraced, he would be useful to our cause. Your cause, as if I need remind you."

"He killed my husband."

Elisif spoke with a sort of finality Vittoria would've expected to be punctuated with a crash, shatter of her teacup on the floor. But, no, she was far too polite for such outbursts. Polite enough to sit still, shut up, do her job. No matter how horrible of a ruler she was, she had the people's support as the grieving widow, the rightful High Queen for at least today. At least today, and Elisif wouldn't like what she'd have to do to get the more backwards half of Skyrim to approve of her ass on the throne. To find a new rallying cry, now that the war was over and her husband avenged.

"And he is disgraced for it," Vittoria repeated. "What do you expect to happen? An army to rise up as soon as he steps foot through the gates to siege the Blue Palace in his name? What jokes, dear." Vittoria laughed, practiced for Senate rooms, her cousin's court. The laugh that dazzled nobility.

Elisif's tears stopped, not daring to wipe at the delicate wet trails down her cheeks. "My own Thane has allied with the enemy."

"She's made an ally of your enemy. Few could manage a feat." Vittoria replied, any sort of polite joviality gone from her voice. Who gave a damn about Ulfric Stormcloak? She was sick and tired of hearing of Ulfric Stormcloak, the latest man to rage against the Empire for doing all that it could against drying fields, lightening coffers, scheming Altmer. She was glad Nariilu beat some sense into him. "I'd suggest you take advantage of the opportunity your Thane has provided you."

"I will take no advantage but surrounding him with my guards and leading him to the stocks."

"He has been pardoned," Vittoria stood, towering over the sitting Jarl-Jarl, how she barely deserved the title- "by the Emperor Titus Mede II and you will do well to accept that pardon, lest you find yourself in treason. The gracious Emperor does not grant pardons often, and Ulfric Stormcloak has taken the quota for the next while." She sneered at Elisif, the girl shrank back into the couch, teacup forgotten and trembling in her hand. "You'd do well to heed my advice and not respark the war your own Thane just ended. You do not have the money. Dearest Jarl, you cannot survive another war, not as the young widow your people love you as. Widows do not win wars. There will be no battlecries in your good husband's name should you anger the pardoned failures of soldiers by attacking the only remaining symbol of what they bled for.

"The only cries will be your own, should you go against what the Emperor has decreed. Do not for one second think you can survive without the Empire; look to Ulfric for proof of how that path is doomed to fail." Vittoria paused to sit and sip her tea, the last dregs of leaves at the bottom of her cup. She swirled it three times and overturned it onto her plate, setting the whole affair on a side table. She'd carry it to Sybille later, a love reading would be a nice way to begin her afternoon; she had one of the seamstresses from Radiant Raiment coming to adjust her dress and begin to tack on the embellishments. "Ignore him if you must. But outright hostility will lead to more bloodshed that your people do not want."

Another single tear. A shaking breath. "And if he is plotting to murder me as he did my husband, you will be at fault. My Thane will be at fault. And I will curse you both."

Vittoria blinked. Did Elisif honestly believe she had the symbollic power, the people's trust, that Torygg had? "What in Oblivion would he have to gain from that?"

"I-He-" Elisif stuttered. "Men like him cannot be reasoned with."

"Well, then it's a good thing Nariilu didn't reason with him. She beat him in a duel," Vittoria replied. Elisif bit her lip. "I'm surprised there's not a ballad about it, yet. Quite proper, I think, that the war would end in such a way."

She released her lip, pulling an embroidered, flawlessly white handkerchief from a satchel at her waist, dabbing at her cheeks. "He killed my husband."

"And your husband did not die for you to continue the cycle of violence he strove to end by inviting Ulfric inside the Blue Palace," Vittoria said, letting her tone soften. Elisif hid her face behind her handkerchief in a delicate display that was so unlike all the rough-and-tumble Nords Elisif would one day rule over as High Queen. Gods, she needed Ulfric beside her, to keep her in check, to rule from the shadows. Elisif would never be as popular as Ulfric was; hundreds of thousands of soldiers committing treason at his side against the entire might of the Imperial Legion-Elisif could barely attract a thousand to hear a speech.

Elisif's shoulders shook. Vittoria prayed to the Eight to show her some mercy towards the girl as she switched seats to the couch across from her, settling so close to Elisif that their legs touched, easily wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She shushed the Jarl, running her free hand through dull bronze hair as she cried for a minute, two minutes, ten.

Finally, finally, Elisif sniffed and pulled away slightly. Vittoria looked down at her; the barest blush around her cheeks and nose, eyes barely kissed by red. An artists' portrait of despair, somehow perfect upon delicate, breakable features. "It's not what Torygg would want, is it?" Elisif spoke. "He'd hate that it came to…to all this death. I couldn't cause more death, more than I already have, not in his name."

"Oh, dear, you've caused no death," Vittoria replied. "That's Ulfric's sin to live with. May Mara grant us her compassion to forgive him."

Ulfric stepped to block the door and cleared his throat. "Everything." He repeated, putting just enough Thu'um into the word that the Dragonborn flinched where she stood.

She met his stare, almost squared her shoulders, if one hadn't shuddered with stiffness, pain, healing she refused to wait for. "What part do you want me to start with?" A belated wince, the Dragonborn backed up and sat down on the bed with a small groan.

The question he wanted to ask burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it and instead said, "I'm starting to think you want to turn me over to the Solitude Guard."

"Vittoria Vici's been softening up Elisif for months. She was going to send you an invitation to her wedding even if the war wasn't over by then," the Dragonborn said. She carefully rolled her neck, shoulders, wrists, a small inventory of her flexibility. Each movement was smooth to the untrained eye; to Ulfric, he caught the slight stutters that betrayed pain or a loss of ability from injury. "Elisif is weak. Weak and stupid. I'm sure you know she lets her Thanes have free reign over her court, and the Thanes don't care about you. All they do is squabble. But you're not concerned about Elisif and her Thanes."

No, he never had been. In the short outline of a siege plan he'd had brewing in the back of his mind, he'd always known that the richest Thanes in Skyrim wouldn't care whose name they swore fealty to, that Torygg's woman would be the same demure castle jewel she always was.

The Dragonborn continued. "They executed the man who held open the gates for you, and, Lydia likely told you this, people cheered when his head rolled. But it takes six guards to hold open the gates, and the execution of only the most outspoken of them was ordered by General Tullius after over a year of stalemate. It was his idea to get the population riled up in support of the Legion, enlist themselves, donate to the war. And it didn't work. Recruitment numbers for Solitude were abysmal. Worst in Skyrim.

"There's a reason they changed the service rules for elves and drafted so many from Cyrodiil. Very few from Skyrim wanted to raise a sword against you. They couldn't risk lowering opinion of the Legion by enacting a draft in Skyrim," the Dragonborn said, moving around the set to inspect it from all angles. "The most volunteers came from Whiterun, actually, right after the siege. So, no, I'm not concerned about the people of Solitude."

"I could've won," Ulfric's voice sounded like a distant whisper; 'won' was such a crude, selfish word for it. Liberate, taken back, ousted. But even with triumphant language-

"You could've paved the way for the Thalmor to ruin all of Tamriel," she said simply, and he knew it was too true. "Without Thalmor meddling, the war may have ended in your favor before they needed to draft me. Without Thalmor meddling," the Dragonborn let a laugh drip from her, "there wouldn't've been a war in the first place. At least now, Skyrim and Cyrodiil stand together, even if you revealed deep cracks in that alliance. I want to mend those cracks. I want you to mend those cracks."

Ulfric scoffed, opening his mouth to respond, scoffed again before he could form a single word. "I could've done that! I could've unified Skyrim under my banners, but the Empire, you-!" He cut himself off, the words genuinely escaping him, especially after he realized that the Thalmor never would've let him win. Even if he won the war, he would never actually have any lasting victory. They'd take his triumph as well as they had twenty years ago, string him up to die and massacre the good people of Skyrim.

His rage faded to a…a void. Because even if his Dossier was nothing more than ash, the truth had been branded on his soul as clearly as Elenwen's solid handwriting on the pages: his movement was never his. The truth he'd blazed on his heart from the second he built it on the corpses of those that died without recognition in the Great War, from the second he read the truth of the matter in expensive ink in his Dossier.

The Dragonborn gave him a few breaths to stew, let him collapse-sit-on a low stool. "And you will unify not just Skyrim, but the entire Empire. Because it was your idea to reforge the Empire to return to its roots." He blinked. "You always knew the Thalmor wanted to erase the Septim Dynasty when they banned Talos, and you knew the Prophecy enough to know what you had to do to bring about the Last Dragonborn."

No, he'd had enough of the Empire's meddling in affairs that weren't theirs, of them denying aid to Skyrim after it was the Nords who'd given just about everything to keep the Empire alive during the Great War. And he let this confusion show on his face as the Dragonborn's mouth tilted up just enough to let him know that she'd wanted to have this conversation for so long.

"And after Mede dies with no heirs but his aunts and cousins and the Thalmor strike? Well, who but the rightful High King and Empress to restore the Empire to glory?"

"You want to act like this is my idea? Everything, Empress and…and everything?" It was all he could protest, since becoming High King had definitely been his idea, and there wasn't a village idiot in Skyrim who didn't know how much he hated the Empire. "So you have an out when it all goes to shit."

"So the Sons and Daughters of Skyrim will actually accept me as a Dragonborn Emperor," she sighed. "I'm a popular Thane because I give away money. I invest. I slay dragons, keep people safe, throw gold at them. You're popular because of what you stand for!" Her hands flew up in exasperation. "I wish I had that, but, if you knew how poorly the Legion's numbers in Skyrim were doing, are doing, you'd lose your mind. All I have going for me is that I can kill a few dragons and hand out some coin. You've got the trust of the people. If we act like I genuinely captured you-"

"You did genuinely capture me!" Ulfric stood up so fast he went lightheaded, yelling down at her. "There is no act here! I stood for something! You're here for…for what? To dominate, like Paarthurnax says? Burn down some cities with your dragon army after the Forsworn and Thalmor are all rotting?"

"I'm here," the Dragonborn clipped each word, "because the Empire has never been stronger than with a Dragonborn Emperor. The Thalmor are coming, Stormcloak, and we have to be ready! But the people, especially your people, will accept it if they think all of this was your idea! Oblivion, the entire War could've been a ruse to show how weak the Empire was-is, for all I care."

"A fortunate side effect," Ulfric answered.

"Yes, if the Thalmor hadn't wanted to drain both sides with a stalemate, they could've easily crushed everything years ago. I'm honestly surprised they waited until the war ended to start moving in. But what if you convinced me that things in the Empire need to change? Because we both know they do. If it was your idea-"

"Then you get to place all the blame on me."

"Blame, glory, call it what you like," the Dragonborn scoffed. "The point is that we have to have public support. I have the Jarls' support, the other Legates' support, and a few of the Senators have personally written about my successful campaign. But you have the support of the people, and I'll bet my life that it'll only grow if they aren't facing treason to support you."

He brought a hand to his temple. "How can you even say that it won't be treasonous when you're sitting here telling me about your plans to overthrow the Emperor?"

"Not overthrow; I don't want to have an army march on the Imperial City just to have my ass on a throne. Fact is, I'm more qualified by birthright as Dragonborn than any of the Mede dynasty could ever hope to be." Ulfric narrowed his eyes. She frowned and sighed. "Look, if we do what the current Emperor can't and end the Thalmor, how do you think that will look? How many have lost everything to them that will see us as…as the ones who destroyed the Dominion? The Senators only care about saving their own asses and coinpurses, it'll be easy to 'convince' a few of them that Mede is a useless old man, if they aren't already there themselves."

Just like he tried to convince the other Jarls that Torygg had been a bright-eyed little boy, unfit to be High King. "And if you're wrong? If the Senators, Thanes, Jarls, people, don't support you?"

She blinked. "Why wouldn't they?"

"I can think of a hundred reasons, starting with how you want to…replace Mede," Ulfric said, shaking his head. "People, especially politicians with public approval to think of, don't like instability. You're the Dragonborn, yes, but will you keep paying them like Mede does? Can you really stand against the Thalmor, keep the peace with a dragon army, mantle Talos?" He bit down a wave of nausea at the last part-it was too real to say it, too real to not be struck down by Talos himself when he spoke of the Dragonborn as Talos. "What reason do they have to think you'll keep them in power and paid?"

The Dragonborn went quiet and stared at the worn stone floor for a while. Ulfric watched her think, her mouth hung open, ready to give whatever answer she thought would satisfy him.

He continued before she could come up with anything to say. "You want to act like I'm the reason you've gotten all these ideas-that just makes it look worse for you. An Imperial Legate swayed by the disgraced, failed revolutionary you captured? A Dragonborn who had to be convinced of her position?" He paused to swallow a lump in his throat-was he really going along with this? It was so simple in his head: help the Dragonborn take back the Empire from the weaklings that rotted what Tiber Septim had built. But she'd said she needed him to help her navigate Skyrim's political arena, and help was an understatement. So self-assured, so arrogant, so…Nordic. "It has to be your doing. But if you want to leave some of the blame to me, perhaps you did some research into the Stormcloak cause during your campaign, and you found it so influential you realized that the Empire was beyond reform."

She looked up at him, a mix of confusion, relief, pain, elation. "Don't flatter yourself." The quip seemed to fall from her lips before she could stop it, and she scowled. "I mean, your cause seemed to be nothing but kicking the Thalmor from Skyrim."

"And you said yourself how popular that cause was," Ulfric replied. "But how will you move from dazzling shopkeeps and guilds to swaying Senators? What's your plan?"

"Do you remember when I asked for your help?"

Ulfric just stared at her. He'd never seen her asking for help; he could easier imagine her kneeling to him than asking for any sort of assistance.

"On the mountain, after we all spent the night at Aftland?" She blinked. "When I first told you I plan to become Empress. I told you I need help to understand Skyrim, the Moot, the Jarls, everything."

"That was a long time ago."

"It was two weeks ago."

"Six weeks."

"I wasn't raised in palace halls, Stormcloak." The Dragonborn snapped. She scowled at the floor, sighing through her nose. "The nobles tolerate me because I'm Dragonborn and rich. You have a lifetime of experience that I don't. You're my plan. That's it. I need help. With the politics, with the money, with…with what I am."

They were both quiet for a while Ulfric worked out what was unsaid. She'd staked so much of her plan on him, him, before she'd even met him, during a war where he commanded her opposition, because he had what she so desperately needed. Because he was the only other person crazy enough to try and oust the Empire, the only one who had a fighting chance of succeeding, of understanding what she meant when she talked about the rolling, deep power of the Thu'um, Kyne's gift to men. Her.

"I…I think the gods knew it had to be you. Us. To fix everything, restore Tamriel to a golden age."

I think the gods chose us. Ulfric mouthed the words to himself, let himself hear her voice clear in the silence.

And she looked up, met his eyes. Burning, deep, dragon's blood red; ambition, power, need-and wild fear, fear that everything would come crashing down around her. And he had that power, to sabotage her, keep her from her destiny, postpone her plans, like she had to him. "You are the final line in my Prophecy. 'For when the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding, the Wheel shall turn on the Last Dragonborn.' I believe that our fates may have been written in the Elder Scrolls before time itself. It was always you that had to be the one to call Alduin's return, and it always had to be me to end him. The Scrolls chose both of us for Prophecy, for a purpose far greater than we could ever imagine."

Ulfric couldn't find any words to deny her.

Because it was easy, once she'd realized how to break him. Finally, finally break him, in the way she needed him to be wholly dedicated to her fate, her birthright, her godhood.

Because it was sealed once she destroyed him to nothing to build him from the ashes, even if that building back up was rampant with protests, silence, anger at every single step. Every single crucial day one day longer that she would not sit upon her throne, would not rule over the masses that the gods promised her.

Because he did not hate her. And because Ulfric Stormcloak was a man that needed a cause to throw himself behind. Graybeards, Imperial Legion, Windhelm, his own rebellion, all of them were to distract him from that craving he'd felt-she'd felt-his whole life, a need to belong, a need to lead, rule, be something greater than an addendum in a history tome scribes would fall asleep on. And what greater purpose than that written beyond time, beyond reality?

Because the Elder Scroll was held in the Arcanaeum of the College, where he could easily confirm that everything she said was true, Lydia's jealously be damned. Lydia's folly, her arrogance, foolishness, stupidity be damned. How dare she interpret the will of the gods she had never felt the blessing of? How dare she question the Divinity in her own presence-

Because he'd stared at her, traced her with eyes desperate for something to believe in, one thing to hold himself firm in this world to. A simple, noble reason that he should keep fighting. And it was so hard to keep her face a mask of solemn relief as he started small, explaining the hierarchy of Thanes and Jarls and High Kings, how the ancient Dragonguard and Empire had once fit into that structure, his own face bright and serious and determined to lift her to her deserved station, to his own deserved station.

Because he had to be the most powerful in the room; she was foolish to not recognize that before now. Because he would only kneel before one that had his respect. His trust.

Because a dragon would always defeat a bear.

Chapter Text

Restoring Sky Haven Temple after the siege was a pain, more of a pain than actually defending the structure for a year and a half against the Reachmen. No, now that Emperor Reman II had taken a personal interest in the Temple, wanting to undo his predecessors failings with the region, and, by extension, all of Skyrim, Tsunilde had to modify the existing structural plans to his own personal tastes.

She appreciated that the new Emperor had an interest in the Dragonguard, though she was wary of his insistence that the dragonlore she knew and held close to her Soul be put to record. Tsunilde managed to get him to compromise; the ancient knowledge and prophecies would be set in stone rather than ink. Only the Dragonguard would have access to the carvings along the walls depicting all they had brought from Akavir, all she had learned in serving the Emperors and Kyne faithfully for nearly thirty years.

Tsunilde eyed Emperor Reman II as he looked over her sketches for the grand wall--Reman's Wall, she was calling it, as it told of the great Prophecy of the Dragonborn. No better to dedicate it to than the Dragonborn Emperors. He was satisfied with the recent expansion of the Temple, made now to be almost entirely sustainable with underground farms and secret passageways and rooms to hide from any invaders who managed to make it past the ultimate security; a bloodlocked door, bound to the blessed Dragonborn blood of the Emperor.

And she was worried that the door would be useless should a Dragonborn like her, chosen by Kyne to serve the goddess rather than personally blessed by Akatosh as the Emperor's bloodline, be able to open the door with a simple wound. Dragonborn like her were prone to leading armies for the sake of it, getting involved in feuds and sieging towns and…and leaving the Snow Tower sundered, kingless, bleeding. Not that another Dragonborn like her had been born since before Reman, but if one was--

"Something's troubling you." Emperor Reman II spoke without looking up from the sketches. "Speak freely."

Tsunilde stumbled over what to say before she finally responded. "I'm worried that the Prophecy will be fulfilled before we have a chance to carve it."

"My bloodline is strong. Not I, nor any one of my heirs, will lose the throne for an Era." The Emperor frowned. "We don't even know what most of the Prophecy refers to. Give the Moth Priests time, Grandmaster Tsunhilde. In the meantime, you've made great strides in repairing the Dragonguard's reputation in Skyrim, especially here among the Reachmen."

"Well, the dragons took advantage of the siege and roamed free during it. We've been able to slay a handful of dragons rather publicly."

"And you've been there to devour the Souls?" Tsunhilde felt Emperor Reman II tense up, he couldn't take the dragon Souls, their knowledge, essence, power, like she could.

It had pissed her off in her youth, that the Dragonborn blood was to be further diluted with each generation while hers only flowed in pursuit of dragons, in protection of that precious blood. Grandmaster Talerie always told her that while Kyne favored the Nords and occasionally blessed her Tongues more than usual, it was Akatosh who chose the great Emperors Alessia and Reman. Incomparable power, like a river to an ocean.

Ugh.

Tsunhilde finally responded. "No. I've been busy here."

Sometimes she wondered if he felt it too, a certain gnawing to Shout her down into a kneel, laugh as she struggled and failed to fight back like she sometimes ached to. She wanted to put his little watered down Soul in its place. But Tsunilde had never known the Emperor to Shout, not like she did, and his Soul…it was a dragons' but…but an echo of the power his grandfather had held. Tsunhilde swallowed her Voice thickly before responding--

No, she never felt any resentment towards her Emperor. Why would you even imply that, Nariilu?

Nariilu's Soul paused, a flicker of a body forming around it. She scowled at the mention of her name.

The Last Dragonborn had been meditating, spending more time with her conquered Souls, getting more comfortable inside her own body with each and every day. Tsunhilde met the Last Dragonborn's unbridled rage, desperation, pain, during the fateful final battle with the Twilight God and given her all the knowledge she could think to give as her Soul was ripped from Alduin's grasp. And Tsunhilde was grateful that she hadn't been doomed to an eternity of unity with Alduin, instead with the Dragonborn she'd waited Eras to greet. She started to regret the information when she murdered young Folgun and the other Dragonborn heartbeats later.

Keep going. You're boring me with all this day-to-day.

Tsunhilde winced, suddenly overseeing as a team of Dragonguard carving an entrance to the secret passageways. They were mostly formed from a sprawling web of caverns formed from long-dried rivers, delving under the existing Temple rooms, accessible only by unsealing the stone from the rest of the walls with a spell--

"It's a basic spell, once you get down to it," Lauxus said, swiftly running his fingers along the seam of the door. Tsunhilde nodded as it melded with the rest of the wall. "Half Illusion, half Conjuration, half Restoration." His joke didn't earn any chuckles from the crowd of Dragonguard assembled to learn how to access the tunnels. Lauxus didn't seem to notice, and traced where the seam had been seconds ago. It reappeared, and he pushed the door open easily.

Tsunhilde practiced the spell at the door, and the rest of them, memorizing their exact locations, where they led to, the hidden armories and libraries that would be much more sensibly kept away from where an invader, or even a recent recruit, could make a mess.

She studied the maps of Sky Haven Temple--could we stop jumping around so much?

No. The Last Dragonborn let one of her own memories flow--her ecstasy at prying Wulfrend's memories from him.

If you hadn't started with torturing Wulfrend, perhaps we could all be on better terms. Tsunhilde doubled over in pain, the body she'd conjured for herself ripped away by the Last Dragonborn. She was flung back to the Soulspace from her memories, into that void that she had no control over. All she could do here was experience a muted echo of life through the Last Dragonborn's body, or exchange emotions and desires with the rest of the devoured Souls.

And wait for the Last Dragonborn to decide she wanted more knowledge from one of them--they were so much easier for her to manipulate than the actual dragons she had around.

I already told you most everything I know, back when you first saved me from the Twilight God's maw.

I know. Thank you, Tsunhilde. I just want to make sure everything is proper before I rebuild the Dragonguard. Having your experiences as the woman who regrew the ancient Dragonguard from animosity to respect is a boon I want to take full advantage of.

She would've rolled her eyes if she had any.

Esbern was a fragile old man who looked like a stiff wind would blow him over and shatter him, to say nothing of the inches-thick tomes he pulled down from rock-carved shelves over his head with ease, and to say even less of the stone tablets he carried in stacks from a crowded alchemy table to the grand stone table that took the center of the archives. The table was just as crowded with tied bundles of scrolls and huge books held open with soul gems and potion vials and seemingly whatever was at hand at the time. He moved with a silent solemnness that Ulfric couldn't place, somewhere between complete acceptance and fear, letting his feet drag in an uneven, elderly gait.

The Dragonborn stepped towards the main table, content to stance herself firmly in the entrance of the vast, cavernous room, following Esbern's shuffling motions with piercing eyes. "I'm sure you’ve gathered more than enough history texts for now, Esbern. Why don't you sit down?" Ulfric stood just off to the side of the door, a half-corroded brass thing with a draconic design.

Esbern's eyes darkened, shifting to him, to her. "And accept that Delphine's blood stains these sacred stones? No, no, dear Dragonborn, I will remain standing for that much longer, toiling with my texts and tablets." He brushed away a layer of nonexistent dust on a cracked leather cover. "Please, do an old man a favor and let me hear of Alduin's downfall before…whatever it is you've truly come here for. I fear Uthgerd censored your message more than you intended."

"Alduin died by my hand," the Dragonborn said flatly. "I devoured his Soul, fulfilled the Prophecy, saved Nirn."

Esbern paused, pressing his lips and staring at the Dragonborn. She returned his stare with a challenge, turning back towards the table, crossing her arms over her chest. Esbern spoke slowly, deliberately, each word weighed and tied with meaning, venom. "And Paarthurnax lives by your hand, does he not? Odahviing lives by your hand, that cursed red dragon you arrived on. Alduin's own lieutenant marks our location to his army to take by tomorrow! Delphine, it seems, is not as deserving as two dragons who have killed more men in a matter of days than the Great War could in years. Not even Mehrunes Dagon and the Oblivion Crisis could challenge the death and destruction either one could fell upon Tamriel, much less the thousands of dragons you ignore in pursuit of…of whatever foolishness this is!"

The Dragonborn shrugged.

"Why?" Esbern said, all the anger gone from his tone, replaced with exhaustion only the elderly knew. His eyes watered, threatening to spill. "Why did you kill her?"

"Delphine never saw anyone she wasn't convinced was about to kill her," the Dragonborn replied. "Everyone but herself was a Thalmor assassin. Alduin was a Thalmor assassin. She was too far gone to serve as Grandmaster of the Blades. The history of the Blades began when the Akaviri Dragonguard met Reman at the Pale Pass," she continued, standing and leaning over the stone table, braced by both hands, "immediately swearing to serve him. The Dragonborn of his time. Throughout history, the Dragonguard, the Blades, have always sought out a Dragonborn to serve. Not defy. Certainly not accuse of treason, as Delphine has done each time we spoke."

"Ah. Service."

"I want to reform the Blades, rebuild the Dragonguard. Two hundred years have passed without any meaning to anything you do. As Lorekeeper--"

"As Lorekeeper, I know more than you of what drove the Dragonguard from Akavir to Tamriel," Esbern cut off. "Hunting dragons. That's what you are, Dovahkiin, you're the best dragon hunter Akatosh could gift us. That is why the Blades served Reman." He slammed his hand down on a tome. "And then to assure the Prophecy was fulfilled. Now, we must return to slaying dragons."

"Curious how the best thing to hunt dragons with is a dragon," she mused.

Esbern didn't take levity in her little joke. "We will not allow Paarthurnax to live. We will not allow Odahviing and his armies to decimate Nirn in Alduin's absence. There's more at stake here than thousands of years of tradition!"

"Odahviing kneels to me."

"And after you die? Hmm?" Esbern snapped back. "When your body fails you in age, what dragon will kneel to you?"

The Dragonborn flinched, a barely noticeable stiffness passing through her shoulders before she composed herself. "I'm offering the Blades a chance to survive. Dragon hunting is not a lasting profession, not when the Dovahkiin has her own army of dragons to hunt the unruly rest to extinction. Dragons will not be here for long. I will."

"Then the ancient purpose of the Blades is nearly over," Esbern said with a finality he punctuated by taking a heavy seat. "I see no reason to continue acting in service of a Prophecy that has passed. We will not help a foolish woman who allies herself with dragons."

"I am a dragon."

"Careful saying that around the Blades," Esbern replied. "We're renowned dragon slayers."

"No. Not anymore," the Dragonborn spat. "Now, the Blades are nothing but a pale remnant of once was, centuries ago. The Blades haven't slayed a dragon since the Second Era, haven't done anything but wait for the next Dragonborn--me!--for the entire Fourth Era! And now I'm here, and you…you what? Would the Dragonguard have denied Reman because he was not the Dragonborn they carved into these walls?"

"What she means to say, Lorekeeper," Ulfric spoke up, her blazing eyes whipping to him, "is that with Alduin dead, many dragons are now following the Way of the Voice. If you have conflict with them, you have conflict with the rest of the Greybeards. There are far nobler pursuits to be had, more vile dragons to kill."

"Noble pursuits," Esbern chuckled. "Tell me, boy, that butcher rampaging in your city, would you let him go if he came forward and apologized?" It was a fight to keep his face neutral. "Would it be a noble pursuit to let him go and learn new ways to sharpen his blade?"

"Dragons are bound by their word. Men are not," Ulfric said, almost keeping his voice from quivering. How dare Esbern speak of things he knew nothing about; how dare he spoke of Windhelm like he'd purposefully let murderers run loose in the streets.

"And we allow dragons to tell us what they are bound to." Esbern's voice dripped with malice, cracked with age. "But no matter, there is no reason to argue. Your minds are made up. Delphine was already dead the second she defied you, the Blades have been nothing to you for just as long."

"The Blades are a strong foundation to build upon," the Dragonborn said, her lips tense around each word. Her tone barely softened, her eyes hardened to a deep scowl. "I don't want to lose the ancient knowledge you've fought so hard to save. I will not be killing Paarthurnax, not when he's been atoning for thousands of years. Odahviing and the rest of the dragons will die once they've outlived their usefulness in slaying the rest of their own kind, and the Thalmor. I want the Dragonguard to outlast the immortal dragons, and I want you to help."

"You want me to help you on some foolish quest you've determined in your own head. You've made a mockery of the path the gods laid out for you," Esbern replied. He stood a little straighter, blinking away the last of the tears to fall and disappear into deep wrinkles. "And I will not be a part of this…this farce you crave. You can kill me where I stand, just as you killed Delphine."

"I'm not going to kill you, old man," the Dragonborn spat. "I pity you. All this knowledge and you refuse to use it for good. Steal your tomes and hide--" she ran her arm through a stack of scrolls on the table, they fell to the ground and scattered, cracked-- "like you've been hiding for years. Waste what years you have left, waste what I gave to pull you from that rotted cell. Drown your sorrows in ink, dry your tears with dust. Stupid, stupid fool! Hide in the past when the future is before you!"

"The future you offer will be nothing but a scar on history," Esbern replied. "With any luck, a small one."

"Get out," she said. "Get out, take whatever idiots will go with you--gods know we have no use for them. You have until I return with more dragons."

"And if I refuse to leave?"

"Then I will make it so you have nowhere to stay but a burnt pile of rubble. And your scar on history will be the loss of this library, this Temple."

Was it harsh? Perhaps. Was it necessary? Most likely. Ulfric had said far worse for far less, and the continued existence of the Blades, Dragonguard, whatever the Dragonborn wanted to call them, were a powerful bit of propaganda against the Thalmor. Proof that their little slaughter had been, ultimately, a failure. The tension in her shoulders rolled down to clenched fists held behind her back in a dignified stance, fingertips glistening with ice.

"Get out," she continued, "and this knowledge lives on for others who crave it."

Esbern pursed his lips and sighed through his nose, a heavy breath that settled uncomfortably in Ulfric's stomach. "May you look in a mirror and see what you have become, Nariilu. How you've corrupted yourself since you saved me from my own self-made prison. I only wish you'd let me save you as you did for me. This is where the history of the Blades ends, and what a sad ending it is."

Uthgerd placed a few extra furs at the end of the cot she'd rolled out for Nariilu--damned woman complained about the cold too much, and the small bedroom she'd hastily fixed was deeper than most of the sleeping chambers the rest of the Blades preferred. A thin cot on stone would leave her trembling, either frozen to ice by morning because she'd be too proud to complain, or to whine about the cold to anyone in earshot.

It had always been a toss-up as to which one it'd be when they'd all been traveling together, at least until she'd joined the College of Winterhold for a few weeks to find out more about the Elder Scrolls, and brought J'zargo along with them to that iceberg.

Judging by her behavior on the patio, perhaps Nariilu had invented a way to suffer in silent pride and complain to Oblivion and back at the same time.

Well, judging by her behavior on the patio, Nariilu had snapped. No, snapped wasn't quite the right word. Had enough, more like, of Delphine.

Though that didn't quite explain the dragon. That red dragon that soared over Whiterun and laughed with an all too human voice as his underlings breathed fire and ice and death down on the city. But perhaps it was one of the good dragons, like that Paarthurnax in the mountains, a lookalike to that horrible beast that she'd captured in Dragonsreach.

Captured, and then…and then, by all accounts, flown away on.

That crazy bitch! Nariilu had made the most terrifying dragon Uthgerd had ever seen into her bitch! Uthgerd laughed; of course she'd tame a dragon, tame Ulfric Stormcloak. She made a mental note to ask which one was more difficult when they had a second of privacy, when she was in a better mood than the terrible scowl she wore at dinner to announce Esbern's schism.

But she never much liked the old man, far too boring for her tastes. When he wasn't quoting some old poem, he liked to sit in the courtyard and judge how she trained the others. She was always off on her stances, according to some warriors who'd died Eras ago, interpreted by a tiny old coot who looked like the most fearsome weapon he'd ever picked up was a butter knife.

Odar and Arentia had followed him; Uthgerd couldn't say she was surprised. Never the best with a blade or arrow or spell, Odar the Bard's College dropout was always hungry for a new tale even if his fingers were too stiff to work a lyre or flute. And Arentia was still pissed her lover down in Karthspire had recently been turned into a Briarheart--too many memories of him around here, she figured. Only two--nobody cared enough about Delphine to leave, other than Esbern.

"Hey."

Uthgerd twirled at that Cyrodiilic accent, her friend standing in the doorway. "Hey." She looked so small, so tired, in her bloody College robes. There was a change of clothes in her size somewhere, simple leather and wool. "Feeling better?"

Nariilu nodded. "I want you to be the next Grandmaster," she said, "of the Dragonguard."

Uthgerd bit her cheek; the offer of Grandmaster wasn't too surprising, she had been the first Blade recruit, after all, and Esbern was completely out of the running. "Dragonguard."

"A bit of rebranding," Nariilu said. She scuffed at a bit of dirt caked into the floor.

"Sounds awfully like the cult of personality Esbern was just accusing you of having."

"If you haven't noticed, the Blades aren't very popular right now."

"We've been in hiding from the Thalmor," Uthgerd replied. "No telling how popular we actually are, but, well, you've seen how many of us there are now."

"It'd be more if you weren't risking death every time you left the Temple," Nariilu shrugged. She looked from the ground to the cot to the wall and then, finally, to meet her gaze. "There are more dragons that aren't horrible," she said. "More than just Paarthurnax, like the one I flew in on, Odahviing. They were only following Alduin's orders, and by ancient rite, since I slew him, the dragons follow me now. They're quite useful."

She waited for Nariilu to go on; that was her idea tone. The tone that'd gotten them out of--and into--quite a few sticky situations. And that glint in her eye, Uthgerd chuckled, already onto what they both knew Delphine would've never accepted. "Good thing, that. What would a Dragonguard do without dragons?"

Uthgerd had to admit it was an absolutely insane plan that would almost definitely work if what Nariilu said about the dragons was true. But Esbern's schism--she knew more would follow Esbern, more than Nariilu would expect, more than normally would, more than just the two who announced their intentions to leave, simply because, "About half of the Blades were once Forsworn."

Nariilu gaped. Sputtered. Cursed. Uthgerd wished she'd taken a single breath, a single pause that wasn't for dramatic effect that she could've cut in and said that the second Nariilu said she wanted every last Forsworn dead. "What?"

"Delphine," Uthgerd let a bit of disgust out at her name that wasn't entirely for show, "actually trusted them, since the Thalmor were hunting them down too. And a year-something of trading doesn't entirely hurt how they see us." And, in all honesty, they weren't all Daedra-worshipping wildmen. A lot were, but the ones that had actually joined were pretty well-adjusted.

But she didn't care either way, and a handful of the Blades were close to outright hostile to the Forsworn recruits--perhaps Arentia would rethink leaving in the name of a scorned woman's revenge--and Uthgerd had no idea how many others simply tolerated their presence. And that was something for her to determine in the coming days alongside keeping as many of the recruits around after Nariilu left to collect her army. Uthgerd had a bit of déjà vu--they had all gone their separate ways when Nariilu left to command her Legion once before. Now she'd be a part of that army.

It'd been an awfully good thing she'd been too busy drowning her troubles in ale to join the Stormcloaks. Though, she supposed Ulfric himself had more than a little to do with their new goal of taking the Reach from the Forsworn.

Chapter Text

Nariilu knocked on the door to Stormcloak's chamber, and knocked again when she didn't hear any signs of movement inside. And then knocked a third time before she finally heard a sniff and rustling fabric, and stepped back so the door wouldn't swing into her face.

"Breakfast," she said simply. "It's likely started without us; Uthgerd came by nearly half an hour ago to let me know."

Stormcloak paused to look her over, and Nariilu grasped at the edge of her sleeves to keep from pulling at the belt she used to hike up her Graybeard robes, the hilts of her swords hidden beneath fabric folded over itself. She knew she looked nearly ridiculous in the giant thing, but the clothes Uthgerd had brought her were all either too tight or too rough on her regrown skin. His grip twitched on the handle to the door, like he was considering slamming it shut. "Let me get my boots." He only had to turn around to right the blankets and furs on his cot; his sleeping chambers were easily half the size hers was.

"Sleep well?"

He made deep, throaty noise that could've meant anything as he shoved his feet into his boots, reaching down to straighten the leather over his ankles and calves, fasten the buckles up the sides.

"Want to stay another day or off to Skuldafn?"

"Suddenly you aren't on a schedule?"

"I can go to Skuldafn alone again," Nariilu replied. "My only schedule is to make it to Solitude in time for Vittoria's wedding."

"Far less urgent than you were in Whiterun," Stormcloak huffed. He clasped the last of the buckles with a soldier's precision and speed, an unfortunate necessary skill in war.

"There wasn't a single reason to stay in Whiterun another second."

"You're still limping."

"I'm faking it," she half-lied. "I need to exercise it, not let it rot in some cast." Stormcloak stood and threw a thin cloak over his tunic, eyes narrowed. A hole in the wool caught on his elbow, a perfect slice she hadn't caught him take yesterday. Stormcloak had probably gotten it when he tackled her to the ground like an oaf-perhaps she should tell him the true reason her limp was back. She'd had everything under control, before he stepped in and hurt her leg, gotten her stabbed, didn't he get stabbed, too, at some point? She stepped aside to lead the way to the banquet hall. "Do you want to go to Skuldafn to see the army or not?"

He fell into step just behind her, taking on a lumberingly slow pace as she tried to walk as fast as she wanted. "My ancestors were buried there for thousands of years, and for centuries not a single member of the Stormcloak Clan has been able to pay their respects. I'd be honored to break that line, but it wouldn't be a sentimental visit."

Nariilu hoped the other Draugr had cleaned up the…corpses. "It could be, if you like."

"I'd rather save it for…" He trailed off, clearing his throat before he spoke again. "I want to meet the army. The dragons. See how things work for myself, instead of hearing it from you and Alduin's second."

"Good. Then we'll leave after we eat."

Sure enough, breakfast was winding down by the time they arrived. Bowls sparsely filled with berries and hearty fruits, a handful of simple pastries, a few slices of quiche sat in the center of the long table. Nariilu looked over the crowd from the perch above Alduin's Wall-her Wall; her Dragonguard chatting somberly amongst themselves, Forsworn unfortunately mixed within. Esbern, nowhere to be seen, but those two that had already decided to leave were sitting a seat away from her Dragonguard at the far end of the table dozens of feet away. A quick headcount-Esbern was the only one missing from the Guard.

And the conversation slowed when her Dragonguard spotted them. Nariilu was grateful they didn't completely stop, stand to a strict attention like most in her Legion had to when she entered a tent. Stormcloak didn't stop at the top of the wall like she did, continuing down the stairs towards the main level, only hesitating a step when he noticed she had paused at the top. Uthgerd greeted him, waved him to a space beside her and Salma with her free hand, the other wrapped around Salma's waist.

Nariilu let him grab a pastry and take a bite, wipe a flaked crumb from his beard before she spoke. "Good morning to you all!" She paused, letting the chatter stop and eyes rise towards her. A mix of mostly-Nords, a handful of Redguards and Imperials and Elves, two Orcs, maybe a dozen Bretons, none of whom looked particularly like the Forsworn that liked to ambush her whenever she dared to take a step in the Reach. She met healthy expressions, interest and anticipation for what she would say painted on most faces. A lightened mood from yesterday when Esbern decided to slam her with all sorts of degradations in a mess of emotion that did more to make her Dragonguard uncomfortable rather than sway them to believe his ramblings. "I look forward to leading the Blades into a new era alongside your new Grandmaster, Uthgerd."

She gestured towards her friend, who blushed slightly and nodded around the table, continuing, "The era of the Dragonguard is upon us once more. May we leave the errors of the Blades behind us along with the harm the Thalmor have brought towards the old faction. As Dragonguard, we start fresh, working for the good of the people." A few low cheers, claps rang out. Good enough for first thing in the morning, for people she had mostly never seen before, she supposed. "And as we must constantly improve ourselves…I offer one last opportunity to leave."

The mood in the grand hall shifted as she twisted her tone to the beginnings of a threat; fidgets, swallows, but nobody stood to leave. Nariilu locked eyes with some of the Dragonguard around the table, they met her with strong, sure faces. Good, good! Great, even, if they would hold those faces by the time lunch rolled around. However, she had a promise to keep, a statement to make, heads to roll. Uthgerd leaned to whisper something in Salma's ear. She startled slightly, pressing her lips together and whispering something back loud enough that Stormcloak turned and knit his eyebrows first at the two women, then at her.

His shoulder twitched and he looked down to his empty waist-he hadn't thought to bring his sword even seeing that she was wearing both of hers to breakfast of all things. "Brammun, Tirod, Eidna, Brydel, Marga, Dal, Unnach, Ayclilnach, Nedkla, Kaza, Lothnikh, and Kaustin, would you please stand?"

Silence. Stares. Waiting. No one stood. "Well?" She repeated. "I will not have the Dragonguard tarnish our reputation by including those from a life of plunder, banditry, murder, atrocity, and general lawlessness in this fine group. So, Forsworn, stand up, unless you're too coward to own up to your personal failures."

And that challenge had the Forsworn-a handful more than who she'd called out, the names Uthgerd gave her last night-jumping to their feet, pushing up on the table and scowling and cursing her. "I've done nothing wrong! No murder, thieving, whatever!" A Nord man yelled up at her, the others that had stood agreeing. He stood on the far side of Stormcloak, who was already tensing and sizing up everyone who'd stood. He rest his hands on the table, casually ready to push himself away from the Forsworn beside him. Only a light frown and tight shoulders marked him as anything other than apathetic to the situation. Nariilu caught his jaw twitch and his breathing deepen.

"Tell me," Nariilu pulled her hands behind her in a mimic of a dignified clasp to hide the spell weaving between her palms, "which camp are you from? One of the ones without a pile of skulls marking the entrance?"

"Trespassers, the lot of them." A Breton woman cut her hand through the air, a furious motion that was met with half-drawn swords, maces, axes from the very few who'd come armed. Others stood in response, their stances a fairly-well trained defense compared to the Forsworn. Five of them, maybe, had come armed even with just a dagger, but she kept a closer eye on the ones who grasped at empty hilts, not the least bit concerned when their hands flexed and twitched around nothing.

"And so I have Forsworn trespassing in my Dragonguard," Nariilu replied. "I suppose you've just named your punishment. Death."

She ducked low, a ball of flame hurtled above her head and crashed into the wall behind her, battle cries and startled cries rising from around the table as the Nord man had enough of her threats. "Tiid, Klo Ul!" She Shouted, letting time lurch to a slow, horrible, frozen crawl around her. The last Word of the Shout tasted like hatred, pain, a stolen eternity of peace and battle in Sovngarde to be your slave-

Nariilu dared a second wheeze once, stand up straight, take inventory of the unfolding chaos that stood still below her. Fifteen stood in frozen anger, another twenty Dragonguard watched with their eyes on her, on the Nord man who'd thrown the fireball. Seven of the Dragonguard moving to stand, three reaching to draw weapons they'd hopefully have no use of by the time they were able to unsheathe them.

All those fifteen were either Forsworn, or…They were Forsworn. Had to be, in honor-obsessed Skyrim, to stand when she personally slighted those Uthgerd had named as recruits from the camps. The rest, pushing up on the table to stand on the defensive, they sensed a fight about to break out. Breaking out. A fight that would be over before they were able to realize, before time itself managed to realize.

Two ice spears were all she cast-magicka fatigue daring her to try anything more. She'd been draining herself for days to speed up her healing, façade what she couldn't afford to wait for the priests and potions to heal, steady her steps and fight those ungrateful Dragonborn Souls she kept safe from Alduin.

It was a strange thing, for the spell to hang frozen in the air like they did. Four foot long pillars of ice, glistening along razor-sharp facets that she never got to study, to appreciate her craftsmanship. Aimed just so they would each pierce two Forsworn, three if she was lucky. She never got to line up shots quite like this, when time wasn't at her beck and call with just three short Words.

And time lurched from ice to honey; thick, barely there movements began to roll through the crowd in a crawl. Nariilu jumped down the last few stairs, drawing a sword before her feet hit the ground. And to the closest standing Forsworn, a Breton man with a dagger in his left hand and a lightning spell in his right, she plunged her sword up, through the soft bottom his chin and tongue, up, through the set of bones in his palate, up, squelching through his brain, up, until the point of her sword touched the top of his skull.

Down. And there was almost no blood, except for what painted her blade. Bits of flesh tore from the man, sticking to the guthooks of her sword, but his blood stayed still where it should be spraying from the broken artery. The first syrupy drops collected at the wound, ready to explode as her Shout faded, as time resumed. Three steps forward. Up, through the second chin belonging to that Breton woman, up, to stare in her eyes still locked at the top of the stairs, where Nariilu should be standing.

Down. Step. Up. Down. Run five steps. Up. Down. Rush to the other side of the table; the rest on this side would be impaled by one of her ice spears. Jump over the table to the other side, because she was taking too long and her Shout wouldn't hold forever-the ice spikes were nearly halfway to their first targets and another fireball was careening towards the stairs and most everyone at this point was almost standing, the Forsworn with one leg out ready to charge at her ghost on the stair.

Stab, stab again, again; it lacked the same pulse in her stomach, killing like this. It was so easy to tell herself that she was just attacking training dummies swaying in the wind, as slowly as they moved. She ran past the next pair of Forsworn, yanking down a Dragonguard sat between the two; the ice spear was nearly at position to impale the first of them-and he was beginning to dodge.

And the Forsworn she hadn't killed yet, the Dragonguard, were slowly reacting to her apparent sudden disappearance. Nariilu bit her tongue to distract herself from the pain shooting behind her eyes as she held out her hand to cast an ice spike into the base of an Orc's-it must be Lothnikh, she thought-skull as she hurried past. It buried itself within his skin, shattering deep in time with another of her spears, the other impacting a fraction of a second later.

Sound hurried back to her, stretching before it hit her ears in wretched wails. Battlecries, not pain, yet, it had barely been a second since she Shouted, maybe not even a second, to judge on how quickly her spells usually traveled. Nariilu's lungs burned, time beginning to pull her back to it, along with the pain in her lungs, in her head, in her stomach, hip screaming under a bruise the size of a plate. Yesterday's stab wound throbbed with a memory of itself alongside old pulled muscles, magical and mundane hunger, and an ache from the raging Dragonborn she'd learned the last Word from.

My name is Ulferth, you fucking BITCH-

Slow reactions around the table, most focused on how she wasn't at the top of the stairs anymore, few low-twisted shouts from those around where the Forsworn stood collapsing on themselves. Blood finally bursting from wounds, icy spears piercing through one chest, the second victim of each almost seeming to realize they were doomed. Lothnikh's head opening from the base, gory splatter beginning to erupt from where the heel of her palm made contact with leaf-green skin.

Perhaps she should've considered the gore, brains, blood that would fall on the food. She'd have nothing to eat for breakfast out of this spread, no matter how sharply her magicka reserves demanded it.

An easy dodge to avoid a wildly swung sword, its owner scanning the room to find where she'd gone instead of aiming. What was Delphine, the Forsworn teaching them? He'd nearly hit a Dragonguard out of carelessness. Angled thrust through his side, guthooks clinging to bone and skin and wool until she yanked her blade with such force she felt her shoulder rip from its joint as her sword ripped free from the Nord.

A deep thud echoed, and another, another-bodies hit the floor. And just like that, it was far, far too late to choose differently, to have a different start to her day, to her Dragonguard. Nariilu tossed her sword into her left hand and stabbed up, through the chin of the Nord man who was on his fourth fireball and only just now had confusion in his face about where his target had gone.

Time was back to a speed of a cold morning; lethargic, slow, but passing. Passing enough that she locked eyes with Stormcloak as she hurried to the last Forsworn, a Breton man, on the other side of Salma. She was pulling at Uthgerd's sleeve with a clenched fist, the other pointing across the table at where her ice spear had met its targets. Uthgerd herself was well on her way to standing, twisting, toward the man who'd been throwing the fireballs, her face twisted in a sneer and fists raised and ready to jump over Stormcloak and pummel the Forsworn.

She might just land a punch before his corpse slumped to the ground. That's what Stormcloak should be staring at, glaring at; Uthgerd was launching herself over him, and he was focused on following herself, to the best of his ability. Slow eyes followed ever faster as Nariilu held her sword out and sped towards her last target, the last Forsworn in the Dragonguard.

She slammed her blade into the Breton, not daring to slow to aim as time came racing back to a proper flow. Her sword's hilt pressed into her chest, bruising ribs that probably weren't cracked anymore. Her blade grazed the man's arm, pierced his chest. He gasped, choked along with a dozen other standing dead, death rattles and final thuds of falling bodies sounding louder than the rising cacophony of confusion from the Dragonguard.

Nariilu wrenched her sword from the man's body and returned it to its sheathe as casually as she could with the wrong hand, making a mental note to clean it before she left for Skuldafn. Nobody would notice her shoulder was dislocated under her ill-fitting robes, and it wasn't a good look to have gotten injured when nobody was even fighting back. She squared her shoulders as much as she could, breathed as deeply as she could for a few breaths against burning lungs.

The Dragonguard quieted, whispers of there and did she do that and they're dead echoed in the hall. Nariilu felt all eyes on her back, different than yesterday when she'd stood above Delphine's body. No, Delphine hadn't been very popular at all, Uthgerd had said, and the Forsworn weren't very popular, either. But this wasn't some paranoid, hard-ass Grandmaster, this was a fair fraction of those who'd been Blades.

Soldiers tended to get feisty when too many were punished, even if an entire group was to blame. Much better to make an example of the ringleaders of whatever mischief they'd gotten into as a warning to the rest of the troublemakers and to the entire unit. But the Forsworn weren't a part of the Dragonguard, not when they were about to be delegated to history. And soldiers liked nothing better than watching another unit get what was due to them, especially rivals. And the Dragonguard and the Forsworn would be rivals, if for however brief.

She turned to face the Dragonguard, her face grim serious but with an optimistic lilt to her eyes that she hope passed as excitement for the future rather than as a manic, murderous craze. "Well, Dragonguard, to new beginnings, and the death of the Forsworn."

Ulfric nearly fell off the bench when Uthgerd jumped over him to pummel the man-Tirod, he'd introduced himself as, Forsworn, he'd realized with no small anger-next to him, the heat from his witchfire singing his face as it passed to explode at the top of the stairs. Where the Dragonborn addressed the Dragonguard, identified quite a few Forsworn around the table including Tirod next to him, and then nearly had her head melted from her body. Where she most definitely wasn't standing now, not after Shouting something Ulfric didn't quite catch either for her horrible, mangled pronunciation of Dov or for his own preoccupation with getting out of the way of an errant spell and a pouncing, furious Uthgerd.

No, she definitely wasn't standing at the top of the stairs, or dodging or casting her own spell back at the Witch, because she was beside him, thrusting a sword through Tirod's jaw too casually, coming from the wrong way to have just been at the stairs. And the Dragonborn was moving…strangely. Too fast, too fluid, too…otherworldly; he'd never seen anything like it. That Shout… She sprinted past him too fast, but slower with every step. She met his eyes as she passed to another standing Forsworn, breaking the stare at the last second to focus on where to point her sword.

She braced her hilt against her body, finally coming to an unsettling stop when she ran the man through. Ulfric almost missed when she struggled to sheathe her sword-she held it in the wrong hand-Uthgerd kicked hard in his lap as she tackled Tirod. Rather, what was left of Tirod. He gurgled, slumped over his empty plate, then pushed over to the floor with Uthgerd. Blood smeared over the table, the bench, the floor, splattering when Uthgerd punched him once before realizing he was either dead or as good as it.

Confusion rose, shouts of alarm, whispers, gasps; Ulfric looked up to see more death around the table. Some had rushed to bodies thrown far from the table, abdomens missing in gorey splatter on food, clothes, stone. He turned away from Uthgerd and Tirod, watching her curse and take in the body beneath her. The Dragonborn turned, barely a drop of blood on her for all the death she'd no doubt caused.

A commander's smile graced her face; wild optimism that was usually faked to rally troops before a battle was completely genuine in a determined twist. She looked like she had just given a hell of a speech and knew it. "Well, Dragonguard, to new beginnings," she spoke firmly, silencing whispers and demanding attention, "and the death of the Forsworn."

And she locked eyes with him again; Ulfric barely caught the question she asked there. 'Do you believe me? Do you trust my word?' Ulfric tilted his head-yes. And she lectured the Dragonguard, outlining how Delphine had been going behind her back for months, how her paranoia reached a breaking point, how she would be returning soon with dragons to put an end to the Forsworn. And she offered one last opportunity to leave.

"But," she warned, "only leave if you do not want your name in song."

Estormo slammed the door shut behind him collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, rubbing his hands together to create some sort of spark that would save him from freezing to death in this damnable tomb. The skeletons were barely-held together necromancy, the trolls were some trouble but few in number, but an undead dragon-that had thrown him for a loop. The chamber shook, the dragon still trying to fit through that little tunnel, "Fo-!"

He winced as ice crept over the door, but it stayed comfortably shut. A dragon. A literal dragon had crawled out of the ground, an undead dragon-Estormo didn't even want to think about the kind of Necromancer that could pull that off. He coughed and swallowed around the taste of blood in his mouth, wishing he'd brought more than a single magicka potion with him.

Even more, he wished Ancano would just send a message so he could respond and tell him about the Labyrinth, how those Synods had led him right to the only other place in Skyrim that held an artifact anywhere near the power of the Eye. Another month had passed without any correspondence, not even a 'no news' note appeared under his pillow. Middas after Middas had come and gone; Ancano had never gone longer than five weeks without sending anything. But he'd wait until ten passed to be concerned, and more to break orders and contact first. With Skyrim's stupid war over, the Dominion would be moving in, Ancano would be busy.

It was somewhat warm in the chamber, he realized after the dragon's chill had left him, and not very much dirt and dust layered the floor. A well-preserved ruin, all things considered, locked off from the world for however many years the Nords considered to be ancient. He struggled to his feet, directing a bit of magicka to his left ankle. He'd twisted it somewhere between tumbling to the ground as a dragon upturned the earth beneath him and scrambling to an exit after it became clear that he was no match for the beast.

He tested his weight on his foot, taking a gentle step, then another, then standing up straight to return to his normal gait and find another way out of the cursed place that didn't involve hauling ass past the dragon behind him. Upon Auriel's own, there was a skeletal dragon in a Nord tomb. A Nord had likely done that!

He dropped to his knees at the revelation-no, he'd been stabbed through the gut, through his heart, he was vomiting all over himself and bleeding from his eyes. His bones ached, his skin burned, his flesh crawled-magicka fatigue. Acute, advanced fatigue that only hit foolish novices determined to work beyond their skill, Battlemages who gave their literal all to protect their comrades, burning up in a pyre to Magnus, leaving behind a hollow shell of a body.

Estormo would take the dragon any day over this kind of death. He hadn't used much of his magicka at all, but here he was, curling in on himself in a puddle of blood and vomit and piss and he didn't even care. He just wanted to rip himself apart, set himself on fire, eat himself alive, anything to get the pain to stop-

And it did, as suddenly as it had hit him, he felt fine. Tired, tingly, but fine compared to what he'd just felt. Estormo catalogued himself; the deep, stabbing throb in his heart remained, a tingle of lightning ghosting over his skin. Mild magicka fatigue, then. But…what in Oblivion had just caused…that? He sat up, brushing the worst of the sick and dirt from his robes with shaky hands.

Outright pain, suffering was replaced with deep-seated dread; something had caused that. Something had resurrected a dragon, something was keeping all these undead alive for hundreds, thousands of years. And when the coarse, torrid words hit his mind, sounding miles away and inside his ears all at once, he gave up trying to dispel any Fear spell that he'd been cursed with. No, the fear he felt was very, very real. The magicka in the air was a palpable, thick slush that froze him to his core, bit away at his skin-

"Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?"

Chapter Text

Perhaps she should've been more concerned with how many would be waiting for their return, Ulfric thought. The poorly-masked looks of horror on a few of the Dragonguard's faces let him know that some of them had never seen slaughter before, never war. So many of them were young, too young to have known the Great War in anything but stories; Ulfric was almost jealous of the quiet looks a few of them shared. Little nods, whispers that would be passed in private amongst friends to decide their next move. And, Ulfric realized, probably without other friends that were growing colder every minute in the makeshift morgue deep inside the Temple.

It was meant to be a farm, the Dragonborn said after they carried the last body down, its earthen floor brought down from the surface in case Sky Haven was ever sieged, but it was a good enough gravesite. And then she muttered about gathering supplies for Skuldafn, made a door in a wall, and left. Left him and Uthgerd and three other Dragonguard--not Blades, he kept reminding himself--milling about in the farm-morgue-cemetery. But it was enough to bury the dead, more than enough after a wood elf raised the earth with a spell and they dropped the bodies in the dirt. They were covered again before Uthgerd had time to say a few words.

They weren't very sentimental words; even if she wasn't trying to pretend like the dead had never been part of the Blades, it was obvious from the generalities that she'd never gotten to know the Forsworn beyond a few pleasantries. She dropped a few names, said a few deeds, and doomed them to whatever afterlife the Forsworn would go to. It certainly wouldn’t be Sovngarde, for most of them. Ulfric counted three Nords among them, Nords that betrayed their people for witchery and banditry.

But the number that were packing sacks, talking under their breath or above the wind to one another, Ulfric couldn't say he wasn't concerned for the number that were lighthearted. Ten or so sharpened their blades in the courtyard as Ulfric waited for the Dragonborn to gather what they'd need in Skuldafn (he couldn't say he didn’t feel a little useless for not helping her, but she was the one who'd disappeared through a magical door that even Uthgerd hadn't known about), obviously stalling to see what kind of dragon they left on, chattering loudly about how they were glad the Forsworn's days were numbered.

"All I'm saying, sir," a particularly outspoken Nord man said, "is that it's about time those witches got what's coming to them. I was just a boy during the Markarth Incident, and my Da nearly had to tie me down to keep me from running off when your soldiers came through." He tested his axe against the wood pillar supporting the patio. "Honored to fight for you again, against the witches this time."

"You were a Stormcloak?" Ulfric asked. A wood elf snorted behind him, punctuating three chuckles with three arrows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man had hit a bullseye on three different targets.

"Yeah, I am," he replied. "Me, Erich, Ysdor, and Astel all held Fort Amol until the very end. Got captured, too, but Astel used to be a thief--"

"Shut up, Imming!" A man, Astel, Ulfric figured, tossed a honing steel at Imming. He turned apologetically to Ulfric. "I was a lockbreaker for the Blackbriars, when they lost keys to money shipments and things." Ah, so he facilitated thievery, whether he knew it or not. "I slipped us right out of those cuffs, and we ran--"

"We ran right back to Windhelm!" Imming cut him off, swiping his axe through the air in punctuation. "To send warning that Amol had fallen. But the siege had already started, so we turned around and hauled ass halfway across the country, to my home near Sunderstone Gorge. We were nearly eaten by a dragon, too, if Uthgerd and Delphine hadn't showed up."

"Sometimes I wonder if we should've let that dragon fill its belly," Uthgerd called, pushing open the Temple doors and holding the thick stone slabs in place with a metal stake pressed into the ground. "Stances!"

The Dragonguard jumped into formation, a tight uneven grid underneath the patio. They stood at a stiff rest; Ulfric could easily pick out the ones who'd served in an army, his or the Legion, by their comfort in the position. Others, like that wood elf, stood with a nervous stick down their spines, their arms. Not quite locking their knees, but close enough that Ulfric knew they hadn't had anyone pass out yet from standing at attention for hours on end.

"Up!" At Uthgerd's word, they snapped to guard. Weapons raised, loose, comfortable. Ready to attack or defend or drop and run. Ulfric nodded in approval, wondering if he should step in to correct the footing of a woman with a greatsword.

"Stance!" Another voice, Ulfric turned to see Salma approaching the patio. Her arms were crossed and her eyebrows knitted together. The Dragonguard moved back to their rest posture, much more proper than before. "Watch your leg, Arentia." The woman with the greatsword shuffled one foot outward. "Cover!" The Dragonguard dropped to kneels, hands and weapons moving to cover their necks. "New stance, that one," Salma said under her breath. "A few were burned alive by a dragon."

Ulfric doubted the stance would offer a load of protection against a dragon that knew how to aim its Voice. Salma passed him a small parcel wrapped in rough cloth. He glanced inside--it was full of pastries and bunches of juniper berries. He'd've been more grateful if he still had an appetite after the morning's…excitement, but he couldn't meet her eyes or do much more than mumble a 'thanks'.

"Stance, pairs!" Salma shouted. Uthgerd walked through the ranks, swapping sparring partners as she saw fit. "Form two." One partner at a time moved in a harsh flow; Ulfric could see the unifying fundamentals at play even as each Dragonguard adapted the specifics to fit their weapon. Greatswords and axes and even the wood elf's bow all marked the same beats, the partner on defense catching every strike just before it was too late. And then the defending partner took up an offense that was almost the same, the tone of the movements jarringly different even if the stances seemed to mirror their partners'.

The second round of forms finished, and both in the pairs repeated their form, both attacking. Attacking to defend, what had looked like an easy strike turned to a parry under the new context, what seemed to be a stab was a dodge. The Dragonguard repeated this form until Uthgerd did one last sweeping glance, and nodded to Salma. "Form eleven."

Back to one attacking at a time, they began to weave in and out of each other in fit of dance-like footwork. Circles in circles in lines--Ulfric was glad he wasn't caught in the center of the group. He wished he could see this 'form eleven' exercise with enough people to fill the courtyard, and from above.

Uneven footsteps behind him, Ulfric turned to find the Dragonborn plodding along, her staff contributing to her odd rhythm. Her oversized Graybeard robes were speckled with damp spots; she'd taken the time to almost remove the blood, leaving only dark outlines around where it had started to try at the edges before she got to it. A single satchel was tossed over one shoulder, the shoulder that he hadn't just slapped back into place with a firm hand disguised as a standard back-pat between allies to show support for what she'd done at breakfast--two larger bags floated behind her, encased in a red spell.

She observed the Dragonguard with a nod. "Do you want to try calling Odahviing?"

"Even if I thought it'd work, no." He tried to keep his face clear of any surprise that she knew how to move things with magic. He'd thought she was a near-pure ice mage. "He'd eat me alive for daring to call him."

"Hmm. Good point. Ready to go?" Ulfric nodded, and the Dragonborn steeled herself on the stones, leaning hard into her staff before she even inhaled. The bags dropped to the ground with a clanging thud. "ODAHVIING!"

Near instantly, Odahviing appeared on the horizon. Had he been waiting in the mountains to be called? He roared, shaking pebbles in the stones. The Dragonborn leaned further into her staff, knees almost failing beneath her.

"Hold!" Uthgerd yelled, trying to keep control as the Dragonguard were rightfully distracted by the quick appearance of a dragon that took up an easy half of the courtyard. "Gods damn you all, how will you fare against one that wants to kill you? Hold! Form seven!"

They almost recovered focus, only to be thrown off when Odahviing landed, shaking the courtyard. "Drem yol lok."

"Take us to Skuldafn," the Dragonborn ordered.

Odahviing chuckled. "Frin fah Oblaan, Dovahkiin?" (Eager for death, Dovahkiin?) He cast his gaze to the patio, eyeing the training Dragonguard. They were off their rhythm, more focused on the dragon than their sparring partners. "I am not surprised you cannot find death here." Despite his taunting, he lowered his head for her to climb on. A rope wove its way around his middle, guided by that same red magic. The dragon huffed at his cargo, smoke rising from his nostrils. His head swiveled around to face him, as she settled in. "Sahvot hi fen nahlaas Ahst Dovahhof, joor?" (Think you'll survive in a dragon's home, mortal?)

"Zu mindok hi pruzah deinmaar, Odahviing," (I know you're a great host, Odahviing.) Ulfric replied, making sure to step hard on one of the dragon's scales as he climbed up. "Zu nid faas." (I have nothing to fear.)

"Mu fen mindok." (We will see.)

"Shut up and fly," the Dragonborn snapped. "I want to make it by sundown." Ulfric hoped they'd be taking breaks; flying from Whiterun to Sky Haven Temple was half the distance, and his fingers were still sore from hanging on for his life. At least this time she'd given him a rope to hold on to. Ulfric slipped his bag of pastries into one of the sacks and secured it down.

"As you wish, Thuri." Odahviing took off roughly, almost shaking Ulfric from his back. He wrapped the rope around his hand once, twice until it was taught around the dragon's middle and he felt that even if he lost his grip, he'd miraculously stay on.

Despite leaving midmorning and true to Odahviing's word, it was nearing twilight when Odahviing finally dipped into a descent. The rope dug into his skin after hours of rubbing against his gloves, his legs were numb from sitting for so long, his face burned from the cold wind. And he hadn't even gotten to view Skyrim from above; Odahviing's massive wings and body blocked what view the clouds didn't. At the very least, Ulfric dared to snack on the pastries Salma gave him throughout the trip, adjust his posture every so often to keep his thighs from burning in a kneel, knees locked in a cross. The rope gave him a bit of confidence that he wouldn't fall to his death if the dragon decided to switch up his smooth gliding to buck them both off.

He looked at the Dragonborn, unmoving at the base of Odahviing's skull. She'd kept a casual-looking grip on one horn at a time since their takeoff, switching every hour or so, the other hand always digging in a pouch at her side, withdrawing some pastry or fruit or other bitesize piece of food every so often for the first few hours of their trip. After the pouch was limp and empty, she clenched her fist rhythmically. She'd barely moved otherwise.

Odahviing roared, other dragons joining in horrible Shouts as they circled over, under, to the side--hundreds of them. Dragons swarming like rats on a ship, beggars to skooma. Thousands.

She was insane for this, taking them to a dragon's den. And he was just as insane for going without a second thought.

Odahviing spiraled down, coming to a heavy landing in a courtyard large enough to fit a keep in multiple times over, framed on three sides by high, sharp peaks, a fourth by a steep drop into a carved city. Ancient barrow architecture was built into the cliffs, and it spread below them in a sprawling city that took up the entire valley, rising onto the mountains. Dragons sprawled on every spare cliff table the Velothi mountains had to offer, others perched directly on the arches and roofs of Skuldafn, more idly flying in the sky. Ulfric picked up on far away Dov as they conversed amongst themselves, the occasional fiery Shout rolling off one dragon to another.

And it wasn't just a dragon's den, Ulfric realized, focusing on innumerable bright blue pinpoints of eyes bobbing, wandering, walking around on the undead. Draugr of all dress and decay occupied every level of the city, fifty at least waiting on the courtyard below Odahviing, staring up at them.

Two in flowing gowns, floating gowns, preserved well enough that Ulfric could see the memory of fullness in their sunken cheeks, idled before a century's worth of kneeling undead soldiers. They raised their hands towards Odahviing. "Dral pruzah, Drogi," (Welcome back, my lord.) the two said in scraping unison, jaws hanging open on the words.

The Dragonborn slid down from Odahviing's neck, catching her fall on her staff. The draugr instantly jumped to attention, drawing swords and readying spells, snarling at her. "Dar los Alduin kriid!" (This is Alduin's slayer!) Odahviing roared, twisting his body and neck to put himself between her and the draugr. The sudden jolt of movement almost threw Ulfric from his back. "Zin, Dovahsilii. Thuriil eril dinok." (Respect her; she possesses the Soul of a dragon. She is your ruler until death.)

And the draugr nodded, falling back to kneels. "Zok krosis, Thuru." (Greatest apologies, our lord.) The Dragonborn shrugged--she had no idea what was being said. Perhaps that was why she'd brought him to Skuldafn, to act as her translator. Ulfric slid down Odahviing's wing, steadying himself with one hand on the dragon until his knees stopped shaking under his own weight.

"Drem yol lok, Odahviing," a dragon hovered above, golden scales catching every single ray of early sunset. "Pah shul grind, Dovahkiin. Joor." (Nice to meet you, Dovahkiin. Mortal.) Ulfric supposed the dragon would've devoured him on the spot if he hadn't arrived alongside Odahviing and the Dragonborn. "Nust lost meyz zaam hi. Ni prodah." (They have made a slave of you. Not surprising.)

"Mul pah aar, Qokrenvul," (We are all servants, Qokrenvul,) Odahviing snarled back. "Dovahkiin, Shout this fool from the sky."

"Joor, zah frul!" The Dragonborn Shouted. Ulfric never thought he'd be jumping towards draugr, but he pounced back, almost crashing into the undead on his unsteady legs as Odahviing writhed and flailed under her Shout. "Don't ever think you can order me around."

Qokrenvul laughed above them, dropping down to a landing. "Tinvaak hi Dovahzul?" (Do you speak the dragon language?) He was smaller than Odahviing by a large margin, maybe half the size of him. Still, a cow could easily fit in his mouth without harm. The draugr in the robes floated cautiously towards Ulfric--perhaps they thought both of them were Dragonborn? No, Dovahsilii was singular; he was safe by association with a dragon and a half. They thought him a dragon priest, like the dragon on the road from Riften?

"Nid," she replied. He hoped the dragons missed how heavily her shoulders moved with each breath. She tilted her head to Ulfric. "He does."

Qokrenvul sighed deeply, not even seeming to notice Ulfric. "I can smell him on you. Alduin. Mirmulnir, Kriivaalneh, Yahgrahviin, Nahviintas, Joorahmar…I could list the names for hours. You kill us, and now you are here in peace, Odahviing claims."

"I'm here in peace to lead you to war."

"Ah," Odahviing shivered around the word, shaking out his wings like a dog caught in the rain, "I was wondering why I'd been called so soon. We revel in war."

"Not under the command of a mortal." Qokrenvul spat, lunging for Odahviing and Shouting. The Dragonborn fell out of the way of a spray of blue fire, lightning crackling over Odahviing's scales. The heat from it burned.

Odahviing took the full force of the Shout, a low roll in his throat as the flames died down. And he Shouted back, much, much hotter, fiercer, longer. The Dragonborn scrambled to her feet, holding an arm over her face as she rushed away cursing. Qokrenvul was retreating before Odahviing's Shout was finished. "Krosis. Apologies. Qokrenvul has been challenging my authority almost daily after my…devotion to your service. He is my Second, currently."

"And you just let him rebel?" Ulfric wished he'd kept his mouth shut as soon as the words left his lips. Odahviing's attention was on him, the fury of having to remind his second of his place fresh. No, he did not let the other dragon rebel. The Dragonborn startled, that red spell untying the bags from around Odahviing. They tumbled to the ground, and she doused the smoldering bags in a small cloud of snow.

"The Dov respect strength, and strength only. Any below may challenge any above at any time," Odahviing explained. His breath was hot; embers flew from each word. "The ancient hierarchy has been broken by years of horrible, horrible rot for many of us. Those of us Alduin restored have had to fight our way back to our rightful places--the Dov who rose to prominence by escaping our kind's slaughter do not wish to yield. Positions may be stable in a century, I believe is your mortal measure. Before then, yes. The weak rebel against the strong, and sometimes they prove themselves stronger."

"So, even if I were to meet your lieutenants, they may change before we leave to campaign?" the Dragonborn asked. Her hands shook around her staff, stomach grumbling loud enough that Ulfric heard it twenty feet away.

Odahviing snorted, a puff of smoke rising from his nostrils. "A lieutenant is such a foolish word. I am the First. I have a Second, a Third, a Fourth, so on in the natural order of strength. I control them all. Qokrenvul controls all beneath him. So it is, down to our weakest."

"Interesting," she muttered. "And I control you. So, I am the First. You are the Second. Don't forget that." They both growled at each other before she continued. "But there are no…groups that take orders as one?"

"If more than one Dov is given the same order, then they follow it as one," Odahviing answered. "But in the mortal way of making groups to throw yourselves at an enemy, no. We have found no reason to, even during the Great Rebellion."

"I suppose dragons don't have much need for a standing army," Ulfric mentioned.

"We are not bound to the ground as you. Armies were only created to fight the Dov," Odahviing said, pivoting his massive body to follow his head, forming a physical barrier between them and the dragons creeping down the cliffside to watch the spectacle. "Watch yourself, joor, that you are not eaten by the weakest of us. Perhaps it's best for you to disguise yourself as a sonaak, a priest of the Dov, and do whatever we say."

Ulfric rest his hand on his sword, just in case. "I'll do what I please, and you'll do what she says."

"We'll meet with you and the five directly below you at dawn," she said, looking around and fishing in her satchel. "Here will do." She pulled out a cube of smoked meat and popped it in her mouth, barely chewing before her throat bobbed to swallow. "How many do you number?"

"Thousands."

"An exact count, at dawn," she ordered. Another piece of meat disappeared into her mouth.

"Exact count of what, Dovahkiin?" Odavhiing replied. "The Dov that find themselves loyal to you? That number will always be zero."

"Exact count of dragons loyal to the vahzen (rightness) of my Thu'um, Odahviing," the Dragonborn snapped back. "You do what I say, loyal or not, and I'll Shout any dragon out of the sky that dares question either one of us. My Thu'um is the strongest here. If you need me to remind you again, go ahead and ask."

He growled, a low exhale that fluttered her robes. "You find yourself in the line of power, little Dovahkiin. Do not forget that any of us can test your rule at any time. Quoting the Old One will not save you from our ways."

The Dragonborn growled in return, slamming her staff on the ground. The Draugr snapped to attention behind her, behind Ulfric. "I welcome any challenge, and I'm sure Qokrenvul and the rest of the dragons would love to see how that turns out for you," she spat. "A count. At dawn. You do not forget that no other dragon has had the goodwill of surviving a battle with me. I will cut out your Tongue and leave you wishing you could comprehend death."

"When Bormahuii (our father's) goodwill for you runs dry, I shall find your immortal Soul in the afterlife and ask how you comprehend it," Odahviing replied. "Now, thuri, I must begin my count."

The two had a staring match long enough that Ulfric clenched his hand around his sword, the tension in their shoulders rolling off in palpable waves. "Dismissed," the Dragonborn finally said, "you overgrown serpent." Odahviing made a motion with his mouth that almost resembled a smile, whipping around and nearly crashing his tail into them. He slinked off the side of the courtyard, pouncing and crawling through the city below with too much grace for a being bigger than most houses. "I've decided I hate him."

You hate everyone that dares to question you, Ulfric thought, his mouth open to speak before he bit his tongue. She watched Odahviing move through wide streets, climbing on buildings and weaving under archways. "Well, I'd rather deal with him than…these." He nodded towards the draugr. Their dead eyes stared at him, through him. Unnerving.

She turned to glance over them, her eyebrows knitted in a deep scowl. "Yes, well, at least they're not trying to kill us." One of her bags floated over to him, past him, dropping in front of the two robed draugr. "Embalming tools," she said. The draugr kept deathly still at attention, staring at her with those icy blue eyes. "For you. A gift."

They didn't move. "I don't think they speak Cyrodiilic," Ulfric said. Why should they? Dragon Cultists sealed off from the rest of the world well before the Second Era, by all accounts. The two in robes floated uncomfortably close to him; they smelled of salt and dust and cracked leather. "Why would you give them embalming tools?" The question was more to figure out why she would think to bring such things to a barrow; salts and oils were often part of regular offerings given by living descendants of those entombed.

Draugr, Ulfric never liked to think about how many of his ancestors were walking around. It wasn't impossible that some of them were standing behind him staring at the Dragonborn with glowing eyes, almost an impossibility that none were in Skuldafn. Unsettling, horrible creatures, much worse than when they were trying to kill him for trespassing in Korvanjund. The sterile, sleeping dead in the barrows he ritually blessed in the name of Arkay and Shor could never prepare him for standing among so many.

"Look at them! They're about to fall apart!" She said, throwing a hand out at the draugr. "Tell them it's a gift."

Ulfric turned. The draugr had floated closer--he could reach out and touch them if he wanted. He turned back. "Why haven't you bothered to learn Dov?"

"I've been fairly busy since I came to Skyrim," the Dragonborn huffed. "Just tell them."

He sighed, shook his head, and spoke. "Drem yol lok, fahdonu. Het ofaniil, fah kun slen dilon." (Hello, our friends. Here is a gift for you, embalming tools.)

The robed draugr nodded in understanding. "Drem yol lok, Dovahsilii ahrk sonaakii aar. Zok kogaanu." (Greetings, she who has the Soul of a Dragon and her servant dragon priest. We offer many thanks.) They spoke in unison, cracked voices around cracked, unmoving tongues. "Pogaan bok mu grind mun se sahvotu." (It has been many ages since we have welcomed another of our faith.)

"They think we're dragon cultists," Ulfric translated. She didn't need to know that they'd decided he was a servant--slave by a harsher translation. But that's how the cultists tended to describe anything that wasn't a dragon; everything was done to serve the dragons. Or, that's how scholars described the cultists. One of the draugr snarled a command, and two soldiers shuffled forward to carry the bag back into their ranks.

"Ask them what the best way to the city proper is. They have tons of intact homes there," she said. "Bed rolls are in the other bag, if you'll help me carry it. I'm almost out of magicka for today."

"I would've carried them earlier, if you'd asked," Ulfric muttered, shouldering the bag. She made no indication that she heard him, and he didn't know if he wanted her to.

Chapter Text

The draugr led them inside a carved chamber and city that dwarfed Sky Haven Temple. The walls weren't as ornately decorated, but totemic pillars reached high above their heads, channeling smoke from fires burning along their bases. The tiered city of Skuldafn was mirrored inside, growing grander as the main road inside the mountains deepened. And deepened. And deepened. Buildings rose two, three stories along the road, side roads disappearing every so often to other parts of the city. Ulfric was almost struck with the knowledge that Skuldafn wasn't even close to the largest dragon cult stronghold.

But, he was exhausted from a day of keeping himself upright, always prepared if Odahviing would suddenly toss them like an unbroken horse. Exhausted after a night of poor sleep; another night of poor sleep in a long string of nights with horrible sleep. And the Dragonborn looked just as exhausted, having started her morning with the beginnings of a massacre that would rival his from twenty years ago.

The thought of her finishing two wars that he had started left a sour taste in his mouth.

Finally, the draugr saw fit to lead them into a temple, ancient and imposing, carved in that grand Nordic style that Windhelm was built from. The Dragonborn must have noticed it, too, judging from the uneasy look over her shoulder she gave him as they paused at the entrance.

The draugr opened the massive doors for them--a dragon had no reason to do her own manual labor, one of the priests explained-- revealing a grand hall decorated in flaked gold leaf, sparkling with thousands of gems. A full-sized statue of a dragon in flight took up the center of the temple, offering trays of incense and overflowing with gold and gems laid at regular intervals along the circular dais it rested on.

Tiered stairs wove around the walls, apexing on the opposite side of the entrance. And a real dragon dozed in the corner, opening one eye lazily. The draugr bowed in his direction, and the dragon huffed back to sleep. One of the escorting priests floated above the dragon statue to the top of the stairs, knocking on the door with the heel of his hand.

The doors opened with the same red spell that the Dragonborn had been using earlier, and a dragon priest in tattered golden robes emerged, looking far better preserved than the rest of the draugr, greeting them with a snarl that, after a quick explanation from the other draugr, became a comparably pleasant-sounding drem yol lok and an introduction that her name was Koraav. And then she stumbled along Ulfric's name, confused that he didn't have a title like the Dovahkiin did. Aavii, her servant, she decided.

"Deinii," Ulfric firmly corrected, even if calling himself her Guard, predecessor to Housecarl, gave him a weight in his stomach. It wasn't lightened knowing that the Dragonborn had no idea what he was calling himself. Better than her servant, even if that was the technicality of his position, even if she saw him as some twisted near-equal. Definite equal. The dragon cult would never accept a Nord to be on the same level of someone with a dragon's Soul.

Koraav led them to a neglected, cobwebbed, dusted room that had once housed the lower priests in life, a room that connected easily to both the catacombs and the main temple. It was a sparse place--the dead had no use for such a living-oriented space--ten metal bedframes on either side of a moth-eaten rug, ironically embroidered with Kyne's moths, desks and wardrobes for each priest that had once called the place home.  The draugr soldiers laid down the bag of supplies, most continuing on to the catacombs, four moving to stand at attention at the open temple doors, another four getting to work making the room somewhat presentable for the living, a final two carrying wood to hearths and lighting them with a spell.

Ulfric almost felt bad when a draugr's finger fell behind as he shut the catacomb doors. And then he felt worse--that had been someone's son, it could be his however-many-greats uncle for all he knew. They'd been forgotten for centuries; he'd known and done nothing about it while he went about respecting and honoring the more stationary, easy to access dead.

The Dragonborn made short work of leaning her staff against a wardrobe, digging in the bag for the bedrolls, setting them aside, digging again until she pulled out a sack of food. Traveling food; preserved meats and hard cheeses and dried fruits, all foods that Ulfric had grown sick of decades ago. She ate like she had been starving for days. Handfuls at a time disappeared. "Are you alright?"

"Magicka fatigue," she replied, like that explained everything. She must've caught his blink, interpreting it as confusion rather than understanding, continuing thickly around a mouthful, "It happens to mages when we run low on magicka." Swallow. "Some get headaches, nosebleeds. Some get…get nauseated. Others, starving." She shuddered around a bite. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed before now. I've probably eaten my body weight every day since going to the Temple of Kynareth. Don't usually replace breakfast with a potion, though."

"I saw it in Whiterun," Ulfric reminded her, before the Porch. He prayed she wouldn't pass out for a day; the Draugr eyes were piercing even if he knew they couldn't understand a word he was saying. "Has it been that red spell?"

"Telekinesis? No, no," she said. She started to grab more food, pausing and clenching her fist instead. "I've been healing myself each day, and I used more magicka this morning than I meant to. And, you're not supposed to take magicka potions multiple times a day. But, I'm alright, much better compared to a week ago."

"I didn't know you could use spells that weren't…ice." He didn't know what the technical name for them was, but Ulfric hoped that was enough to prod her into explaining. He had her honestly on his side; she would do about anything to get him to trust her.

"I was a Battlemage. Certainly you've seen a few in war," the Dragonborn replied, and she seemed unwilling to continue. Ulfric was almost unwilling to hear her out, even if she did. Battlemages were…deadly. He refused all but Wuunferth during the Great War, citing how similar their techniques were to the Thalmor Justiciars. Rage, Battlefury, artificial health coursing through his veins as if he were still on muddy, bloody fields decades ago-- "I'm more specialized than most, but I still have an amount of general knowledge in the magical arts."

He nodded, letting it sit at that. Ulfric didn't want to discuss what a Battlemage should and shouldn't know, how he'd seen them sunder and kill and rip flesh from bone on the battlefield. How the Draugr's pinprick blue eyes stared ahead at nothing, straight through him. Ulfric busied himself inspecting the carvings on the wall, letting the ancients' totemic gods wash over him, judge him.

"Let me teach you Dragonrend," she suddenly said, breaking a long bit of silence.

Ulfric scoffed before he realized what she'd said. "You've no idea what it takes for the rest of us to learn to Shout."

"Let me at least try." He looked at her, meeting adamant determination with his own skepticism. "The Greybeards gifted me knowledge, and I think I could try and do the same to you."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow.

"I saw you on the Great Porch; you realized what I was doing to Odahviing," the Dragonborn said. "At least try. It might save your life, if one of these dragons gets some stupid ideas."

Joor zah frul. Mortal. Finite. Temporary.

Words that rarely showed up in ancient dragon cult texts, never appeared in any sort of Shout. Joor, that curse they'd both been taunted with by Odahviing.

Words that brought dragons to their knees, Alduin to his death.

Words that he knew damn well. Years spent wasted in captivity had taught him that, ruling over ungrateful Elves that would long outlast him had given him some knowledge of just how they cursed him over watered down drinks.

Temporary. His life on Nirn was nothing but a few decades to spend, to do his part and hope that his successor--Freewinter--would do something to honor that life. But other than that? He had no successor, none that would fight for his Clan. The Stormcloak line ended with him, a legacy thousands of years in the making.

Finite. Not a thing could stop the Wheel from turning upon his death, sooner or later, he didn't care in the slightest. He wished he cared, almost cared. Cared only as much as he could improve his position in life.

Mortal. The curse both he and the Dragonborn shared. Him more than she; with her divine mantling. The best he could hope for was Sovngarde, the worst awaiting her was reincarnation thousands of years in the future to some other hotheaded Soul. The worst he could pray against was to be sundered by Tsun, his Soul cast into fragments along with thousands of others.

Yes, he knew what the Words meant. He'd seen what they could do to an immortal dragon.

And he had no desire to make them suffer as they did to him.

But--"Alright, how do you suppose you'll teach me?" More of a curiosity than anything else. When the Graybeards had taught him the Words he knew, they left all but the barest definitions for him to discover on his own. They'd forced him to learn the true meanings through grueling meditations, long days and nights spent contemplating every possible way he could understand Force. Balance. Push. Weapon. Hand. Defeat. It was no wonder he'd gotten better at Disarming over the years.

She bit her cheeks. "I think you already know the Words."

He did. But to embrace such a horrid consequence--Ulfric could hardly bear to imagine how much agony it brought to a dragon. That agony he'd have to embody to Shout at a dragon, to leave it in an excruciating truth that the rest of the world experienced without a second thought.

"You have to accept it," the Dragonborn said, like she knew what he was thinking. Perhaps she did, perhaps that was another of her Battlemage talents, perhaps she reveled in leading him to conclusions he'd thought he'd come up with himself. "What it does. What it feels like. Do you want to know what it feels like to a dragon?"

He hesitated, knowing how Odahviing suffered each time she decided to Shout at him. What it must be like to be timeless, immortal, to be faced with death. Death, Ulfric had faced too much. He nodded.

"Go ahead and Shout at me," she said, shifting her weight until she was almost centered. Her leg was still bothering her, her shoulder had been set back into its socket but pained her enough that she was taking great care to only move her arm below her elbow.

Ulfric had a sudden flashback to the last time he'd Shouted at her, sending her Daedric sword flying across his throne room the second she entered, Tullius and his other Legate behind her.

"Joor, zah frul!" he Shouted. Didn't Shout, not at all. His throat hadn't opened in the way it was supposed to, he hadn't felt the Words travel through his body and leap from his tongue. Ulfric tried again, "Joor, zah frul!" Nothing. "It probably doesn't work on people."

"Joor, zah frul!" The Dragonborn Shouted at him, and Ulfric felt his hair gray and his joints freeze, aches in his bones and dust in his throat. A second later, he felt…his right age again. "Did it work?" He must have paused a second too long before shaking his head, because she followed with, "It looked like it did. The ones who created the Shout, they hated dragons with every fiber of their being. What do you hate that much?"

That Thalmor bitch--he didn't dare even think her name lest he break down in sobs, nausea. She didn't need to know how badly he was still affected by her. His arm tingled under bandages--the wounds had faded to pink scars that he couldn't bear to look at. Who else did he hate? The Thalmor. The Empire. Fools. How the Empire and the Elves saw fit to walk over whoever they wanted just to line their purses and weave gold into their tunics. Those who were content to wallow in pity rather than getting off their sorry asses to do something about it--

"Good. Try imagining that you're Shouting at that."

He did, and it didn't feel any different. "I told you; nobody can learn Shouts like you can," Ulfric said. "Give me a few months, and maybe I'll know the first Word."

"Let me at least try to teach you," she protested. "Do you know how the Graybeards did it?"

"How should I know?" It came out harsher than he intended it to, but he hadn't even known that was something the Graybeards could do. They loved keeping secrets from him. "I had to learn the proper way."

Her eyes twitched and she bit her lip. "Then let's meditate on the Words together. That's how the Graybeards--and Paarthurnax--taught me."

"It won't work."

"It'll at least be a start to your 'few months,'" she argued. "Got anything better to do? Want to go talk to the draugr? I think one of them looked a bit like you--"

"Fine. Let's try it," he nodded, more to get her to shut up than anything. Every day, she was getting closer to her normal ranty, bantery self, and Ulfric wasn't sure if he was excited to hear her go on and on about the gods knew what at most waking hours.

She nodded back, spreading out one of her bedrolls on the floor of the temple barracks. A cleaning draugr growled lightly in protest, more surprised than any malice in its tone. The Dragonborn sat down cross legged, gesturing for him to join her. "The Graybeards did this standing, in the snow, but I don't want to go back outside, and here's just as good as any other--"

Ulfric sat down, silencing her rambling. He placed himself on the far side of the bedroll, barely on the fabric. The stone floor was uncomfortable, and his armor did nothing to help. The plate pressed through to his thighs, a memory of Delphine's dagger stinging on his leg.

Her lips disappeared, fingers clenching and unclenching on her knees. "Now, breathe like a dragon."

"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" He pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside, resting his hands on his knees.

"Shut up and meditate."

Ulfric dropped into a meditation too easily out of pure fatigue; he skipped his normal rituals of counting down to a deeper, slower place within himself, instead falling right into a blank, empty darkness with the ease of a lifetime of practice. It had been his normal center for meditating for years, and a good reason for why he'd been slipping down to meditation multiple times a day, to once a day, to a few times a week, to maybe once a month. Gone were the snowy peaks overlooking Windhelm, only a dark void to keep him alone with his thoughts. Except the Dragonborn was there, across from him, sitting in the void. A good sign, that they were on the same vibration level.

She wasn't quite into her meditation yet, Ulfric could tell by the tension in her body. The stillness, deathly cold that held her firm in its grasp. He didn't dare coax her down as her translucent, shimmering Soul slowly expanded from her physical body until it rest just over her like an enchantment. The Dragonborn wrinkled her nose, shook her head, blinked. "What?"

He bit his tongue against a taunt about how long it had taken her to fall into meditation, an electrifying jolt against his right side from…"Nothing," he answered. "This is going well so far." Ulfric looked down at himself--he was wearing his Jarl's robes, rather than the ebony armor he was actually wearing. His throat thickened; he couldn't change his attire without her noticing, and that would invite questions of why he felt he still deserved a Jarl's attire, why his subconsious hadn't caught on to all the failures he'd faced over the past few months.

"You would say that," she replied, and instantly tried to take it back. She wore her same Graybeard robes, in touch with her physical self, no inward lying about her current state. Only, when she gestured with her hands, they were covered in fresh wounds. Her face was, too. Her lips were split at three different places, one eye swollen and bloodied to the point where the whites of her eyes weren't visible--she almost looked full-blooded Dark Elf. He didn't dare look down to check the state of his own wounds, scars. "Damn. Sorry, it's been a while since I've meditated with anyone. I forgot how things just…you know, spill out. I did this with Paarthurnax, last."

She really did have no idea what she was doing. This was stupid, beyond stupid, allowing her to try and show him how a dragon understood the very Shout designed to decimate them. "Concentrate," Ulfric found himself saying, extending his hands like he was the one teaching her and not the other way around. "Take it slowly. Simple. One Word at a time." Words he could just as easily hear Master Arngeir saying, soft voice clear over relentless winds in the monastery courtyard.

The Dragonborn placed a single fingertip on each of his palms, the lightest, barest, damning of touches.

Mortal. Mortal! I am  mortal,  like no other, like none before after evermore. I am  mortal . We are mortal. Mortal, a burning horrible failure,  we  are a failure, we will never be great, because we are  mortal , never im mortal,  never never never  never  never ! How awful it is to be doomed to death--we will never die, never. Living through tomes words tales legends praise worship. We will survive until time itself is doomed…but we are  mortal . We will  die  like the  worthless.

Ulfric yanked his hands back, shivering from the overwhelming assault of her energy towards his. The Dragonborn herself stayed in her meditation, eyes uncomfortably closed, arms outstretched, palms down. Connecting to him, not the other way around. She hadn't felt his discomfort--this is what she lived with constantly. And who was the we in her Soul? Some horrible shudder ran through him--a mortal dragon's understanding of what it meant to be Mortal. The Dragonborn muttered to herself, words running into each other so quickly that Ulfric couldn't comprehend. He listened a bit closer, she was speaking Dov, her understanding of the Words was in Dov. It made enough sense, he figured.

He considered returning from his meditation, breaking them both out of it. It was an easy return; they hadn't been meditating for long, and they were floating just under the surface of consciousness. The Dragonborn sat across from him, physically and spiritually in the same state. She'd gone deeper as she focused on the Words, a tension locked in her body, a shimmer as her Soul didn't quite match up with her body.

Ulfric stood and  circled her physical body, her spiritual body, looking for a single difference to note. Nothing. Not a hair out of place, her Soul looked like…her, not a dragon. He counted the months since Helgen, the months since the Graybeards had Shouted a summons to her--a far cry from the decades she'd need--they'd both need--to master the metaphysical side of Shouting.

No, her Soul was different, just in that ghostly wounds marred her soft hands, clean and smooth with new skin on her physical form. She sat with her palms down, unreceptive to any energy, wisdom the gods could send her way. Ulfric reached for her wrists to turn them over, so that he would be the one in control of receiving whatever she had to give--he had been trying to guide her through teaching a single Word of Power, why had it twisted into a near assault?

And he brushed against her wrists--

Finite. How we are limited in number. Limited in power. Yes, our power is finite. Finite. Finite! What a failure we are, to be nothing more than quantifiable power. Quantifiable numbers. We will never be true, true power. Limitless. We were destined to be limitless. Steal the gods, seal the gods, become the gods. How shall we take what is ours? How, how, how dare you keep us from our destiny? Destiny, written before the beginning of time, written by the gods we will overthrow. Delusion, he'd said, she'd made him say, was our--my destiny. Mine. And I will rule…finite. Bound by my body. How cruel it is that I have been blessed so, to be cursed with such horrible fate as death. My wealth will always be finite, my power will always be finite, my life…will always be…never enough…

Ulfric fell to his knees, sobbing. The sheer hopelessness she felt in the Shout…the sheer rage. At the gods, for cursing her to be a dragon in everything but body, at herself, just for being cursed. That fear, that pain. He choked on his tears, his own failures, his worthlessness…would be used to Shout down a dragon. To protect the good people of Skyrim against the dragons that wouldn't bow to her.

Rage, helplessness, that's where she drew power from. A legacy she never felt she could live up to; the legends of old are legendary for a reason. The Dragonborn was caught between two halves of herself--Ulfric wondered if she hated both. He certainly hadn't picked up on any positivity, but, granted, they were meditating on a horrible Shout that was created to destroy the very essence of dragons.

He dreaded going back in for the third Word, wondered if he should give it a rest and leave her to meditate by herself. Leaving her to…to this, what she embodied each time she Shouted Dragonrend. Hatred, for herself, the gods, Ulfric couldn't decide which was more prominent. Self-hatred, Ulfric could understand. He could use that, twist it into a Shout that would turn a dragon to dust. If her understanding of the last Word was more loathing, anger, disgust at herself, it would be no issue to take those feelings for himself.

The Dragonborn shuddered in her meditation, rolling her shoulders and baring her teeth. A low growl escaped her between curses in Dov he knew she didn't understand, not really. He sat down across from her once more, hesitating to make the connection for a third and final time. One more word, one more damned word. And then he'd be done forever. Maybe. This was probably all for nothing; all this hatred and pain and rage he felt rolling through her into him was nothing more than a way to waste an evening. How could he understand a dragon's--a Dragonborn's--understanding of Words of Power? This was a waste of time.

He opened his mouth to say as much, to break her from her meditation, but stopped. Here she was, baring her Soul to him. What she hated, what she craved, what she cursed--it had very little to do with dragons at all. Mostly it was about her, her failures to live up to impossible standards. Mantling Talos…she felt more pressure from that than from being Dragonborn, from being destined to slay Alduin. And it didn't seem much like she wanted to talk about it.

Ulfric stared at her outstretched hands for too long, listening to her whispered words, too quiet for him to understand. She'd made herself vulnerable, far too vulnerable to him. He could attack and kill her at any point, if he wanted revenge. She was foolish for leaving herself so utterly defenseless to him. For trusting him. Why in Oblivion did she trust him? Why had she always trusted him, from the second she tied him up and thrown him in his own dungeon?

Why did he trust her, despite everything she'd done to him?

He didn't even want to begin to consider the implications that he…he trusted the Dragonborn. Ulfric reached out and wrapped his hands around hers, feeling velvety beginnings of calluses along her palms, a harsh contrast to his rough hands. And he focused on that cold, snow-soft skin beneath his own before he let her pain, despair, hatred of the last Word wash over him.

Temporary. I am nothing but temporary. Akatosh has cursed his Lastborn with time, how dare he? The names of dragons are carved in stone, mine will rot on paper, slur on bardic tongues with each retelling until I am lost and forgotten and nothing. I steal Voices, Knowledge, Souls from the dragons, yet their years stay laughing, returned to our glorious father in a mockery of what I could achieve were I not  cursed  to be temporary. My rule will falter, a joke from the gods, a mockery that Talos would be an Elf, Akatosh would abandon me to be nothing but a gilded stain upon time--Akatosh and his children shall pay for what he has done. I will steal the centuries from the dragons--their Voices are mine, their Knowledge is mine, their Souls are mine. I am temporary, how dare time refuse to bow before me. How dare they refuse to bow.

Yes, how dare the dragons refuse to bow to her? Completely bow, as all should? How dare he not bow to her?

He tore his hands from hers, a lingering feeling of loss ghosting over his body even as he forced himself out of the meditation. Ulfric took deep, uneven breaths, waiting for her to return from the meditation. Her knowledge of the Words was so overwhelming, painful, he wondered if he'd gotten anything out of it beyond unease and a feeling like he'd been stabbed through his heart. He watched her, no longer seeing that shimmering overlay of her Soul, as she remained meditating on the words for another minute, ten minutes, maybe an hour. Long enough that the Draugr contented themselves with the cleanliness of the room, long enough that they had to return to stoke the fire.

And he kept watching as he face slowly knotted itself into a scowl, tears falling soundlessly from one eye, the other, in time with her slow, rattling breathing. Finally, she opened her eyes, blinking back into full consciousness. "Did that help?" She asked, pressing her palms to the floor to ground herself. Ulfric shrugged, and regretted it. She looked away to inspect the metal bedframe next to her, dust still coating the carvings of moths along the bronze detailing.

He wanted to say something, reassure her that her fears and self-hatred was unfounded but…even if he knew where to begin, he'd never been one for comforting others. He'd never been one for being comforted, either; the horrors he'd faced had no upside, no matter what soft-hearted Senators wanted to put a medal on him for, what healers claimed was for the greatest good. She wasn't looking for sympathy, no. She was looking for revenge. Revenge for wrongs that had been written before the beginning of time, and he had no idea what to say to that.

Instead, he Shouted at her, "Joor, zah frul!"

She screamed, fell to her side and writhed on the floor, draugr doorguards snapping to attention and snarling towards them. The Dragonborn clawed at her throat, her stomach, seizing in horrible motions that made Ulfric cringe and curse, lunging forwards to hold her head still after it cracked on the stone floor. She coughed, vomited blood onto herself, her chin, and choked on her own sick; he tilted her head sideways and yelled at the draugr to bring a healer, a potion, an anything--

The Dragonborn coughed again, her shaking turned to shivering. She relaxed limp beneath him, eyes rolling listlessly around the room before she finally blinked slowly, focusing on him, swearing that she was fine. "I…think it helped," he said. He decided that, in her state, she didn't notice how his voice cracked. He also decided that his voice only cracked because of how rarely he Shouted; his throat wasn't used to it, he'd strained it.

She laughed once, weakly. "I think you'll be fine around the dragons tomorrow." She stilled in his grip, relaxing into herself. "Perhaps I shouldn't use Dragonrend as much as I do." Her hair was soft with oil and sweat, the scars along her scalp were rough and dry in harsh contrast. Rough-chopped ends caught between his fingers and he relaxed his hold in case he was pulling her ink-dark hair.  Her ears poked sharply into his hands--did elves have a bone in their ears? "You can let me go, now." Ulfric startled, realizing he still had a grip on her head; he pulled his hands away too fast for her to react and winced as her head hit the floor. "Ow! Nine!"

Ulfric mumbled what could've been taken as an apology, and stood just as quickly. He told the draugr to stop their search for a potion, and made quick work of unrolling his bedroll as far from her as he could, making an excuse about the fire the draugr built being too hot for his Nord blood. Her gaze lingered on him and his excuses--and he suddenly wondered if their meditation on the Words had gone both ways.

He ignored the ghost of her hair wrapping itself around his hands, for once not dreading the nightmares that sleep would bring.

"Five thousand, three hundred and eighty-two."

It was impossible to miss the smug glee on the Dragonborn's face when Odahviing announced the result of his count. An entire legion of dragons was at her command, and after a few Shouts from her and a reminder that he'd killed two dragons with a single Shout on the Great Porch, the six most powerful dragons in Skuldalfn were bowing to both of them. Mostly her, but Ulfric stood nearly beside her to the point where he could imagine they knelt and scowled towards him. He didn't Shout Dragonrend at them at her suggestion, just in case a truly mortal Shout was weak enough to put a target on his back.

He doubted that, after he'd seemed to nearly killed her last night. Ulfric wondered if she asked him to keep his Dragonrend to himself out of fear that her Shout was much weaker than his.

"Excellent," she hissed. "Our first victory will be against the Forsworn, who dwell in the Druadach mountains to the far west. Which dragons would you recommend for agility, stealth, and resistance to magic?"

A laugh traveled through the dragons. "We are all beyond your mortal measure in all regards," the pure golden dragon, Qokrenvul, Odahviing's Second (the Dragonborn's Third, he reminded himself), snarled. Of the six dragons assembled, Ulfric liked him the least; the others were at least subtle in eyeing him like a meal. Odahviing growled and whipped his tail at the smaller dragon, punishment for speaking over him. The others…the Dragonborn's words danced in his mind. He needed to choose one of these for his own.

"Congratulations," the Dragonborn answered. She scowled harder each time a dragon spoke, not caring to hide her disdain for their arrogance. Arrogance that wasn't even unfounded, Ulfric noted, trying to keep his face as blank as possible, staring at the back of the Dragonborn's head. Dried blood flaked in her hair where she kept scratching at the wound every few minutes. "By a dragon's measure, since it wasn't obvious. Let me know if I need to keep dumbing down my orders for you."

The dragons met her with silence, two of them, the Fifth and Sixth, eyeing each other up for a fight instead of focusing on what the Dragonborn was saying. They had Shouted at each other upon arriving to the courtyard, lighting up the blue dawn with an array of multicolored light from Shouts Ulfric didn't recognize, swapping positions after their argument had settled and standing on tense guard ever since.

"We want the weaker dragons," Ulfric found himself saying, standing firm as all attention shifted to him, the dragons not bothering to hide their surprise and joy that he'd spoken over her. The Dragonborn only acknowledged him by uncrossing her arms and moving them to her sides, a little flick of her wrist in a signal that Ulfric didn't recognize. Probably anger that he'd spoken over her, that he'd gotten straight to the point of the dragons they'd already decided they wanted with them. The ones that the Dragonguard had a chance of slaying if everything went horribly, horribly wrong.

"If all dragons are incomprehensibly powerful to us mortals," Ulfric continued, "then we should have no issue giving them the glory of proving themselves in battle." And they would be less likely to turn against the Dragonguard, but it was almost impossible the Forsworn had no experience defending against dragons. But against five at once? Ten? Twenty? He almost couldn't believe they'd be using dragons as fodder.

"They do not deserve the glory," Odahviing answered. He stood just in front of the other five dragons, ready to knock any one of them back into line if they decided to test his position as First.

"There will be many more opportunities for glory," the Dragonborn replied. "Much more glory than killing a few camps worth of Daedra-worshipping witches. And, if they fight amongst themselves less than this group, all the better."

"The positions are less stable lower down, as there is less distance between strength, skill, and cunning."

"Then why haven't I heard a single Shout from any but you lot?"

Odahviing rumbled deep in his throat. "Their Voices are too weak to carry across Skuldafn."

The Dragonborn held out her arms. "What a wonderful trait to have to sneak up on my enemies. Gather them up. I want to inspect my troops."

~

Ulfric translated the dragon's names, letting the Dragonborn pick a few dozen entirely based on how fearsome they sounded. Odahviing was nearby as they went down the line of a hundred of the weakest dragons, giving short lists on the dragon's accomplishments--even the lowest dragon had once enslaved a Giant's encampment, devouring them all when he tired of them.

"Don't forget to pick your own," she muttered near the end of the line. "Or do you want me to pick a dragon for you? It's getting crowded on Odahviing."

"I'll use whichever one is free," Ulfric replied. They had at least double the number of dragons as Dragonguard; he wouldn't be starving for choice.

"No, you don't want one of these weak ones. Choose one of them." She jerked her chin behind her at Odahviing's lieutenants. "It'll be better for leading your group, too."

He eyed up the group of dragons waiting behind Odahviing, body language ranging from aggressive towards them to aggressive towards another dragon in the group. They were all fearsome with larger spikes and claws and teeth than the weaker dragons they'd chosen for rank and file fodder, and carried a palpable air with them that, yes, they knew how deadly they could be, and, yes, they hated how their ways and honor kept them in line behind the Dragonborn.

Qokrenvul, Lightning that Breaks Darkness, was out of the question for his--his--dragon. Too unstable, too aggressive, unpredictable; there was more hatred in than in half of the assembled dragons combined. And those other two, the ones that had fought the second they both touched down in the courtyard and again when gathering the weaker dragons, they seemed more focused on their rivalry than anything else. Ulfric had been braced for another set of Shouts between the two the entire time.

And so that left two choices between the six most powerful dragons assembled at Skuldafn. The Fourth, a bronze and silver metallic dragon that caught the light and only looked around with his eyes, otherwise staying deathly still once he'd landed. And the Seventh, a brown and blue dragon with streaks of blood red scales, who had the most spikes of all the dragons assembled with many of his scales twisting to razor points.

"Which one would you choose?" Ulfric asked her, keeping his voice low.

"Whichever one you feel like you can Shout down easiest, if it comes to that." A hand moved to the back of her head, flaking dried blood onto her robes. "But, if it comes to that, just kill the beast."

The Seventh, then. It seemed that the rankings were entirely based on Thu'um, seeing as how absolutely massive dragons found themselves down at the bottom, well below others that they dwarfed. He bit his lip, turned and strode towards the Lieutenants. "You." Ulfric said, commanded, forcing his voice to stay firm even though he rest a hand on his sword less than casually.

The Seventh turned towards him, smooth and fluid, summer green eyes tracing him, settling on his pointing hand. He growled in acknowledgement.

"Your name and deeds?"

"Soskendov." A name with no easy translation. Blood Warrior, perhaps the simplest, Bravery Attested by Inborn Strength, the opposite. "Before I was slain in the Great Rebellion, I ruled the great city of Volskygge after defeating the fool Kahvozein and taking his place. Thousands of mortals were under my command. Thousands more fell to my Thu'um during the Rebellion. I was resurrected by Zeimahthuri (Alduin) as Twentieth. Through my own strength and determination, I am now Sixth."

"Seventh."

Soskendov flexed his wings, eyes darting to where the Dragonborn counted the dragons she'd pulled from the line. "So it would seem."

"How do you feel about mortals?"

"They have their uses. Though they number few."

"Such as?"

"You are easy to tame."

Ulfric nodded. "Easy to tame, hard to keep from rebelling."

"Mortal lives are short. You have no need for memory. We must remind you of your place often."

"And what is your place?"

"I am Seventh. For now."

Short, pragmatic phrases. Not a single word wasted on the flourishes and threats Odahviing loved, Qokrenvul relished in, the lesser dragons had dressed their deeds in.

"You're coming with us to end the Forsworn."

Soskendov rose, stretching his neck high and snapping at the air. "May all mortals follow their fate."

Chapter Text

She chose her most trusted Dragonguard to join them on their campaign against the Forsworn, and even then, Nariilu hesitated to use the term 'campaign'. What she and the dragons would do to the Forsworn would be a massacre, not a simple war march. And she felt absolutely ridiculous using terms like 'most trusted' instead of calling it like it was--Uthgerd was only leaving three of the dozen-something Dragonguard behind because two were still fairly injured from slaying some dragon two months ago, and Illia was too valuable to risk as their only mage now that Esbern had slipped from the Temple in the middle of the night without leaving a final note.

Not that she would've read it even if he had. Nariilu had no time for such foolishness, but she wondered what in Oblivion was going through his head now, on the run from the Thalmor once again, exposed in the Reach where there were no mountain passes accessible to such an old Man. He'd have to stick to the main roads, at the mercy of bandits and bears Forsworn and whatever Thalmor patrols were starting to close in on the Hold.

Uthgerd marked the locations of Forsworn camps on the map, each one supposedly tucked deep within the mountains, barely accessible by foot. Nariilu fumed, thinking about how long the Blades had been barely more than another Forsworn holdout. She was honestly surprised they didn't have a Briarheart or two running around, sacrificing elk to Hircine and spriggans and Delphine, in hopes that she would turn into their latest Hagraven.

The Dragonguard that were coming along were to be little more than messengers, witnesses, to prove that it had been her that finally, finally finished what Stormcloak had started years ago. Perhaps they'd give him the credit, seeing as an easy half of them had pulled out Windhelm blue sashes to wear over their armor. She figured they hadn't quite put two and two together about just who she was, yet; the one who'd nearly killed them and ruined their army. Or, even better, they didn't care. Uthgerd swore up and down she'd done her damndest to explain who she was, to mixed results and a few disbelieving chuckles that had been shut down by memories of her killing more than a dozen Forsworn before most anyone could react.

That, in their eyes, was more telling of who she was than anything Uthgerd could say. And the Dragonguard greeted her with respectful nods, battle-ready grins, thanks that they were finally going to put their training to use. Delphine only let a few ever leave to hunt dragons--and she'd mostly trusted the Forsworn, not any of the recruits that she'd recommended or that they'd stumbled across on the road. The Forsworn being targeted by the Thalmor had only been a positive in her mind, everything else about the Reachmen be damned, and Delphine forged some 'enemy of my enemy' type alliance between the two groups where Nariilu had insisted any and all agreements were supposed to stop at relatively safe passage through Karthspire. Nothing else.

Nariilu didn't give much of a damn about the Forsworn as a whole, except that they tended to attack her and anyone without the proper signage on the roads, and how…hospitably they'd treated her in Cidhna Mine. In other words, she had quite a few reasons to advocate for their full slaughter, and it was a bonus that Stormcloak wanted to avenge his past failure by killing them all. Win-win for both of them.

And for the dragons, they'd get a hearty meal out of it and recruit who they could to the Dragon Cult, something that made the chosen dragons more than eager to come along and the unchosen grumble in huddles as they watched the rest leave Skuldafn in a loose formation before splitting off just beyond the safety of the Velothis. Low-standing hunters and skirmishers would be the bulk of the menu; anyone high enough in the Forsworn to be a real threat was caught up in Daedra-worshipping and corrupted by whatever foul magic the Hagravens mastered. But anyone cowardly enough to surrender would be taken back to Skuldafn to form the beginnings of the new Dragon Cult, stripped weaponless and bound in magicka-blocking cuffs.

She wasn't a huge fan of that aspect of their negotiations, that the Forsworn would be converted to a group that worshipped the dragons instead of her, but she supposed it was something that could be worked on. Perhaps, even something to her advantage, if the Forsworn turned out to be able to take down a rebellious dragon or two--as if the loyal, honor-bound dragons weren't keen on following her orders to the point of slaying their own kind.

The lesser of the dragons idled in the jagged Druadach peaks, hidden from sight, ready to come when summoned by her, Odahviing, or…no, they wouldn't respect Stormcloak's call, if he could even manage to Shout a dragon's name. And no one else could pull off a Shout, even if it should come somewhat naturally to the Nords in her Dragonguard. She made a mental note to see about teaching them the Thu'um.

On second thought, Stormcloak could Shout a name, if his quick study of Dragonrend was any indication. If his Shout was half as powerful as hers, it was a miracle the dragons didn't die on the spot when they met it. Stormcloak's Dragonrend had been nothing short of agonizing; if she had to choose between it and fighting Alduin again, she'd choose Alduin. Oblivion, she'd choose a thousand Alduins at once, burning and melting in his acid breath, boiling blood. At least death would come quickly rather than the endless pain; shooting, freezing, stabbing, throbbing, and so much more.

The Dragonguard were somewhat wary around the dragons, and she didn't blame them in the slightest, even if most of them played brave and approached whichever unclaimed one they felt the most comfortable around. Even the softer-looking ones they'd chosen mostly by how horrible their names sounded were downright fearsome, and Nariilu had a feeling that it was mostly her presence and their morbid hierarchy and promised consequences keeping them in line. So, she and Stormcloak would be splitting up to lead two groups of dragons, just in case either of them needed to Shout one down.

After they all took Karthspire, she would lead to the north, Stormcloak would be heading to the southern encampments on Soskendov, the razor-spiked Seventh that boasted about having been slain at Twentieth and had risen through the ranks since his revival. He would be bringing along all the Dragonguard that had dug up their Stormcloak attire--even if he looked like he'd rather lead a pack of sabre cats than his former soldiers. But he held his head high in front of the Dragonguard, giving slight nods and confident chuckles at all the right times to convince most everyone that this would go flawlessly. Nariilu even overhead Stormcloak initiate a competition between the two groups--who would end the most Witchmen lives would get first pick on the spoils and a cask of fine brandy.

She almost wished he'd resume his constant scowling, purposefully uncomfortable silence, the way he used to dominate a room just by standing with his arms crossed like he was one wrong word from killing everyone within striking distance. Ever since she'd come back from Sovngarde he'd been nothing but hunched shoulders, quiet glances…occasional bouts of sobs, especially in his sparse sleep. She really had thought he'd cheer up, stop blaming himself for the Graymanes' deaths and whatever else once he recognized her as a god, once she agreed to kill the Forsworn, tell him her plans, blah blah and so-on, and while that did a bit to alleviate the shaking in his hands, it did almost nothing for his clouded eyes.

And now, faced with the opportunity to finally finish what he'd started all those years ago, all he wanted to do was linger around her, Uthgerd, Salma, Odahviing, Soskendov, offering one-word advice to their plans and flight maps, little nods of approval that Nariilu got the idea were more to pretend he was listening than to show any actual opinion. And the dragons were beginning to pick up on it, too--Uthgerd and Salma were too busy actually planning to notice, the Dragonguard were too awed by him to care if they did.

They finally broke for a late dinner, and Nariilu was excited to see that most of the Dragonguard were carrying plates outside to eat alongside their dragons--the lower-ranked dragons had little need for decorum and arrogance; the Dragonguard had grown comfortable that they wouldn't become a meal over the course of the day. She'd been letting herself get distracted by chatter between the Dragonguard and the dragons all evening, some even daring to taste a few Shouts. She'd bit back a quip as Uthgerd kept stealing longing looks at the Dragonguard slamming into the Temple, flying along on single Words of Unrelenting Force and standing up and cheering for more. Still, when Nariilu slipped into the main banquet hall, she wasn't surprised to see a handful of people milling about, eating in a solemn near-silence.

It wasn't hard to notice how the hall reeked of soap and vinegar, dark stains marring the floor and table. She ignored them, everyone ignored them, eating on the clean grey stone instead of the red, obvious gaps left between the diners where ghosts sat.

She happily contributed to the slow, inconsequential conversation, even if the tone did shift when she sat down at the site of her massacre a few days prior. Even if she didn't have much to contribute, they wanted to know the state of this city or that township, had she heard of so-and-so? And the Dragonguard contented themselves to her non-answers, more focused on a meal of a stew that was mostly potatoes and peas and just enough elk to give it a richness that only came from an all-day stint over a fire, bones and all.

She slipped away easily during one of the frequent, long lulls in conversation, and most everyone ignored how her boots echoed unevenly in the grand cave. The walk down to the chamber that Uthgerd had set up for her with a thin mattress and a lantern (it had once been a room for drying herbs, Tsunhilde revealed after she pressed enough--you could have simply asked, I would've told you) was easy. Quiet. Peaceful, as Nariilu considered skipping reading and journaling for the evening and catching up on sleep while she could, even though she'd soon be in her bed in Solitude--a massive, opulent thing that far outclassed the dreams of her youth, sleeping on hay-filled sacks.

And then, it wasn't peaceful. The mood of the corridors fell off the Throat of the World as Stormcloak rounded the corner opposite her, likely returning from the archives or maybe even the farm-graveyard, instantly staring at the ground to avoid tripping on smooth-carved, evenly ageworn stone. "Hail," she said, more formal than she felt she needed to be, but who in Oblivion could tell with him?

"Hail." She barely caught his response as he hurried to the door of his chamber (once storage for the dried herbs), but she was much closer and managed to make it to the door before him. She leaned against the doorway, blocking the handle behind her. He made no attempt to hide the mead bottle clenched in his hand, or disguise the clink of another in one of his pockets.

"What's wrong?" Nariilu crossed her arms to hide her flinch; her words came out as more of a statement than a question.

"I was under the impression we were past stupid questions like that."

"Then stop acting stupid." Stormcloak lifted his eyes from the floor to narrow them at her, and she was almost able to look past the haze in his glance. She bit her cheek against another insult; it wouldn't help. It'd take them even further back into idiocy. "This kind of stupid. Something's into you," she clarified. "You've barely said ten words to me since we meditated, and ever since I got back from Sovngarde you've been either bursting with rage or tears at any given moment."

"I'm the one acting stupid? Did you forget that while you were busy meeting gods the rest of us were still here in Skyrim?

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

She raised an eyebrow, Stormcloak met it in kind, adding a grimace that would've chilled her blood if she hadn't been more than capable of defending herself if he followed through with the threat in his eyes. Lydia hadn't elaborated on why Stormcloak had lightning carving down his arm, peeking over his hem to wrap around his ear and up his cheek, but she'd guessed enough given Elenwen's sudden appearance in Whiterun and his delicate state ever since. Stormcloak himself was even less likely to fill her in. She finally spoke, "Is this not what you want?"

He laughed once, an indignant noise that neared a cry. "How dare you even ask me that."

"The Forsworn, I mean." Nariilu bit her cheek, not knowing how to fill the silence as he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

"You know this isn't what I want."

Nariilu pressed her lips together, weighing her words as she looked up at Ulfric. Rage--no, not quite rage. Something more devastating rolled through his shoulders, weighing down the proud man, testing the strength that proud, silent farce he played well enough that she doubted anyone else noticed. How long had he been pretending at confidence, letting his guise of brashness shield…everything?

"Then what do you want?" Nariilu heard her own voice whisper, still too loud in its echoes.

Stormcloak furrowed his brow and opened his mouth; she braced herself for a Shout at the worst, a barrage of insults at best, but the sound that he made was nothing short of languid. A scoffing sob, somewhere painfully between laughing and mourning, it broke her heart and sent her throat down, down to Oblivion. He bit off the cry with a shake of his head and Nariilu let herself be pushed aside for him to enter his chamber and close the door too carefully for a man in his mood.

She stood in silence, watching the door and straining to hear any sort of sound from Stormcloak; all she caught were distant footsteps from the Dragonguard beginning to retire for the evening. Nothing, not even the slosh of mead nor the sound of glass against stone as he set down a bottle, not footsteps to move from the door or the rustle of hay from him settling down on his coarse mattress. What had gone wrong? She'd been making such great progress with him, swearing she'd broken him just enough for him to believe in her as much as any drug-addled beggar believes in the mercy of Mara, but this? How had she gone so far beyond his limits?

How could she bring him back?

A voice that barely sounded like it belonged to Stormcloak, choked with inevitable tears, whispered around the cracks of the worn door. "I want to not be afraid anymore."

"This one has lost her way."

J'zargo stood in front of her, blocking the way out of her Legate's tent with his arms crossed and tail flicking. Nariilu gestured to the map, the little figures there noting her forces; dragons swirling, armies flying, Stormcloak cowering under a curled corner. "I am where I am."

"Turn around and walk back. Look at how far this one has come. When is the last time she checked where she is going?" He brushed an invisible speck off of his blue robes, setting the enchantment swirling in the bright afternoon sun. "Measure yourself. Measure what you have achieved." J'zargo circled the table, opening the path to the Great Porch behind him. He nuzzled against her shoulder. "J'zargo fears that your path will keep us apart. Forever."

Nariilu pressed into him, trying to keep from hearing his words, feel the warmth under his fur. "I'm dreaming."

J'zargo nodded, his face caving in the way he'd looked on that bench in the Temple Courtyard. Broken, smashed, flat, a bloodied pulp of fur and flesh. His organs threatened to spill, slumping down where there was no longer skin to keep them in place, blood and bile leaking from a trailing intestine, dripping gore. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps you are awake. At least one of the College professors would argue there is no such thing as dreaming, or wakefulness. You know J'zargo finds it hard to care about such petty details."

She concentrated on piecing him back together again. She had no time in the morning to be haunted by J'zargo's broken body again--and this was ruining the last memories she had of him, even if they had been hallucinations brought on by gods knew how much fatigue and stress.

"Stop that. Let J'zargo speak as he is." Nariilu forced herself to look away from his ruined body, back to her map. She sent her dragons around the tent, searching for where she'd left the miniatures for her enemies. A dream, that their huge bodies could fit inside a Legate's tent. J'zargo continued, "This one did not kill J'zargo; our bet is still on."

"'Whatever your heart desires,'" Nariilu repeated, spitting the words so they'd make it past the lump in her throat. "You can't have me anymore. You're dead."

"So?" He caressed her arm, letting claws rake her skin through her armor. Ebony and glass, whole again, perfect, the plates snug and warm from the Skyforge, glowing and dancing with an enchantment she'd never had the time to cast. A clawed finger at her chin, twisting her head to look at him--whole and perfect. "J'zargo's heart desires…" He paused, glancing to the dragons assembling the miniatures on her map. "The world does not have enough to give you. Nothing will satisfy this one. How long until you cannot take more? Will it ever be enough?"

A dragon, red with white wings, placed down a miniature of Lydia. "No. It won't," Nariilu answered. "I won't ever stop. And I won't let Lydia poison what we had. What I still have of you, all my memories."

"Lydia only convinced me to hurt this one to save her. J'zargo has known since he first laid eyes on you that, somehow, this one craved power more than even himself. He has known that it would hurt him, hurt you. This one's nature is to take, to own, to know."

He had doubted her from the beginning.

J'zargo had never trusted that she would be able to claim her birthright as Dragonborn. If she had told him she was Talos, he would deny that, too. Shake his head and gently tell her that she was wrong. That she was born wrong, all wrong, that her gods-granted dragon Soul made her no more than someone who could Shout, no better than any Nord with a few years of training. He thought she was some common soldier, a quick-learning mage who'd never do anything but cast a few spells and burn herself down to nothing.

"It was what J'zargo loved about you."

And Nariilu pushed him away, stared him down, forced him to decay to the mangled mess he should've appeared as. All throughout whatever they'd had, love had never entered the conversation. It was never who they'd been, despite how she'd burned to bring it up, to define what they'd had beyond an unspoken agreement that what they'd had was built on a mutual understanding that they could own the world together, that they both needed the masses to kneel underfoot.

That they'd never allow themselves to love the other, not explicitly, not beyond constant, careless touches and nights spent celebrating that they'd survived yet another battle, adventure, that they survived together.

J'zargo had loved her, and waited until he was dead to let her know. She couldn't bear to ask why he'd kept that from her, why he'd never given her the excuse to respond in kind, that, yes, she loves him too.

She didn't dare ask why he loved her, and she was still trapped in loving, mercifully falling into that same blissless state of loved. Of hate.

"Do not taint my dreams with your needless presence anymore, J'zargo."

J'zargo pulled a miniature from the hole in his gut. "J'zargo is glad that this one sees the truth in my words." He placed himself, tail flicking and embers dancing across his fingers, in the center of the map.

~

Nariilu woke up and punched the stone wall until her hand couldn't keep locked in a fist.

Ulfric snatched sleep where he could, forcing himself to wake the second he saw Elenwen's face appear out of the shadows, her presence lingering in the darkened room until he lit every candle he'd been supplied with. The mead made his eyes heavy; it took longer to fall into a swirling dream, but longer still to pull himself out of it.

His mouth was dry, his stomach grumbled with too much drink and not enough food, his mind caught on the screams of the Thalmor prison, raw and sobbing, too real, too recent to keep away.

He allowed himself a second to press into the warm furs, damp with his own sweat, a luxury he'd never had in the prison, something to remind him that he was here, deep underground in a Blades Temple, about to avenge his second, easier stint in that Imperial hellhole. A swig of mead to drown out the noises in his head.

The screams didn't stop, too close to be distant memories, too far to be from his own mind.

He was in Sky Ruler Temple. He was in Skyrim. He was safe. Out of the reach of the Thalmor, the Imperials.

What he wouldn't give for Wuunferth's sleeping draught.

He sat up and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool stone through his tunic; the walls in the prisons had been slick with mold and blood that never seemed to dry. The air smelled of ancient incense, dust and earth, a far cry from the waste and rot of the cells. And the night was poisoned with the sounds of torture, sobs and cries and a distinct lack of whips or spells.

Nights like these, he would stay up with the never-resting Wuunferth and watch the man work on his cures, a short reminder that a blessed few used magic for good while he waited for a spiked tea to take effect, or one of the palace guards would always be ready for a wager in a game of dice or cards.

The screams faded, replaced with the muffled sobs of someone trying to keep quiet to avoid attracting the attention of a prison torturer looking for something to occupy themselves with. Like a woman confessing her knowledge to bring down an Empire, cries that were mourning memories instead of dreading attention.

The Dragonborn was weeping in her chamber.

Ulfric drank from his bottle, holding the rim over his mouth until the last drops slid down his tongue. He'd go and offer her mead to dull the…whatever she was crying for. His mind danced to their earlier interaction, blessedly dulled with the haze of drink, but he was awfully rude, wasn't he? She'd just wanted to help him fix how he'd failed, ruined everything all those years ago, and he'd lashed out at her.

He should've taken her into his arms and thanked her for the opportunity to right his wrongs, to prove that…that he wasn't an abject failure. Gods, he'd broken down into tears in front of her again, hadn't he? Ulfric threw his bottle against the wall, watching it shatter into too many pieces with blurred vision.

He should go in there and apologize. Go and hold her and comfort her while she cried, because no, he wasn't upset with her, he was upset with himself for not being able to do anything right. For needing the help of the Elf who was better than him at everything, that beat him at every turn, just to do what he needed to. It would be so simple to stumble one door over, to wipe her tears away, to…to…

Ulfric remembered he had a second bottle of mead in his pocket. He dug it out and finished it in one pull.

~

The Dragonborn let Uthgerd go over the plan with the Dragonguard that morning, letting her gloss over the flight paths since the dragons would all be following either Odahviing or Soskendov. Ulfric wasn't surprised that nobody spoke when Uthgerd finally asked if anyone had questions; the end of the Forsworn would be nothing short of a braindead hit and run operation. Almost no logistics were required; given the speed and strength of the dragons, they only had to bring supplies for a day or two in case they somehow managed to lose every single dragon on the convoy.

They'd fly to the Forsworn camps the next morning before dawn, make it to even the furthest holdouts within two hours, and while they weren't naïve enough to expect things to go smoothly, they expected to make it back after clearing the camp of the day by dusk.

Karthspire was the exception; they'd all siege it together, mostly because it was the largest, best defended Forsworn stronghold as far as they knew. He'd taken care of most of the other camps in the Reach years ago, and the ones he hadn't managed to touch were small holdouts high on rocky cliffs--places that couldn't support much more than an ambush force. The reinhabited ruins were in a similar state, unless thousands of Forsworn had come out of hiding in the last few decades.

But Karthspire had nearly destroyed his militia with its endless streams of witches, bottlenecked control of the Karth River as the Forsworn were the only ones crazy enough to cast a boat onto that deadly water, if spells raining down from the mountains at every pass wasn't horrible enough. It was a sheer miracle he'd been able to get a large enough force through to siege Markarth itself, and then only by crossing much further south, near Old Hroldan and then passing through smaller Orc controlled gaps and caves.

Karthspire, the only true settlement the Forsworn had, would fall. It had taken him almost thirty years, but it would finally fall.

If they could take Karthspire, the hardest part of the campaign would be well behind them. If they could take Karthspire--if. Ulfric found himself doubting more and more with each passing minute that a plan borne from cooperation between men and dragons could yield anything other than betrayal, especially once they split up after Karthspire. His mostly untested Dragonrend wasn't something he was ready to stake his life on.

And the Dragonborn was still far from her prime; each time he saw her she either had a potion or a meal in her hands, or was on her way to get another. Dark circles were heavy under her eyes and, while she'd stopped faking her limp all together, she swayed when she stood for too long, leaning heavily on her staff more with each passing moment. Her hands sometimes twitched into a fist that he knew wasn't because of frustration, shoulders catching and rolling in short spasms if she turned her neck too far.

He prayed harder than he should for her safe return from her leg of the campaign (massacre), worried even though the Dragonguard shouldn't be involved in much fighting at all. The dragons would be doing the bulk of the work; as impersonal as it felt to him, he was grateful for the low risk for his former soldiers, his current shield-siblings. But the Dragonborn was careless, reckless, determined to make her mark on history even if only a handful would ever see it. He had no doubt she'd make some large hero of herself for her accompaniment to attest to, even if she died to a Briarheart or Hagraven or some other damned Forsworn witch trying to ensure her name landed in more ballads than it already decorated.

Like she hadn't made her mark already--marks, Ulfric dared to think to himself; slaying Alduin was no small task. And here she was, slaying the Forsworn as well, like it wasn't his own failed charge.

Ulfric's mind swam with all the ways he could fail again. All the ways he could cause yet another massacre of his soldiers, his people, and he didn’t like what he came up with. Though only six would go with him, he felt the weight of sixty thousand soldiers on his shoulders, six million Nords across Skyrim that would die if he said the wrong words, gave the wrong command. His tongue burned for something stronger than the diluted barrels of wine, dusty mead strewn around the Temple to wash away his past failure, his current station.

Six to join him to end the Forsworn once and for all, five to join the Dragonborn. Thirteen against a force perhaps thousands strong, all skilled in cursed backwoods magic, all ready to take lives to defend their horrid, Daedra-blessed ways. It nauseated him, the way that they were to fly directly into the most fortified camps of one of his oldest enemies, the way they expected to take them without much issue.

No, not much issue at all, because Soskendov had reported he and his underlings being able to fly more or less freely in the Reach, even with a stray spell warning them away from camps hidden deep within jagged peaks and sheer cliffs. No casualties were expected, not between the Dragonborn or Uthgerd or Salma, because the dragons were handling the majority of the fighting--the mortal soldiers were only expected to watch from the skies. Perched safely upon their dragons, they were expected to watch the end of the Forsworn.

As if Soskendov cared about what the Dragonborn decided the plan was to be. No, not when he was to be miles away from her, from Odahviing. Even if there was a chance of a lower dragon tipping off Odahviing to their…more involved process in the massacre, Soskendov apparently had a pronounced history of brutality towards any that undermined him in any way that kept the dragons beneath him well in line. The thirty or so that were to report directly to him cowered in the mountains, only a few daring to meet the Dragonguard on the courtyard even the morning of their attack on Karthspire.

He almost admired how Soskendov muttered his planned betrayal to Odahviing, if it wasn't a betrayal to the Dragonborn as well. That sort of deception could fester and grow until they had an all-out mutiny on their hands--not that Ulfric didn't doubt that Odahviing could deal with any rebellious dragon easily. Not that he didn't doubt the Dragonborn could quell any issue with a single Shout of Dragonrend.

Not that he couldn't bring a dragon to its knees--bring the Dragonborn to her knees. He'd tried to find little excuses to talk to her since he'd nearly killed her with his Shout, waiting for her uneven step near her chamber, complaining about the sharpness of his sword, for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on. Or, reasons he refused to examine. He should hate her, he should take any chance he got to kill her, to paralyze her and leave her writhing in pain…he got nothing from seeing her slam herself against the stone floor of the Skuldafn temple but the silky feeling of her hair between his fingers when he jumped to protect her head. And that scared him more than the threat of any apocalypse brought on by Alduin or the Thalmor or any other adversary.

Because he'd been able to incapacitate the Dragonborn for long enough that he could've slit her throat, stabbed her through the heart, snap her neck, given her any number of mortal injuries and he didn't. No, he hadn't even stood idle and let her deal with her pain on her own. Instead, he held her head and relished the feeling of warm skin on his fingers, ignoring the fact that she was his captor, his conqueror, the one who'd brough his entire movement to its knees. No, he'd been too busy keeping her alive, keeping her comfortable as she seized in pain he'd caused from a Shout she'd taught him.

And she'd been able to teach him a Shout. Granted, it was a Shout designed for Men to use against dragons, so he had a natural advantage in learning it, but still.  Meditating with her--as horrible as it had been, feeling her pain creep into him, eclipse his own self-hatred--had led to him learning a Shout in five minutes instead of five years. He'd been swallowing the request every hour since to ask her to try and teach him another one. He tried to convince himself he wanted to learn another Shout to prove the Greybeards wrong, that he was worthy of Kynareth's gift to Men.

She would, if he asked. If he only asked. The Dragonborn was so reliant on his approval that she'd do just about anything he asked, beginning with the massacre of the Forsworn. Ulfric could hardly think of anything else he dared to ask her for--she would grant it to him like he was a spoiled child. The boons of being her chosen method to rise to prominence in Skyrim's political scene were still to be discovered, but her wealth easily neared that of a Jarl, from what he had seen.

Perhaps if he asked, she would reinstate him as Jarl of Windhelm.

As if he deserved it.

As if Tullius would allow it.

The Dragonborn still bowed to other masters, even if she refused to show it to him. Yes, she still had to acquiesce to the other Thanes in the Holds she cared about, still had to follow the word of her General, her benefactors. How that bothered her, if the knot in her brow whilst she read her letters was anything to go by. No, she wanted to care only about him, judging by the softness, pleading in her face whenever she asked him to do anything.

Ulfric almost found it offensive, how kind she became when she requested he find where the Dragonguard kept their whetstone so she could sharpen his Ebony sword upon it. Almost apologizing, she had added that she could find it if he was incapable, that he could accompany her if he didn't want to go without a weapon while she sharpened it. And he had, standing out of her sight so she wouldn't see how he stared at the tremble in her arms, the hunch of her shoulders, the way her hair almost couldn't hide the point of her ears, how her Graybeard robes gathered in a hasty hem and pooled in her lap, pulled over her knees to work the pedal of the grindstone.

He wondered what he'd done to make her seemingly afraid of him; so submissive in every word she spoke. It reminded him of the way his palace staff had spoken to him--afraid they'd be kicked to the streets upon the first sign of any defiance.

Ulfric shook his head against memories of his maids and stewards falsely fearing for their jobs, because he'd likely never have to vet an attendant, chef, servant again. That is, unless the Dragonborn saw fit to let him vet a domestic--why should she allow him to oversee the hirings of her own staff? He was nothing more than the man she'd identified as most fit to legitimize her claim to whatever position she'd decided to vie for.

And he'd found himself willing to advocate for her. Each position she claimed--Thane, Emperor, Talos--Ulfric had no reason to deny.

That scared him more than any Forsworn, any failure he could face.

Chapter Text

Taking Karthspire was too easy. The Forsworn were caught unaware in the early dawn, dozens of dragons descending on the camp when most were asleep, drowning it in fire, ice, lightning, acid. Fur tents turned to dust, stone overhangs to rubble, Forsworn to skeletons, burnt corpses--they rose again on Shouts and fought their own allies as they shrunk into dried husks of life.

Control was established well before stray spells shot into the sky, missing the dragons weaving high above, barely grazing those closer to the ground wreaking havoc with Shouts Ulfric had never heard record of before. The Forsworn were in a frenzy, sprinting from tent to hut to cabin to cave, few making it to their destination without falling to a Shout of talon or fang. Dragons swooped in, scooping up the panicking witches to swallow whole or to toss to their superiors.

Soskendov chuckled beneath Ulfric, a deep tone that vibrated along his body as he circled the camp almost lazily alongside the other dozen dragons that held Dragonguard. Ulfric's sword arm twitched, his Tongue begged him to draw blood from one of the panicked Forsworn below. A young Forsworn--Ulfric had to stop himself from calling it a child--sprinted from a burning cabin to hide under a juniper tree. A dragon, Odahviing, Ulfric realized, the Dragonborn's dark robes, skin, hair, a harsh contrast against his red scales, landed near the youth, his massive body eclipsing the cabin, the tree, what the fate of the young Forsworn was.

Odahviing slinked along the ground, poking his head into the cabin and snarling at what he saw, withdrawing and crawling towards the next burning husk. The Dragonborn slid from his neck and made for the lower reaches of the camp, where the fighting was moving to the beaches of the Karth River and all the deep mine entrances that the Dwarves had carved Eras ago. Witches and sorcerers defended well, holding wards of flame and ice and magic to protect the Forsworn unable to fight--the young, the old--sprinting for the safety of the caves. Shouts bounced off harmlessly, dragons slammed into the wards, unable to break through.

The Dragonborn thrust her staff at a Forsworn as she jogged, letting the man disintegrate before her, breaking a hole in the shimmering wards above. She hesitated as his body crumbled, catching a club from another on her staff before turning and giving her attacker the same ashen fate, carrying on to the bulk of the fighting and taking on what Forsworn the dragons missed, what they couldn't reach through the wards. The fleeing Forsworn that were armed with their brutal, jagged bone swords turned to her, rushing her down in hopes that they'd be the one she'd miss with her staff, spells, sword.

The Dragonguard seemed to not notice her, their dragon mounts landing high above on the cliffs and peaks--just as they'd planned. The wood elf and his drawn bow, perched on his dragon even as the rest of the Dragonguard dismounted and yelled their attack on the huts and shacks that made up Karthspire, waited for any to pass a secret boundary where he deemed that they couldn't be chased down.

He watched from high above, Dragonguard laughing alongside their dragons as they laid waste to any Forsworn cowering inside their shelters, standing aside to let the dragons Shout down the structures. They went up in flames, flying into mountainsides, off cliffs, freezing and shattering--Ulfric had never seen such efficient destruction. The death, the slaughter they'd caused in a few short minutes…the end of the Forsworn would be swifter than he could ever imagine. The days they'd planned for would take hours, tens of thousands of causalities he'd faced years ago down to nothing.

And the Dragonborn was the architect of this carnage. He scanned the panicking crowd for her again, tracing streaks of magic, trails of blood to her advance down the narrow trails along Karthspire. The Dragonborn ignored the cliff landings, continuing down towards the shore of the river, her feet sure against steep-carved stairs despite all the stumbles he'd seen her take over the past week. She held her staff, wielding it like a mace to batter those that were beyond the reach of her Daedric sword.

"Down there", Ulfric ordered, pointing to a vague spot near the rapids where two Briarhearts and a handful of Hagravens were defending the mouth of a cave, throwing up wards to allow the fleeing Forsworn a chance to make it inside, past the notice of the Dragonborn, surrounded with more immediate enemies. If they turned, if the last of the Forsworn made it inside and they noticed her…He'd seen Forsworn melt the flesh from his soldiers. Without the distraction, the durability of the dragons, they'd all have already been puddles on the mountain.

Soskendov growled; he obviously wasn't able to see Ulfric on the back of his neck. "By the beach," Ulfric clarified, noting that it was where the Dragonborn seemed to be heading towards as she wove her way down rough-carved stairs, not bothering to finish off most of the Forsworn in her path. Odahviing stalked behind her, chomping down the bodies she sliced with her sword, strike with her staff.

She leaned on it every few steps, pausing to loose a stream of pure magic at the Forsworn, withering entire groups of them as they fled towards temporary shelter or charged towards her, trying in vain to take her down. Even from dozens of feet in the air, Ulfric could see how her eyes shone as she reduced them to nothing but dust to be scattered with the next Unrelenting Force any of the dozens of dragons Shouted down. How her brow glistened with sweat in the crisp morning air.

She made it look effortless. The staff was almost cheating, if Ulfric had been stupid enough to call war fair. She created arc after arc of lightning, drawing corridors for the Forsworn to run down into their own demise. She corralled dozens into sparking, magical cells on that beach as Soskendov made his slow decent down, down to land in ankle-deep, freezing water. Ulfric ignored it, rushing towards her, the labyrinth of magic she'd caught the fleeing Forsworn, herself in, giving her the opportunity to catch heaving breaths.

She stood at the apex of the blue, gold, green walls of her own creation, clutching the staff with both hands, sword dropped on the sand, like it threatened to fly away--it did, for all Ulfric knew about the cursed sticks. "Go!" She pleaded, voice cracking alongside the thunder that poured from her staff, adding height and thickness to the walls, enveloping those trapped inside, hiding her from view. Their screams…Ulfric forced himself to find pleasure in them, in knowing that each agonizing cry was one less Forsworn that would terrorize the Nords of the Reach.

'Go'…was she begging him to leave and save himself, or to charge in and help? Another scream, high pitched with youth, Ulfric fought back memories he'd forgotten decades ago of blood-soaked soil and burning piles of corpses. Piles of bodies stacked above his head--her magic wove its way above his head, threatening to fall upon him like a rogue wave if she lost her concentration, control of her staff--they burned sweet and rancid, hair and fur armor catching to nearly cover the stench of melting fat, flesh. The mouth of the cave was much too small for any of the dragons to go inside; the multiple Briarhearts defending the entrance now were likely the least of their worries.

Bones burnt black, exposed from the Dragonborn's blue-magic flames; she winced against the power that poured from her staff, leaning on it more and more with each second as the mere act of casting, sapped the strength from her body. He didn't know much about magic, but it was common knowledge that staffs were channeling devices, storage for spells much stronger than anything a mage could cast unaided. The spell drew inwards, pulling away from charred husks barely recognizable as corpses, collecting in a firm wall in front of her, absorbing spells and arrows that flew from the cave, darting out to block streaking spells aimed directly at him.

And she released it, letting the magic roll in a wave over the beach, the mountain, into the cave, screeches echoing to let them know how far inside it traveled. Likely not far enough, Ulfric thought, recalling how many hundreds of good soldiers he'd lost chasing down retreating Forsworn into their caves, carved Eras ago by the Dwarves or by long-dried rivers. But it was a start; the distant screams were a sign that the Dragonborn's spell found marks much further than he would've thought possible, likely catching the Forsworn just as off-guard.

The spell left nothing but smoldering puddles of flesh and bones in its wake, driving deep cracks in the mountain. Karthspire itself groaned, rubble tumbling down from the cliffs and caves carved in its face. Her staff shuddered in her hand; the Dragonborn dropped her sword to grasp it with both hands, to curve into it with her entire body as if it threatened to fly away. A perfect target for any straggling Forsworn fleeing the fighting, the massacre higher up on Karthspire, she stood swaying and trembling on the riverbank.

Ulfric threw himself in front of a spell, catching frost and the heart of winter on his chestplate, scowling at the Forsworn witch who dared to live in Skyrim and couldn't capture the depths of the cold. He Shouted at the witch, throwing him back, digging a shallow trench as he skid up the mountain. A handful of other Forsworn tripped against his Unrelenting Force, tumbling down the slope and coming to a stop where Ulfric could run forward and end them, holding the rocky beach from anyone who could keep the Dragonborn from controlling her cursed spell.

He ignored the wriggling cloak on a Forsworn's back, stabbing down through what was certainly a witch's familiar to still the woman.

Dragons swooped low above his head, closing in as the Forsworn dwindled down to stragglers trying in vain to fight, to flee. Shouts were less common now; the camp itself was in flame, dark smoke rising into the grey morning. How long had it taken? Battle--if he dared to call this a battle--skewed time, hours into minutes, seconds into days, the overcast clouds not helping to estimate. Ulfric stepped back, letting Soskendov snarl over, grab the corpses at his feet with his maw and toss them back to swallow them whole, weapons and potions and all.

The skies were nearly empty. Heavy footsteps from the dragons slinking around the mountain, sniffing out survivors to eat or to dare into submission sounded under crackling flames, sobbing, screaming Forsworn, rumbling dragon voices and cheering, laughing Dragonguard. Had they really done it? Karthspire was…Karthspire wasn't.

He turned away from the path up the mountain, because he doubted a simple spell could clear out the caves, as deep as the Dwarves and the Forsworn had carved the twisting tunnels. They probably had other exits the Forsworn could slip away through, to warn other camps for what useless good that would do against the dragons. No, they'd need to do a full sweep, a dangerous task with the dragons unable to fit through the cave, with the hidden nooks they could be killed from, all the traps no doubt laid throughout the caverns.

And there was the Dragonborn, standing in a circle of blackened rock, trembling against her staff, still sparking with magic. She'd fallen to her knees and looked ready to entirely collapse in on herself, but still squaring her shoulders and staring down the mouth of the cave. "We need to go in," she rasped.

"It's too dangerous," Ulfric answered. She flinched, turned, noticing he was standing not fifty feet from her. She had been talking to herself. He cleared his throat against the heaving breaths he'd taken, the heavy fatigue in his sword arm creeping in now that the battle was over. "We hadn't prepared for a siege, much less one in caves we've no idea the form of."

"They'll escape."

"Then we'll get them when they do."

"I don't like to dilute my victories."

"Do you like to lead your men to death?" The Dragonborn turned back to the mouth of the cave. Ulfric continued, refusing to remember how long it'd taken him to read the list of his fallen soldiers all those years ago. "The Dragonguard is not prepared. They're supposed to be witnesses, not warriors! Would you lose their trust by spoiling a full retreat with their deaths?" He gestured up the mountain, to where the dragons were landing, the Dragonguard dismounting, celebrating with whoops and cheers and old warsongs he'd written thirty years ago to keep morale up against increasingly impossible odds.

The Dragonborn pushed herself to stand, the movement catching in her knees, hips, spine, shoulders. She stared down their path of retreat. Mud and blood coated the hem of her robes, sweat soaked her back, her hair looking like she'd been caught in a storm, frost trailing up her sleeves, smoke dancing along her shoulders. Each breath shakier, deeper than the last.

"You've already…" Ulfric trailed off. She'd eclipsed his failed siege easily, effortlessly, and it wasn't enough for her. It wasn't enough to control a dragon army, to fly them to the unbroken stronghold of the Forsworn and leave it in smoking rubble, and it wouldn't be enough to repeat the same assault on the rest of the camps. "We'll leave dragons to sentry the cave. The whole mountain; there's likely another entrance nearby."

A small nod, almost imperceivable from the little shudders and tremors running through her like…like lightning.

~

The short travel to Bleakwind Bluff gave Ulfric just enough time to dwell on the thought of the Dragonborn falling from Odahviing's back, tumbling to her death in the skies. She'd fixed up well enough after a few potions and bandaging up her raw, frozen hands, sure, but it had taken more potions on top of the ones she carried around with her constantly. He'd barely seen her without a potion in her hand and another tied to her belt since she returned from Sovngarde; his mind echoed with all the warnings healers had given him over the years about the way they could take hold in your blood and refuse to leave until you were craving a bit of magic-infused flower as terribly as any Skooma addict.

He'd given up trying to tell when she was faking her limp and when she couldn't help but stumble over uneven stones, take stairs one at a time, three steps before she ascended. It seemed to change from minute to minute, and what he'd thought was a lapse in memory, in concentration she held to make herself appear weaker was beginning to feel like the moments where the potions and spells took hold to give relief. But, she'd pulled herself onto Odahviing surely enough, flying off towards Hag Rock Redoubt with her Dragonguard in tow, none of them seeming to notice the shuddering swell in her shoulders with every breath, even after she claimed to have caught it.

He scratched at the scars running down his arm, glad they were wrapped well under bandages to keep him from seeing the remnants of the spell she'd given him. The mead and wine and beer he drank dulled that pain where the salves couldn't, and kept him sleeping at least a few hours most nights. Less addictive than potions, more likely to grog over his head so that he couldn't think about why he felt the need to dwell on the Dragonborn more than his own injuries.

"Nervous?" Soskendov sneered beneath him in Dov, and Ulfric was glad for the distraction. Nervous, a sharp insult to a dragon, one that Soskendov was likely hoping he'd agree with in the mortal way of admitting faults.

Nervous, a shameful thing for a Nord to feel before a battle, especially one to be so easily victorious.

"No," Ulfric replied in the same language, hoping dragons couldn't smell lies.

Bleakwind Bluff rose easily as they crested the final peaks of the Druadach range; a lone mountain surrounded by low valley rising dim grey along late spring green grasses, brighter with snowmelt than the dullness of the Whiterun plains had been. Multicolored patches of wildflowers and sparse bushes dotted around boulders tumbled from long ago avalanches, milling deer and elk snapped to alert as the dragons' shadows passed them, returning to their grazing once they noticed they, for once, were not the prey.

Bleakwind itself was covered in a mosaic of towers all climbing each other, some stone and crumbling with age, others sharp with deep timber walls, obviously imported pine of the Great Forest. A worn path made its way winding through the valley, too high to see the skewered skulls Ulfric knew lined the trail. A few hide tents dotted the base of the mountain, and already movement from the settlement as they noticed not one dragon, or even two.

He'd not bothered to count the dragons that flew save for the seven that carried his cohort; Uthgerd the only one that hadn't adorned herself with a deep blue sash. It was twenty at least flying in a loose formation that easily split on either side for the dragons to surround the mountain.

"No survivors," he said to Soskendov, and the dragon repeated his order in Dov, the others echoing the death knell of the Forsworn like a cheer as they dove in, meeting the first spells with Shouts of their own, easily eclipsing the Forsworn's defenses.

The first pass of the dragons wreaked havoc on Bleakwind. Unrelenting Force tore down towers that had stood for centuries, Flame Breath turned the wooden structures, thatch roofs to ash, Ice Breath turning the narrow slopes of the mountain paths impassable. The second pass found the dragons flying low into the chaos of Forsworn fleeing collapsing, burning buildings, swallowing the witches whole and shrugging off spells, spears, arrows easily. Some moved too quickly for Ulfric to track as Soskendov circled lazily above the mountain, lower than the other dragons carrying the Dragonguard; one dragon seemed to be summoning all the deer, elk, bears, sabre cats--trolls in the area, the trail to Bleakwind became a pile of corpses buried under falling stones tumbling from the ruined towers.

His gaze fell to a Briarheart in his animal helm, a massive stave in each hand, slinging lightning and acid at one of the dragons who'd dared to land against orders. It cowered behind a wing, retreating back into the ruins of a tower. The scales on its wing fell away, skin disintegrating under bright orange sluice, filling the air with a metallic vinegar scent tinged with the rotten smell of burning dragon flesh to add to the sickly sweet of the smoldering Forsworn corpses.

"Foolish creature," Soskendov snarled, Shouting down towards Bleakwind, his Shout pushing the assaulted dragon further into the crumbling tower, into a trench dug with the weight of its body and the force of Soskendov's Words. Ulfric barely had time to tighten his grip around the makeshift rope supports, to dig his boots between scales in a desperate attempt to hold on as Soskendov suddenly jerked his body into a dive, wind rushing through his hair and loosening his braids, the approaching ground burned into wind-dried eyes.

Ulfric lost his grip as Soskendov slammed into the ground, the dragon, tumbling over his neck and skidding through the dirt and rubble until he came to a painful stop. His head slammed against the last remnants of the tower, the force rolling through his armor, and he knew his nose was broken against the faceguard, warm blood already dripping below his collar. His vision cleared in time to see Soskendov forcing the dragon from the mountain, a viciously clawed foot reaching out to slice and shove it over the cliff. His mount did not seem to notice the Briarheart, stumbled from his stance, still casting at his back.

Soskendov roared, and his head rung again, vision blurring as Ulfric cried out, spitting blood and bringing a useless hand to where his ears were protected under his helmet. Soskendov's tail swung around, catching the Briarheart on a long, thin spike as easily as one speared a piece of meat on a fork, beautifully leaving the cursed Briarheart itself pulled away from the corpse upon the apex of the scale. He smoothly flicked his tail, sending the body into his awaiting mouth. A single swallow, and then a burning stare at Ulfric before the dragon was distracted by spells, arrows, spears peppering his back.

Upon Soskendov's signal the rest of the host descended, the battlefrenzied Dragonguard too thrilled to notice that the majority of the fight was long decided, contented with slaying Forsworn who were too busy facing a Shouted, clawed death to care about the mercy of a blade from behind, an axe to the neck.

And, just as quickly as the battle had begun, it ended with triumphant cries, Shouts, the remnants of the Forsworn being slowly burned away, corpses disappearing into glistening maws instead of funeral pyres or hastily dug pits. Ulfric leaned on a boulder and cleaned the blood from his sword, having found a few witches to dispatch after he collected his head well enough to stand without falling over. They had all been rightfully more focused on the swarming dragons than the handful of Dragonguard that scurried around to pick off the stragglers, those that had meaningfully fought back had only done so once they noticed a blade swinging for their neck.

He eyed the sun's position in the sky, daring to brush the summits of the Druadachs; late afternoon would soon break to a golden evening. Uthgerd came up to him, stopping casually as if they'd run into each other in a market. She stepped over pools of blood, gore, ash, and rubble, her boots dirtied to the ankle and helmet slung on her hilted sword. A spray of blood had caught her over the chest, marking up to her cheek. "I've given permission to loot what they can carry," she spoke, somber and low. "We'll make it back by nightfall."

Ulfric nodded, eyeing two Dragonguard emerging from the remains of a cabin, a chest half-open with coins and gems hoisted between them. They caught him looking and whooped in his direction, raising the chest in triumph, cursing when a Soul Gem tumbled out and took an overflow of Septims with it. "It was once said that Forsworn gold was cursed," he answered. "That, if taken from its owner unwillingly, bugs will invade your bed. Your arrow will never again find purchase in an elk. Your sword will bend around an enemy's neck."

Uthgerd raised an eyebrow, watching the Dragonguard shove the fallen coins in their pockets. "I've never heard of such a curse."

"Few lived to tell of it."

She stood silent, a nod barely ghosting on her chin. "I'll spread the word," she finally said.

~

The mood had not dipped as they landed at Sky Haven Temple, the Dragonguard sliding off their mounts still taunting one another with claims they'd slipped a coin down someone's collar. The doors to the Temple were propped open for both their return and to catch the mild dusk breeze. The smell of rot and old blood had begun to hang in the air of the feasting hall, though nobody wanted or dared to mention it in his presence.

Ulfric wordlessly removed the rope hold from around Soskendov's neck, listening to the chatter behind him as the Dragonguard pulled off their own handles from sneering dragons, laughing at those who fell down as their mounts snapped at them before slinking off the side of the mountain, disappearing until they were to be called at dawn tomorrow for the next day's massacres. Soskendov scraped his talons on the courtyard as he left, leaving deep trenches in the worn stone and a hanging sound in the air that left his teeth ringing.

A short order from Uthgerd and the Dragonguard filed towards the covered, half-walled terrace that housed a well-weathered forge and a doorless shed that served as the armory, sitting on benches to clean their weapons and doff their armor, still chattering amongst themselves like recruits. He looked away when they wrapped their Windhelm blue sashes around themselves to keep out the cold.

Illia hovered near the door to the Temple, summoned by all the commotion of landing dragons. She raised her chin to him, eyes rolling over him, Uthgerd, the Dragonguard, looking for any obvious signs of injury. Ulfric shook his head, letting her disappear back inside to make her poultices and potions for when they weren't so easily returned.

"Sir! Sir, thank you for the honor of fighting alongside you," Imming called from the bench, standing and hoisting his cleaned sword in the air. Ulfric froze at the attention. "May the Forsworn's blood cleanse the land their lives poisoned!" The others cheered in agreement. "To the deaths of the witches!"

Ulfric cheered along, against his sinking throat. "To the glory of Skyrim!" He managed to summon the strength to say, and watched the Dragonguard's faces brighten at his words as they cheered louder, the sight shrinking the pit inside him. They still respected his word, despite failing them, despite at least four of them nearly witnessing the fall of his great city. "To the Dragonguard!" He added, his voice firmer, clearer, gesturing to Uthgerd.

"To the True High King!"

He didn't know how he kept his face locked in a victorious smile as the ground dropped from under him, slamming back into his feet with a rising glee that caught him even more off-guard than the sinking dread it rushed away. Perhaps it had to do with that whispered promise on a snow-peaked mountain and in a dusty makeshift clinic, that he would be High King in more than naïve hearts. Perhaps some small part of him somehow still believed he was worthy against those roaring doubts and failures that rolled through his stomach. Perhaps that small part should be much, much bigger; there had been High Kings before much more prone to abject, horrible, worthless failures of reigns, and the mere fact he stood amongst a mere seven who supported him without the promise of coin made him better than the forgotten disappointments of history. Perhaps the Dragonborn had made a delusional idiot of him.

Somehow, Ulfric found it in himself to stand firm as the cheers reached a vibrant peak. Somehow, he found himself enjoying the cheers of the small crowd.

He craved to feel again the praise of a city assembled. He dared to wonder once more how marvelous the adoration of all of Skyrim would feel.

Hag Rock Redoubt reminded her a bit too much of Skuldafn.

The Redoubt was a massive complex built into a valley surrounded on all four sides by tight, jagged peaks, making swarming dragons an easy target as they dove down to pick off what Forsworn they could from the deeply fortified towers and ancient Dwarven buildings. Nariilu eyed the corpse of a dragon a hundred feet down in the rubble of a crushed fort, it's body still twitching with lightning and its Soul trickling up towards her, too far for her to devour it. An arrow cruised for her head and she ducked behind the window, pressing her body against the watchtower they'd only managed to take since it traveled through the entire mountain; they'd entered from away the Redoubt itself, attacking before the Forsworn had taken full defensive positions below them.

"The door's been fortified," Salma reported, coming up the stairs from the fortress below. "If we can't get the dragons down there--"

"I'm very much aware they outnumber us a thousand-to-one," Nariilu snapped. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. "This may throw us off schedule."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

He wasn't expecting a half-destroyed mountain, swarming with Dragons like flies over a corpse. Out of all things, that was near the bottom of his list, and it fell a few places lower as the air around him quivered and rolled with Unrelenting Force--the Dragons were Shouting the mountain down. Boulders fell and rolled down to a rubble pile that steadily climbed up the height of the cliff, cascading to fill a once-fortified valley, reaching the heights of carved windows that climbed the mountain crater.

Soskendov growled beneath him, diving fast to meet the flurry of Dragons around Hag’s Rock, Ulfric’s hair whipping around him, braids stinging against his skin. He easily spotted the red of Odahviing’s scales glinting in the early dawn light, leading the flock of Dragons in circling approaches through hails of spells and arrows towards the mountain, Shouting as they neared and pulling up at the moment Ulfric thought they’d surely collide with the jagged peaks. Odahviing roared a command to keep going, and pulled away from the assault to fly alongside Soskendov.

“Fair skies,” Soskendov sneered. Ulfric worried Odahviing would Shout them out of the fair skies if he kept it up.

“Join my Voice, brother,” Odahviing said—ordered, Ulfric realized, from the tone of his voice, gesturing roughly to the other Dragons with his head. They circled high above, watching them circle, Shout, barely making boulders fall on each pass. “These wretches aren’t worth their Time or their Voices.”

“You gladly follow the orders of the mortal. Are you not ashamed that we are bound, even for short decades, to such a wretch of a Soul?”

“I gladly follow the orders of the one who has bested me in combat, and to whom I owe a life debt to, as is my honor and our tradition,” Odahviing countered. He tilted his gaze up to meet Ulfric. “You see no issue with the mortal that leads you now.”

“This one is outside of the Hierarchy.”

“Hmm. And yet you are here. You have never been one to act of your own volition. Tell me, little mortal, what did you say to get Soskendov to agree to fly all the way out here?”

Ulfric raised his chin high and met Odahviing’s eyes as well as he could. He swore Soskendov was flying roughly on purpose, his hover bouncing with each flap rather than the smooth float he’d felt during their assaults, and hair was gathering in tangles in his mouth, eyes, braids matting under his helmet. “I’ve come to help the Dragonborn.”

Odahviing chuckled and banked a hard turn, Ulfric barely catching the rope in time before Soskendov followed.  “Ah, a sign of weakness. Yes, I understand now. Go, put him down before we continue. Let him help Dovahkiin. Soskendov, come. Two strong Voices are worth two thousand weaklings. I should Shout these failures from Nirn for their disgrace.”

~

Soskendov perched on a half-collapsed tower for not a second longer than it took Ulfric to slide off, delicately missing the razor scales and serrated spikes that ran down the Dragon’s back, and, with a sneering growl, he was off to join the weaving host of Dragons. Ulfric paused at the crumbled entrance to the Redoubt just long enough to watch Soskendov’s first pass on the mountain—and then to brace himself from falling as the peak was shorn off, sending boulders cascading below. One of the smaller Dragons made a line for the ruined peak, landing and Shouting a wall of flame into the mountain itself.

They’d begun to open a path, the tight courtyard and box canyon of the Redoubt made for a dangerous assault from the sky. At least one Dragon’s corpse was half-buried under rubble at the bottom. The Dragonborn seemed to have no other way inside Hag’s Rock, save for descending from the roof of this tower. He looked again over the lip of the tower for any sign of fleeing from the main entrance, seeing nothing, not that he expected to see hoards of Forsworn retreating. Their exits were surely twisted caves, and, this far after the assault began, they had long fled.

The Dragonguard were inside, in whatever state they’d found themselves. He secured the pack he’d brought, filled with food and hopefully helpful potions that Illia hadn’t labeled—standard mage practice, it seemed—and what medical supplies he could find laying around the room she’d claimed as a workshop-infirmary, tied to his body in the tried and true Legion method to keep it from shaking around too much during combat and throwing off your balance.

He drew his sword, fought the urge to call it her Daedric sword, and pushed aside a fallen keystone to enter the tower.

Corpses haphazardly pushed to the side met him, stiff with death but not yet bloated with rot, dressed in the furs and light wool of the Forsworn rather than the metals and thick leather of the Dragonguard. He checked the side paths, most splitting to simple dead ends that had been obviously barricaded as distractions to slow down the Dragonborn and her force rather than any real defensive attempt; no bodies lined any of the auxiliary rooms, though thorough as she was, not a single barricade was uncleared lest she be caught in a flank.

The only way through Hag’s Rock was forwards, spiraling down, down, further through dark, torchless rooms. Ulfric lit his way with the ruins of a once-grand table leg, a strong pine-carved thing that had been hacked to disgrace either for defense or by the attack. Either way, Ulfric supposed, this was no time for the appreciation of beauty. He made great progress, his heart rising each step and stumble as the Dragons made the earth quiver beneath his feet, weaker as he traveled deeper into the mountain, and he only encountered Forsworn dead.

And then, finally, after what seemed like seconds and hours, he heard distant echoes of voices bouncing off rough stone. He strained his ears to hear familiar rolls of Nordic accents or that Cyrodillic lilt, struggling to make out words as the Dragons knocked him from his feet once more, but from this distance, he couldn’t make out much. Ulfric kept his sword drawn as precaution and advanced through one room, two, noting how the voices paused and replaced themselves with the sound of metal on leather—in wait for him to enter through the last door.

Ulfric thanked the Nine that the door opened outwards to him; whoever was behind the door couldn’t kick it open and pin him full of arrows or a spell. Rather, they couldn’t do it easily. He at least had the small advantage of position, if not the advantage of numbers. And neither side knew what lay beyond the door, but Ulfric had the advantage of wishful thinking, unless the Dragonguard had been praying and assumed their prayers answered. That is, unless the Forsworn had finally gotten the better of them, but judging from the numbers and finality of the bodies he’d passed the last few rooms, that was doubtful.

Now, to say something that ensured he survived the door opening, whether Dragonguard or Forsworn, and something that revealed how many Forsworn, if it came to that.  “No need to worry,” Ulfric decided, figuring each second was another opportunity for someone to have bloodlust take over, “it’s just me.” A neutral address, hopefully even the Forsworn were expecting someone who had hidden in a forgotten nook, somehow avoided the bloodshed. Someone who’d defected from Western Skyrim, with a stronger accent than most, or perhaps they were too battle weary to notice.

A flurry of activity, voices, hails to him, it’s Ulfric Stormcloak!—

“What have you come for?” A cutting, scathing, curious voice. The Dragonborn, who was too familiar with magic to not expect a trick of the Forsworn. He could almost see her on the other side of the door, pretending not to lean on her staff, her sword drawn and ready to run it through him if he did not pass her test.

“To turn the Wheel,” Ulfric replied, his own answer shocking him, “upon a new dynasty.” I have come for you. But he couldn’t say that, not out loud, not in as many words.

And the door opened, and she stood before him, not even bothering to pretend she wasn’t resting her weight on her staff.

~

His rations were well welcomed by all except the Dragonborn herself, who waved away all refreshment except for a dull, slimy potion, claiming that every second she spent away from unraveling the wards was another minute they spent trapped in the room. Ulfric nodded, recalling her voracious appetite when she tapped too deeply into her magic; she was far from exhausted, but he set aside a section of salt beef for her to have once she did reach that point.

And once the food and a minor health potion were passed around the Dragonguard, Ulfric felt as useless and as restless as the others, and he began to fall victim to the same tedious atmosphere that  had been wearing on nerves for two days. For long minutes, the only sounds were concentrated chewing, thick against dried meats and hardtack—nutritious but far from a home cooked meal, and careful scribbling and muttering from the Dragonborn at the door. Until, finally, Ulfric couldn’t take it anymore, to be the only person in the room truly idle, and began to speak of how his group had fared against the Forsworn.

“Oh, sure, you’d choose the easy camps,” a Dragonguard sneered after he’d finished telling of the days before. No, not sneered, he realized, when he whipped over to her, ready to quickly discipline before rebellion got out of hand—soldier’s justice. No, she had the glint of a smile in her eye, even if her mouth was too full of the half-torn salt beef she’d finally taken when she thought nobody was looking to turn up.

“Well, from the way Uthgerd and Salma spoke of the Dragonguard’s…varying skills, I figured they could benefit from an ego boost.” It was easy, once, to walk among the ranks of his soldiers, the men and women that fought under his banner, and find camaraderie. He felt that place in himself shrunken and starved, but…it existed, barely.

“Ugh, Imming will be insufferable.” She waved a hand. “And to have to be rescued.”

“By Ulfric Stormcloak! Few know the honor,” a Breton said, and it took Ulfric a second to realize the man was genuine.

Ulfric forced a smile and a nod. “It is an honor to bring a beginning to the Dragonguard with such talented warriors. The Dragons will be through the mountain soon, and I doubt they’ll have any issues with the wards.”

He found it almost easy to sink into conversation with this group; they were much less dazzled by him than the former Stormcloak soldiers, and tended to regard him as a man with a reputation, rather than the man with the reputation. Perhaps he would’ve been more at ease if he had been assigned even a single Dragonguard that wasn’t a Stormcloak—he should’ve cared more during the logistics of this campaign.

Not that it was a campaign—it was a slaughter, even with the minor setbacks at Hag Rock. The Dragonborn was able to dispel the wards within a few minutes, and found a room covered in exploding runes, easily dispatched by throwing rubble in and letting the slight pressure trigger them. “Shoddy, quick work,” the Dragonborn explained, noting half of them had already triggered from falling stones from the Dragons’ assault. “I’m almost surprised they didn’t come back to set more complex runes, ones that require a pulse within the radius to go off. It’s only a minute or two more to cast.” She set to work on the next door, a woven thing of blooming rose bushes so tight they made an opaque panel that glued itself to the wall. “Not like this,” She said, gesturing to the roses. ”This is a living spell. Much more difficult, for casting and dispelling. Something died to make this ward. Without something dying to dispel it, we could be here a while.”

“How long is a while?” Salma asked, impatience just under the tone of her voice.

“Well, a day, if the Forsworn hadn’t left Soul Gems around like common salt.” She dug in a pouch, pulling out a crushed lump of chalk and a glowing, swirling gem. “Give me a few minutes, but we’ll still need to clear the vines.”

Ulfric watched as the Dragonborn sprinkled the chalk dust over the floor, muttering to herself before placing the soul gem in the center of her rune and stepping on it to crush it, releasing a pulse of energy that withered the blossoms on the bushes. She stepped back and let the Dragonguard slice through the dead vines and pull them from the wall, taking a second to eat the rest of the portion of salt beef Ulfric had set aside for her without bothering to chew.

“Status outside?” She asked simply, her voice low.

“The lesser Dragons are struggling with their Thu’um against the mountain. Things look to be going much faster now that Soskendov is helping Odahviing,” Ulfric answered, matching her volume.

The Dragonborn huffed. “How much faster?” The Dragonguard tore down the last of the vines, leaving dark scars from where roots had glued to the stone. Groans rose from the group; the revealed door glimmered yellow with another ward. “The Forsworn bought all the time they needed to escape.”

“Or to outlast us,” Ulfric replied, though he didn’t quite believe himself. It was far more likely the Forsworn had fled Hag Rock by some deep cave system through an exit miles away. He didn’t answer her question on purpose, noting how infrequent the Shouting from the Dragons seemed to have become since he descended into Hag Rock, but he attributed that to the stability of the carved fortress. He’d lost track of the last time it’d been since he’d felt the ground shake, or heard the distinct sound of Shouting.

She scowled, either at his answer, the lack of Forsworn to kill, or the latest ward to dispel. “At least you’re good for morale,” the Dragonborn muttered. “Keep it up. Things were getting delicate.” She tossed the last of her salt beef in her mouth, chewing as she went back to the ward, cursing to herself with each step.

Ulfric did what he could to elevate spirits, but things settled back into a stale boredom easily even though the Dragonborn made quick work of the next ward, opening the door into yet another large room filled with exploding runes, one triggering and blowing the door off of its own hinges as the Dragonborn pushed it open, setting off a chain of explosions as it splintered throughout the room. She stamped her foot and pulled a splinter from her cheek with a shaking hiss.

A quick survey to make sure everyone else was alright, and she walked into the room and inventoried the floor, the walls. Ulfric poked his head through the doorframe, seeing multiple glowing doors behind shredded tapestries and hasty barricades. A few more runes dotted the floor, and the Dragonborn chucked splinters and pebbles to trigger frost, fire, more explosions.

Light sighs, and the Dragonguard made quick work of the barricade directly ahead of them, moving aside half-destroyed tables, benches, bookshelves, before moving to finish tearing down the tapestries to start on the next.

But then—Roars. Screams. Shouts.

Dragons.

Muffled. Far away, but definitively inside Hag Rock, echoing off of stone walls, the sounds of not just Dragons crawling through the carved Redoubt, but the sounds of massacre, combat, feasting, dying Forsworn.

Where there had been downcast gazes were now bright, wild eyes, a peal or two of laughter. “Think you can double-time that ward?” Salma asked. “Sounds like we’re missing all the action.”

~

Ulfric almost would’ve preferred to miss the action, but instead had to slaughter the Forsworn that managed to survive Shouts of flame, frost, lightning, rendering from the smallest Dragons that could force their way through destroyed doors. It was crowded, inconvenient work that he struggled to find any pride in, as the Forsworn were barely more than wounded animals. Tightly huddled pockets of them concentrated in the deepest parts of the Redoubt, and after an extensive search, they could find no caves beyond a few main entrances that were decorated with charred flesh.

Few, if any, had escaped. Despite the time setbacks, it seemed Hag Rock Redoubt had been as successful as the other assaults on the Forsworn, even after the Dragonborn insisted on a second passthrough to check for hidden doors and caverns. Nothing.

That is, nothing was left.

The Dragons had reduced an entire mountain to rubble, gravel, moving to do the same with the fortress once the Dragonguard had escaped. Soskendov snapped at the lower Dragons, scolding them for their inefficiencies, daring them to fail again, demanding them to search the remains of Hag Rock for corpses to bring as penance for their humiliation. He could do nothing when Odahviing left a single body for him, devouring the rest of what few dozen were found for himself.

The Dragonguard squinted against the midday sun, readying to mount their Dragons and return to Sky Haven Temple, stretching and warming themselves in the gentle breeze. Ulfric stared at where a mountain once was, looking at the ruins, a thousand feet shorter than the peaks around it, where a nearly-clean pass would stand once the boulders were moved. The Dragonborn stood straighter, a Soul from a fallen Dragon having swirled up and around her for her to devour.

“Uthgerd is leading the others,” the Dragonborn said, the only hint of a question in her words being a small twitch in her eyebrow. Ulfric nodded. “Good. I’d hate to run behind schedule. I want to have Madenach’s head in Jarl Igmund’s lap in three days.”

Ulfric clenched his jaw. He had no desire to see Igmund; the runt sold him to the Thalmor, and was the final blow to his doomed campaign in the Reach all those years ago. “I’ll separate it from his shoulders and present it myself.”

“If the Dragons don’t eat him,” Salma said, coming up with her helmet tucked under her elbow, “and assuming he hasn’t been warned and left the camps.”

“Even if he has fled like a coward, he’s out of places to go,” the Dragonborn replied. “A thousand of their messenger hawks couldn’t prepare them for our Dragons. Let’s go and give the Guard their rest.” Ulfric watched as she used Odahviing’s rear leg as a step to climb on, crawling up him like a ladder rather than the easy jump and swing that the other Dragonguard used to mount their Dragons.

Soskendov grunted beneath Ulfric as they took off, flying behind Odahviing but before the other Dragons as they sailed towards Sky Haven Temple. “A waste,” he grumbled in Dov, “to allow these weaklings to see conquest, to allow them to devour mortals. How horrible that only one was returned to our Father.”

Ulfric did not reply; he had a feeling the Dragon was in a poor mood since the Dragonborn was walking ever so straighter since she devoured the called Dragon’s Soul, barely injured at that. A far cry from the mortal wounds Soskendov had flown off hoping she had obtained.

“Or, rather, to be devoured by the Dovahkiin,” Soskendov added. “I have wondered; how many has she stolen? Does she fight for control of her own Soul?”

“Surely you can smell the rage within her,” Odahviing called back, his voice clear over the winds. “If you had tasted her Thu’um, you’d know it is all her own. She struggles against nothing, not even the sliver of Alduin she claims.”

“Yet I have not heard a whisper of her Thu’um.”

“Be glad, as one Word will rip the scales from your flesh, the flesh from your bones, your bones from your Soul. You will crave death. I wonder why the mortals fight against their end so desperately, if what they know is nothing but suffering.”

~~~

Ulfric and Nariilu,

I hope you return in time to read this, and that everyone has returned safely with you. We’ve gone ahead to Dragon’s Bridge and Bruca’s Leap. If you haven’t returned by dawn tomorrow we plan on traveling to Hag’s Rock, Lost Valley, and the remainder of your scheduled camps to look for you.

-Uthgerd

Nariilu folded the letter and passed it to Stormcloak. “Thank you, Illia. Did she say anything else?”

Illia shrugged, glancing over the Dragonguard for any obvious injuries or stiffness as they doffed their armor, arms folded as she settled her eyes on Stormcloak. “She said she wasn’t surprised.”

Stormcloak looked up for a brief second before returning to stare at the letter much longer than it took to read. Nariilu nodded, forcing herself to stare at Illia. “It’s not like we didn’t expect some difficulty with the Forsworn. We’ll do the same for their group if they aren’t back by dawn, once we’ve had the chance to rest up.”

Illia hesitated, finally replying, “Of course.” She strode towards the armory, calling back about mince pies left over from yesterday.

“I’m starved,” Nariilu said, trusting that Stormcloak would follow her inside the Temple, hearing his heavy boots behind her. She grabbed a mince pie and a skein of water, continuing down to the library, hoping the Dragonguard would retire rather than search for some obscure piece of history. She silently asked Stormcloak to follow her with a glance, listening to the sound of his steps and the clink of two bottles of mead, ale, some sort of drink in his hands.

She settled down at the long table, pushing aside a tome Esbern had left behind and swallowing one, two bites without chewing, savoring the heavy flavor of elk and deer heavy and thick in her throat. Nariilu gestured for Stormcloak to shut the door and he did, uncorking a bottle and taking a long drink, downing an easy half before turning back to her. “No food?”

“Not hungry,” he replied, setting his helmet on the table. His hair was a matted mess of braids, ash, gravel, sweat. He certainly looked hungry, and the speed that he downed the rest of the ale spoke to his thirst, at the very least.

She couldn’t say much, she realized, as a quarter of the pie had already disappeared. “Why did you come?”

“We wanted to make sure everything was alright,” Stormcloak said, fiddling with the cork on the second bottle in a bygone conclusion. “We figured something had gone wrong, or you’d gone ahead to the rest of your camps.” The cork released with a pop.

“Let me rephrase. Why did only you come?”

He hesitated. “We had to stay on schedule. I was the only one to spare, and Soskendov would make the most impact if something had gone wrong—“

“Then he was the most important to keeping your group on schedule,” Nariilu countered. “You understand what you’ve compromised? There was a reason why you and I split. Odahviing and Soskendov keep charge of the Dragons. Nine, we shouldn’t even be resting now.” Forget dawn, if Uthgerd’s group wasn’t back by dusk, Nariilu decided she’d go after them. The lower Dragons were loosely in hierarchy, if Odahviing was to be believed, and prone to infighting. Hopefully, the promise of keeping their bellies filled and bloodlust sated would keep them in line. “So, why did you follow us?”

Stormcloak raised the bottle to his lips. “I was worried.”

She barely heard him, his words were so quiet. “What?”

He swallowed thickly. “Don’t make me say it again.” Stormcloak stared at the ground, scowling. “My life depends on yours. I was worried you were…I had to make sure…Do you understand the position you’ve put me in?”

Of course she understood; it was on purpose. He had to be fully dependent on her. Everyone had to be fully dependent on her. It was the result of careful planning, political and tactical maneuvering over the last few months of the war. And it had worked flawlessly. He saw her as a god to the point where he abandoned his own soldiers and followed her. Nariilu did not respond.

“The Dragons call me your slave.”

“You’re beyond my equal,” Nariilu argued, standing up fast enough that she hissed in pain, popping her back. “The Dragons are my slaves. They don’t understand anything that isn’t based in hierarchy! You shouldn’t listen to them, first of all. Second of all—“

“Legally, I am a slave!” Stormcloak protested. “In accordance with the Old Laws, I belonged to you once you captured me in Windhelm. Not that it matters to you. You hold my honor before me like a piece of meat, and I am your dog, and you don’t even care. I cannot leave your side or the Empire will skewer me like a skeever, the Thalmor will arrest me for heresy, and you know this. All I have is the promise that you will make me High King, and yourself Empress. Do you understand that? Do you understand how—Gods! Of course you know! I’m the only fool desperate enough to go along with your scheme!”

“I—“

“Shut up!” Stormcloak yelled, slamming down the ale hard enough that it spilled over the table, running towards the tomes. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you? You and your arrogant ass. Thinking you can win my trust by killing the Forsworn. You Imperial Elven bitch, I’ll never trust you. I’m under your protection by your own design, and you can’t win without my help by your own stupid admission. My life depends on yours and I hate you for it.”

His face was bright red, breathing hard, knuckles gripping the edge of the table so hard Nariilu thought he’d crumble the stone, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

Shit.

What in Oblivion should she say? She thought she was just on the verge of getting him to trust her, but was it all just an act? Was he drunk? No, he’d only had the one bottle. What about that time in Breezehome when he was drunk, and he’d sworn he didn’t hate her? Had she really been so stupid as to think she could get her enemy to not hate her? He…he tolerated her, right? How could she save this? What did she say? Her mind swam with possibilities, from staying silent to begging forgiveness and crying to defending herself to promising some other great victory to…to…Nine, was she really out of ideas?

You were worried about me? She finally said, whispered, only to realize she hadn’t said anything at all. Because it was just another manipulative attempt, a distraction from his rage that would go over poorly. The room was still full of a stagnant, heavy silence. Nariilu swallowed heavily, forcing down the rising contents of her stomach. Perhaps she had been foolish to think she’d won him over, that he saw what she needed him to see.

“We take Madenach’s head tomorrow,” Nariilu muttered, sinking down and resting her head in her hands, still meeting Stormcloak’s burning eyes with her own, wondering which one of them would let tears fall first.

“And then off to parade around Markarth, and then Solitude, so I can teach you how to play politics. I’m surprised you let me fight considering how important you claim my life is.” Stormcloak turned to leave.

“Where has this been the last month?” Nariilu spluttered as he reached the door.

“See? Always with the last word.”

She flinched as Stormcloak slammed the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Ulfric held it together until he returned to his closet of a room, not even bothering to light his lantern before he collapsed to his bed and finished the half-bottle of wine he’d left from the other day, it’s taste sharp and warm from being left out and open.

He was worried.

That’s all he’d needed to say.

Instead he went on an inane rant about…well, it hadn’t entirely been untrue, but it certainly hadn’t been helpful—she’d been nearly ready to cry, by the looks of her. And so was he, and she’d seen him like that…again. And he’d lied and said he hated her, and…Nine, and called her an Elven bitch.

Ulfric groaned, finally groping to light the lantern to search for more drink stashed in the room, finding nothing but empty bottles. Over a dozen empty bottles. How long had he been here, again? He’d rather die than leave his room, this closet, and risk running into her, just for the relief of a drunken afternoon. Hopefully the wine and ale was strong enough that it’d kick in and haze his mind enough that he’d be able to sleep tonight.

Should he apologize? What would he even say? It’s not like he’d said much that he didn’t feel. Except for the hatred.

How did he even feel about her, if not hatred? He did owe her so much, even if she did take so much from him.

Gods, she was probably still there, gorging herself in the library because she pushed her body so far to do something as a gesture to get him to trust her. Granted, it was a huge gesture, but still, just that. A symbol. Nothing more.

And he didn’t hate her. He…he what? He trusted her, because nobody would come up with such inane schemes, nobody else in Nirn had such a chance of overthrowing Mede that the Dragonborn did. Nobody else would’ve kept him alive so long, put so much effort in gaining his trust just to reinstate him to a position she stopped him from achieving himself.

Oh, he trusted her so much. She could hold a blade to his neck again, and he’d know she’d never swing. His blood would never spill unless he thrust his own skin against the edge.

He’d follow her to Oblivion and back, just to see what kind of plots she came up with.

He…he…Gods.

He was drunk, he realized, swaying on his cot, recalling how he’d cut his wine with whiskey the other night to make it stronger—sharp with whiskey, not from the air. Ulfric thanked his past self, perhaps he’d get dreamless sleep tonight.

He should apologize. Because all he’d been was worried that she was alright, because his life depended on hers, and her throne depended on him, and…and surely nothing else.

A door shutting softly, almost too quiet for him to notice—the Dragonborn had gone to her room. How long had it been since he'd ruined everything? Thirty minutes? An hour? He could apologize to her now, even more listening to her uneven steps and taps of her staff, sniffs and muffled breaths…was she crying? Nine, he’d made her cry. He’d only ever seen her cry once, in Riften, when she’d spilled her heart out to him about her betrayal during the Great War, her first attempt to gain his trust. And, damn her, it worked more than a bit.

And the other night, when he’d heard her sob, which was probably more than a little his fault, too.

Ulfric decided he simply needed to stop running his mouth.

And, if he were to apologize, he needed to keep it short. Otherwise, he’d be prone to ruin the whole ordeal by saying something idiotic, making her even more upset, when all he needed to do was say, ‘Sorry for being such an ungrateful fool. We will lead Tamriel to a new Era of prosperity,’ and leave to go to sleep, because Madenach’s head was waiting for his blade in the morning.

It was decided then. He stood with no small effort, realizing that leaving to apologizing could have the bonus of leading to a trip to the store room for another bottle of mead or ale or wine or whiskey or beer or any combination of the sort. He paused to collect his balance on the wall, leaning heavily on the door and then taking the few steps from his storeroom-turned-bedroom to the Dragonborn’s next door.

He realized a second too late that he probably should’ve knocked.

Ulfric opened the door to a Dragonborn dressed in blood and pus covered bandages, her robes pooled around her waist, vomiting into a bucket, pressing one hand into her side.

“I’m sorry I’m an idiotic fool. And ungrateful,” Ulfric said as fast as he could, and tried to force himself to close the door, but couldn’t bring himself to move. His eyes fell on a half-eaten mince pie she'd laid on the lone shelf in the room, it's heady smell mixing with acrid sick in an awful way. He remembered the second half of his apology as the Dragonborn looked up at him and pulled at her robes with one hand, the other wiping at her mouth. “And that we’ll bring Tamriel to a new Era. A prosperous one”

She was so skinny, Ulfric couldn’t bring himself to look away from where her bones protruded under her bandages, covering her torso like a shift from collarbone to waist, down her arms. A far cry from the large, corded, firm muscles he’d seen on display when she’d practiced her swordplay, hammered his armor at the forge. It was a wonder she could carry her sword, her staff. She’d hidden her physique under the loose robes, how much of it simply…wasn’t there anymore.

“Stop looking at me.” She winced, finishing covering herself and spitting out the last of her sick. A wave of nausea rolled through Ulfric at the sight—he’d drunk too much too quickly. How long had it been since they’d gotten back from the Redoubt? And he was already pissed. In more ways than one. Pissed and pissed off. And he could go for a piss. He laughed.

The Dragonborn frowned, holding up her robes and wiping her eyes, sniffing, acting like she hadn’t been crying, but her eyes were blood red, even more than usual, drowning out the whites of her eyes that normally shone like starlight.

Shit. He was messing everything up again. “Do you…need help?”

“No. Please leave.”

Ulfric couldn’t’ve left if he wanted to, which he’d’ve much rather’d figured out why she‘d been crying. And bleeding. And was covered in bandages. Perhaps, he put together, the three were related, and hopefully had nothing to do with him. The room was spinning under his feet too much. He swore to himself he’d never drink again, which he knew was a lie. He bit back another laugh. “You’re bleeding.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’ve helped put a lot of people back together before on…on the battlefield,” Ulfric said, even though the thought of clashing swords and flying spells and poorly scabbed wounds brought the taste of metal and acid to his mouth. “I’m no mage, but I can…” He trailed off, wishing she would say something to cut out the sounds of young men and women moaning and screaming their deaths in his arms.

Usually drink kept it away, when he'd gone through Wuunferth's medicine too quickly. Maybe he wouldn’t have a quiet night tonight.

He ducked for the bucket, barely making it before he vomited more liquid than anything, harsh acid that burned his throat and nose.

A sigh, and the bucket was replaced with a mug of water. “Sip on this,” the Dragonborn ordered.

Ulfric did as he was told. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, tears threatening at his eyes again. “I should leave.” He vomited again. “It smells too much like war.”

“I know, I know. It's fine. Let’s…let’s get you in bed, alright? Can you stand?”

Ulfric realized he was on the floor, and tried to push himself up. He looked at the Dragonborn, kneeling before him, her face not spinning, full of lovely concern, and sipped at his water again, feeling much better. A meal sounded wonderful. He’d love to discuss everything with her all night. He shook his head. “I should probably eat. Do you want to eat? With me?”

“I need to change my bandages and sleep," she said, but she reached with a shivering wince and handed him the mince pie.

Ulfric took it and nearly spilled it, but held firm as he sat back hard against the door. “Oh, I’ll help and then we can go to bed.”

She sighed. “Let’s get you to your room. I don’t know if I can help you stand.”

Ulfric glanced around for the bandages, finally finding them on a shelf and grabbing them. He took a deep breath, promising himself he wouldn’t startle again. He’d only startled because he’d been too drunk; he was fine now. “Alright, let’s get started.” He reached out to grab her.

She jumped back too fast for him to track, suddenly speaking from across the room. “Stormcloak, stop. I can change my own bandages. I’ve been doing it for days. Get out.”

“But it’ll be easier—“

“Stop!" She snapped. "Gods! Ulfric you're drunk. Don't touch me."

Oh. That’s right, she would be…bare underneath her bandages. His mind backtracked to when he walked in, replaying how her bandages hugged her emaciated figure, scanning for any revealed sliver of skin, how she now clutched the sides of her robes at her neck. Ulfric’s cheeks burned, and he handed over the bandages. “I…I’m-I didn't…I'm so sorry."

“It’s fine.”

“For everything, I mean. Earlier, too.”

The Dragonborn took a shaky breath and sat back down on her cot. “I don’t know if you have anything to be sorry for.” Silence. “I’m sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. I’ll apologize again when you’re sober.”

“I’ll apologize again when I’m sober, too. I promise.” Ulfric said. “Remind me if I don’t. Do it first thing in the morning.”

The Dragonborn chuckled, then took the bucket back from him. “I promise. Can you stand?”

Ulfric tried, and shook his head. It sounded like a good idea to crawl onto the mattress pad before she did, since he doubted there'd be enough room for them both to spread out, and it'd be more comfortable for them both if she laid on top of him. She looked so delicate, and he knew he'd need to be careful with her in case he rolled over. She could kill him in a second, but gods he had to keep her safe.

He blinked. "I should go," Ulfric said, failing once again to stand. He managed to turn around without falling over, leaning hard against his hands. "I can't see."

The bucket appeared beside him. “In case the smell gets to you. Do you want to talk about anything?”

“I don’t know.” The first rip of a bandage and a shaky moan. He wondered what her skin looked like; if it had improved at all since Whiterun. This same thing happened in Whiterun, and he woke up next to her. He swallowed hard. “What was your family like?”

“My grandmother was a maid in the Blue Palace for High King Erling before she got pregnant with my mother and moved to the Imperial City,” the Dragonborn said around hisses. “ She kept working as a maid for Senators until the day she died. My mother was a maid too, but never could get as good jobs being a half-Elf bastard, you see. Mostly worked for merchants that wanted to feel wealthier than they were. I never knew which one…if one was my father.”

“Oh.” Ulfric stared at the wall, trying not to think about what part of her she was bandaging, or the smell from her blood or the bucket.

“You won’t remember this tomorrow, right?”

“No.” Ulfric prayed he would. "I thought you said you grew up around the docks?"

"I did," she said. Ulfric closed his eyes, quickly opening them when he felt like he was spinning. "Lots of half-born bastards out at the docks. Cheap rent, too. I ran cargo manifests from the shops to the ships before I was big enough to haul crates. Made me strong. Strong enough that a Smith traded me for his old Apprentice when I walked through the door with two sacks of coal on each shoulder."

"Is your mother still alive?"

"She died in the Sack of the Imperial City, as far as I can tell."

She killed her own mother, in a way, Ulfric thought. He wished he could see the look on her face and comfort her. Instead, he gave a mournful hum. "I grew up with too many tutors to count before I left home for the Greybeards in my twelfth Summer."

"I would've killed for a tutor. Didn't know how to read before I joined the Legion."

He hummed again, hoping it sounded less mournful. The Dragonborn clicked her tongue and sighed in frustration. Silence for too long. "Do you hate me?" Ulfric asked, and instantly regretted it. He felt saliva pool in his mouth, grabbing the bucket in preparation to be sick.

"Do you think I hate you?"

"I--" Ulfric vomited. "I hope you don't."

"Do you hate me?"

"I'm supposed to. But I can't, not anymore."

Ulfric's head pounded on Soskendov, thankful that the Dragon preferred to soar rather than flap. He'd drunk too much, far too much last night, remembering his conversation with the Dragonborn like a dream. But, he remembered the way he woke up shivering, fighting for the blanket she'd stolen back in her sleep, blessedly with his back to her.

And he felt nearly fine, just dehydrated. And stupid. Stupid and foolish. He hadn't spoken to her this morning, only kept his gaze steadily forward and nodding at all the right places in her speech, riling up the Dragonguard to take Madenach's head.

He should've been more ecstatic. Thirty years ago, such a feat would've guaranteed his ascension to High King--his assault-though failed-still held sway with the Moot four years prior for how damn close he'd gotten. Oblivion, he should've been close to happy, but he couldn't bring himself to smile.

What had he said?

Gods, what did he want to say to her?

An arrow whipped past his nose, and Ulfric realized he was on the ground, the assault had begun, his blade was wet. Shit, Ulfric thought, cursing himself for drinking enough that he was still tipsy midmorning. He roared, a battle cry to those around him, a damnation of whiskey to himself.

Ulfric reached past the bone and obsidian blade of a Forsworn berserker, crushing his neck and pulling him into his sword, throwing the limp body shorter than he'd've liked.  He scanned the battlefield, taking stock of his surroundings, of the Dragons flying overhead picking off warrior and fleeing noncombatant alike, Dragonguard sprinting from hut to hut and emerging with dripping blades, the Dragonborn ahead of him throwing piercing ice at any who approached her on her trek towards the apex of the mountain.

She was laughing, her face and robes splattered in blood, each step lighter than it should be with her injuries. A flash of her figure ran through Ulfric's mind, and he wrenched his thoughts away from where her firm curves were replaced by gnarled flesh. The Dragonborn was in her element, shrieking in delight and taking life after life like she could devour the Souls of the Forsworn like Dragons.

He'd not seen her like this, enjoying battle. Typically she cursed at the effort required, even if it was minimal. She moved in a dance, sliding on ice to impale those that didn't die when being run through with an icy spear, dodging with too much flexibility. Ulfric wondered if his mind had exaggerated her injuries, picking up his pace to catch up, join her dance of bloodshed as they made their way up.

Up to where Madanach should be.

Where Madanach was, sitting on a low stool, pouring over bones cracking in the fire.

Ulfric's heart dropped; he'd missed half the push to get here, in this low, ruined stone fort at the peak of the mountain. He wiped his sword on his leg lest the blood of the Forsworn curse his strike against the Witchking.

The Dragonborn guarded the door, though Ulfric knew noone would bother them. Not a single guard watched the old fort, all preferring to try and herd those without weapons to escape. It was futile. Ulfric lined his sword at Madanach's neck, his stance reminding himself of how the Dragonborn stood before him with the same sword at his own neck months ago.

"You are Doomed, the both of you," Madanach spoke as Ulfric reared back to decapitate the man. He paused against himself, cursing himself for wanting to hear more. "I'm glad it will be you to kill me, Ulfric Stormcloak."

"Doomed?" Ulfric breathed.

"It means fate-marked," the Dragonborn said. "I've heard omens like this for years."

"Yes, both of you, Doomed. I see your futures in the bones," Madanach explained. "A great rise, a fated fall. The Wheel turns upon the Age of Betrayal. You," he looked at Ulfric over his shoulder, "will--"

Ulfric sliced his neck, watching the Forsworn gasp for two breaths before hacking the man's head clean off. "I hate witches."

The Dragonborn peered at the bones, frowning. "I'm not one for divination, but--"

"Who cares. He was spewing shit from his ass."

The Dragonborn blinked, and Ulfric immediately regretted his vulgarity. He reached down and grasped the head by its silken white hair, letting it bleed out over the smoking bones, heat cauterizing the wound, blood sizzling in the flames. "It's…it's over," she said.

Ulfric paused. It was over. It was her fault it was over. This woman, who had decimated his army and turned the tide of war, devoured a god, tamed an army of dragons, had taken it upon herself to lead him to victory where he'd only found failure. This woman, this incredible woman, stood leaning against a table and panting hard, battlespell worn off, eyeing him carefully for his approval. As if she hadn't held his life in her hands before and could easily do so again. She looked at him as though she was a child pleading for praise.

For all the power she held over him, he had this. "Thank you," he said, watching her shoulders fall and a breath leave her chest. "Thank you for everything."

He gave the victory speech.

He stood before this mixed bag of warriors--because soldiers they certainly couldn't be, not to him--and gave a triumphant rally on the strength of the Dragonguard, the future of their order, the alliance with the Dragons. Ulfric managed to make it convincing enough that even a select few of the Dragons, Soskendov certainly was not one of them, roared along with the cheers of the Guard.

Truth be told, it had been a modified version of the speech he'd given his militia decades ago before they marched on Markarth and he'd been arrested, not that anyone here would recognize it. It was close to what he'd wanted to say once his victory had been complete, once all Forsworn were dead and rotting. Like they were now.

He surveyed the battleground around the few dozen Guard that stood before him, cleaner than a massacre of its scale should be due to the feasting Dragons. All that remained of the Forsworn at this camp were drying bloodstains; the Dragons swallowed weapons and all whole. Ulfric triumphantly raised Madanach's head, its eyes pulling open as it dried out, jaw not quite set with rigor mortis.

"To the Dragonguard!" He cried, the crowd rallying into a swell of cheers. "To the Dragonborn!" Ulfric gestured the head towards where she stood, standing with her chest puffed out, that smug look on her face despite how exhausted she looked.

The Dragonborn drew her sword, held it to the sky, and Shouted, "Yol, Tor Shul!" A swirling heat of fire sprayed from her mouth a hundred feet up, Ulfric had to turn away from the blaze, shield his eyes from how damned bright it was.

But damn if her display hadn't awed the Dragonguard, hadn't humbled the Dragons, whose own Shouts barely traveled twenty feet before fizzling into embers. A show of power, that even in her state, she could devour any of them.

He waited before she was done showing off before continuing. "Whom without, we could not have this victory. I and so many others have dreamed of this day, and it has arrived. Dragonborn," Ulfric said, taking two steps towards her, and suddenly finding himself on one knee, looking up into her blood red eyes. If he hadn't spent so many weeks studying her expressions, he never would've noticed the shock on her face--she still held smug, unbothered, proud. "This victory," he thrust out his hand holding Madanach's head, "is yours."

"It is mine to share," she said, breaking her gaze after a beat to scan over her Guard. She sheathed her sword, taking the head and raising it high.

Chapter Text

The next three days were hell.

Nariilu looked around the bare stone walls of Delphine's former chamber, the side of her body closest to the firepit uncomfortably warm, the side furthest uncomfortably cold. She'd commission some tapestries as soon as she got to Solitude, lest any of her Dragonguard find themselves in the predicament of being stuck on bedrest in such a drab room.

It had to nearly be time for Uthgerd to visit, right? They still had so much to discuss before she and Stormcloak left for Markarth first thing tomorrow morning, as he had sworn was the earliest he'd allow her to leave, and even then only depending on her physical condition.

She wondered if he would even come to see her in the evening to see that she was perfectly capable of flying to Markarth, as if she hadn't just been in well enough health to overwhelm the Forsworn. Nariilu supposed she'd been limping a bit too much, and…well, and he had seen her changing her bandages, but truly, she'd seen worse. Not on her, not that the twisted, torn, burnt, mangled bodies she'd seen had much hope of ever getting back to peak form, but she was different. She was Dragonborn, after all.

And Stormcloak didn't seem to care about that fact. Odahviing had been near to slaying one of the half-useless, low Dragons as penance for getting wounded during the final attack on Druadach Redoubt, and it was only Soskendov's bitter intervention that kept him from killing the poor thing, leaving its Soul for her to devour. No, Soskendov had picked up on why she had been encouraging Odahviing's deadly discipline, and she had to back down lest she be portrayed as a viscious, ruthless First, to both her Dragons and Dragonguard. It was a comparison she did not wish to make, not yet, not when Alduin's rule was so recent.

She counted the hours since Illia came in for her morning healing, and her scolding at 'wasting' her own magic to heal herself.  Soon, Uthgerd would be here, with two plates of food for them to share and work out the particulars of how the Dragonguard should operate. It was unusual, to go this long without a visitor; nearly all of the Dragonguard, even ones she did not personally know, had stopped by to speak with her about one thing or the other. Usually, just a thanks and a swearing of allegiance, but a few had gone into more conversational questions about the state of the war and what and how Stormcloak was doing. She answered all as truthfully as she could, they were entitled to know about the affairs of things, and, given how isolated Sky Haven was, Nariilu doubted they had regular gossip.

But Stormcloak--he was another matter. She deflected all questions about him with a simple "He's important, isn't he?" because if they truly wanted to know what and how he was doing, they could simply go and ask him.

She hoped. For all she knew, he had completely fled Sky Haven. It had been three days since she saw him, since he caught her easily as she stumbled from Odahviing, since he frowned at how easily he'd caught her, and stuck his nose up and refused to leave until she was in better health.

It really made her wonder how much he'd remembered of…that night, when he'd been soaking drunk and passed out in her bed, not even having the dignity to sleep still. No, instead, after barging in on her half-naked and certainly in the most vulnerable state she could've been in outside of completely passed out, he had the audacity to grab her in his sleep, wrapping one, both arms around her middle and scrape against her bruises and broken bones. It was a shock her surprised cries and hisses of pain hadn't woken him up.

Gods, he needed to stop drinking. Sooner or later--probably sooner, she decided--it would slip from being an evening event to earlier and earlier in the day. She'd seen it happen too many times with her soldiers, usually the ones who'd seen the worst fighting, who'd come back…different. Stormcloak had certainly had his fair share of hardship, but his drinking would be the end of him.

Nariilu tried to blame his behavior on wine, but knew how it brought out hidden feelings. It was how she and J'zargo had ended up together in the first place, one drunken night after too long in the library when she'd slammed down a first edition of The Real Barenziah, from before her Court had forced edits (rumored to be against Barenziah's own wishes), stolen from under Urag's ever watchful eye after he issued a dare. The two of them had giggled like children over the raunchy sections before they came to a particular passage that made her rather curious.

The rest is history.

Forgotten, ancient history.

She wiped a tear from her eye, refusing to allow it the dignity of falling.

Things were not like that with Stormcloak; he was an angry, complicated man who wanted what was best for him and Skyrim. She had gotten in the way of his plans, and he held that against her, even if Nariilu offered a better route. He'd been too quiet except for when he drank, when he was too loud. She'd need to clear the air with him soon, let him have another good shout at her now that the Forsworn were dead, now that she'd thought a hundred times she'd earned his trust.

No, things between them were all business. Not that she wanted anything more, or that he would ever see her as anything but an Elf. Oblivion, it was something that he'd admitted he didn't hate her, couldn't hate her, and that was as close to friends as they'd ever make it; allies at best, simply not enemies she'd take from him, too.

Uthgerd knocked once before entering, Salma and Illia behind her, Illia carrying the stack of papers Nariilu and Uthgerd had been scribbling on the past three days. "Alright," Uthgerd said, "let's finish getting things settled."

Musing about Stormcloak could wait. Forever. She had an army to set up.

One night.

He'd had one night without dreaming.

He supposed he should be grateful, but considering how he couldn't get her warmth out of his mind, Ulfric figured he'd paid a certain price for his night of peace. He'd taken to shoving his back against the stone wall as he laid down, because now he couldn't stand to be alone, for all the Guard that wanted to spend their waking hours with him, hearing stories, being trained, simply being in his presence.

Ulfric damned the giant temple and the sheer size of the fallen Blades; as the Guard was so small, everyone had their own chamber. There were no barracks for him to sleep with the others in peace, hearing the comforting sounds of snores and restlessness. And now--Ulfric finished his wine and barely remembered to set the bottle down softly--the Dragonborn had moved to a different chamber (the Grandmaster's chamber, Annekke had mentioned offhand) and he could no longer hear her gentle movements through the wall. Or go bother her, he thought with a curse.

And he hadn't bothered her, as the only thing that would come out of visiting her while she was on bedrest was discussion about how either she was more than well enough to fly to Markarth, or some knowledge of how she planned to use the Dragons to overthrow Mede, no doubt. Or some line about how she slayed the Forsworn for him, because he asked.

He wondered what else he could ask for.

But he'd have to go see her for that, and the only thing seeing her in a bed would remind him of was how she turned into a furnace when she slept, despite her wasting away. Because, despite himself, he was still a man who had spent too long away from a woman, and his body had begun to betray him.

Because why shouldn't he care about a woman who would avenge his failures, who promised him the world? Who was crazy and powerful enough to pull it all off? She'd given him the Forsworn, the least he could do was trust her.

That's all it was, a swelling of gratitude, of trust. It had been so long, after all, since things had even somewhat gone his way.  Not that he would've believed what he was thinking even six weeks ago. Oblivion, if he could go back, he would've trusted her from the beginning, despite everything. Despite himself.

Gods, he couldn't wait to rule with her.

And how he'd likely ruined everything by getting drunk, saying gods knew what to her. How cruel it would be if he had just learned to trust her only to have lost hers, the trust he never had to earn, the trust she gave freely from the beginning. He'd have to figure out a way to make it up somehow, almost certainly by treating her with the respect she deserved. No more drunken rants, no more foolish behavior or pretending to be angry, none of that if she were to keep him as her choice for High King.

He could do better. He had to do better. Ulfric finished his wine glass, weighing the costs of another. One more glass couldn't hurt--not like it was a bottle, after all--and he hadn't even begun to feel the lightness of drink. Wine, not whiskey, a glass, not a bottle. It was better than before, even if it meant he was likely to wake up thrashing, thinking about…about her.

Of Elenwen, or of gore and flying limbs, hearing wails of dying horses, soldiers, mud warm from blood squelching beneath his boots, coating him like the stink of iron and piss in an Imperial cell, a Thalmor dungeon, a blade and spell coaxing secrets and sobs out of him, his smiling interrogator Elenwen laughing in a high-pitched twinkle.

No, no he'd rather think about her, the Dragonborn, the Throne, the Jagged Crown, of Dragons and victory and safety for him and for all, of a home with her--

Ulfric downed his glass. Trust was a strange thing.

Salma figured it out first. "You're joking."

Nariilu smiled down at the map, tracing her finger over the roads easily accessed from Skuldafn. Soon enough, there would be a fixture of Dragonguard there, too, along with countless Draugr and Dragons. "I'm not the joking sort."

"You have to be! You're a Battlemage, for damned sake! You can't just overthrow the Empire!"

"What?" Simultaneously from both Uthgerd and Illia. Uthgerd continued. "We're hunting Dragons. Protecting the people."

"The Empire is weak. The Civil War would've lasted for another decade, weakening both sides until the Thalmor decided it was time to steal all of the Empire for themselves. Cyrodiil, Skyrim, the whole of Tamriel would belong to them," Nariilu replied. "Now that the War has ended, it's only a matter of time before the next destabilization event comes along to weaken us all further, or they'll simply invade and take what they couldn't during the Great War."

"The Thalmor haven't recovered from the Great War, either," Illia said, placing down her notes and searching the map, nodding at the areas marked as potential Dragonguard holdings. "Do you really think--"

Nariilu cut her off. "The Thalmor will do anything for a victory. They've been planning this for years. Decades. Most of the Great War veterans that aren't Elves are half-dead already. The Civil War wasn't just to weaken us, it was to test how the new generation of the Legion fought. And it's poorly. I found Dossiers in the Thalmor Embassy detailing parts of their plan. It's the one thing Delphine and I agreed upon; the Thalmor must be stopped."

"Were the Forsworn a test of your own? To see how the Dragons would fare against the Thalmor?" Salma asked, an edge to her voice.

"No." Nariilu answered honestly, but she hated to admit she really only did it for Stormcloak. "I know how powerful the Dragons are; but now the Reach is indebted to me. And, if they're smart, the world will fear me."

"The world will target you for this," Uthgerd said. "Powerful people like to stay where they are."

"I have to agree," Illia said. "The Forsworn massacre may have come too soon. The Dragonguard are not established and are still basically the Blades, which is an illegal order. This is a threat. You are a threat."

Nariilu shrugged. "And if I die, Dragons will return to roam free through Tamriel."

"Is that really a deterrent?" Uthgerd asked. "Few powerful people like to think long term, either."

"I count myself among the blessed."

A tense silence was cast, and Nariilu could tell how badly everyone wanted to speak against her idea, but perhaps she'd already convinced them she was crazy and determined and strong enough to reach her goals. To build her own Empire, as the old ways demanded, with a Dragonborn ruler on the Ruby Throne.

Uthgerd sighed. "I'm glad you'll have the Dragonguard to watch your back. Your head is going to be worth more than that damned throne."

"Ulfric knows?" Illia guessed. Nariilu nodded. "He's fine with it? Ulfric Stormcloak?" Another nod. Illia's eyes narrowed. "Are you two…?" She trailed off, tapping two fingers together suggestively.

"Gods! No," Nariilu answered quickly. Almost too quickly, she felt. More eyes narrowed. "He'll be High King."

"You destroyed the man's movement to become High King, and now you go and undo all your hard work," Salma said, crossing her arms.

"The Civil War weakened Skyrim and the Empire. I couldn't let it go on."

"Uh huh."

More silence. Nariilu wondered if this would be the end of the Dragonguard, these three traitors would leave her behind and go back to hunting the Dragons she worked so hard to tame. Finally, Uthgerd shrugged. "It seems a good way to go down in history one way or the other."

"Agreed," Salma said. "You'll be a better fit than Mede, for certain. A drunk horse would be better, but truly, I never cared much for politics. The Dragons are nice to have, though."

Illia sighed. "Alright, but you can't keep shirking your healing. Keep the assassins off of you, and the salve on. No more fighting for at least a month. I'm serious." She pointed her quill for emphasis, then ruffled her pages into a neater stack. "We have more to discuss than I imagined. Let's continue."

The Dragonborn threw Madanach's head at Igmund's feet, letting the ice around it shatter.  "My Jarl," she said, taking a knee that Ulfric could only find it within himself to match with a slight bow, "Ulfric Stormcloak and I have solved your Forsworn dilemma."

The silence was long.

"You spared Ulfric Stormcloak. I didn't believe the missive until I heard it from the Jarl Balgruuf himself." Jarl Igmund finally spoke. Fabric shifted as his Steward and Housecarl took this in; they had obviously decided the more pressing issue was the severed head on the floor in front of their Jarl. Ulfric could've laughed. Igmund continued, "You fly in on the back of a Dragon--I received your letter this morning, Thane, not that I could have believed it until this--and tell me that Ulfric Stormcloak has finished what he was called to the Reach to do after twenty-seven years? You show me the head of the most persistent enemy the Reach has had in three generations? Avenge my father's murder? How."

A demand more than a question. Ulfric felt a surge of pride; this boy who had been sitting on his father's lap until he was forced to sit on the throne itself had grown himself into a man. He'd never fully let go of that final piece of blame for Hrolfdir's death; if Hrolfdir had truly eradicated the Forsworn rather than rest on some foolish deal with the Empire, the old man would still be alive. But Ulfric knew Hrolfdir was watching from Sovngarde, proud of his son's command of the cavernous throne room, his piercing stare and demands that would not go without answer.

"I have tamed many of the Dragons that once hunted these lands," the Dragonborn answered, as if she were discussing the running of the deer. "I and my Dragonguard rode the Dragons to victory against the Forsworn, leveling mountains and razing strongholds. Many heroes were made, all of our enemies' blood was shed."

"Then you paint a target upon your back, if you truly command a host of Dragons. Leveling mountains!" Jarl Igmund laughed. "It's no wonder you've allied yourself with Ulfric, as impulsive as he is. Was. Is?"

"Am," Ulfric answered, and Igmund laughed again. The Jarl of the Reach had always been good natured, with a soft spot for him but deeply condemning the Stormcloak movement. He'd been a man who craved the peace his father could never bring, and now that he had it, well, the smile easily reached the young man's eyes.

"I would be glad if my Thane were a Nord, with honor in her blood, that I might trust her Dragons would not level Markarth as well."

And he'd learned politics since the shouting match at the Moot. Ulfric cursed to himself. The Dragonborn's shoulders flinched with the insult.

"My great Jarl," the Dragonborn knelt deeper, "I see no reason to throw away a powerful ally, even less to destroy a stronghold that was ancient in the First Era. I simply wish to bring peace to Tamriel, and the Dragons will soon no longer be a threat to your people. The Forsworn are no longer a threat. I give you Madanach's head as a sign of my obedience and service. Let it be a symbol of the strength of the Reach, that no enemy shall find purchase in these mountains."

Igmund raised an eyebrow; he didn't quite believe her words, but who would?

Then again, who would oppose her? Dragons had been wreaking havoc on Skyrim for years; to eliminate their tithes and feedings would save a hundred lives in each Hold every year. In Eastmarch, Dragons had been holing up on cliffs and impossible to reach mountains and valleys in between flying to whatever unlucky hamlet caught their eyes; the Reach had no shortage of mountains for the Dragons to home in. Their Dragon problem was likely the largest in Skyrim.

"My Jarl," Igmund's steward cut in. "A word?"

Igmund allowed his steward and Housecarl to approach with a flick of his wrist, the two bending at the waist to form a triangle of ears to mouths. A minute of hushed voices later, he waved them away.

"The Reach is grateful for your service," Igmund said, "and will not forget this gift. However, we cannot ignore the threat of your Dragons, and the unknown nature of your Dragonguard Dragonriders. I request a full report of the actions and intentions of this group. And, if required, I may adopt them into the fold of the Reach Guard, as is my right as your Jarl."

"I am Thane of many Jarls, my Jarl," the Dragonborn replied, "but you have likely already seen a reduction in Dragon attacks these past few weeks. Expect that trend to continue. Expect a report within the month."

Jarl Igmund hit his fist on the arm of his throne. "I will not share your loyalty."

"I will not share my Dragons."

Another word from his Housecarl. After a long minute of discussion, Igmund hid a scowl. "I am honored and ever grateful for your service in slaying the Forsworn, my Thane. I will consider word that any Jarl or army counts a Dragon amongst their forces as an act of war."

"They are no more soldiers than are your skeevercatchers, my Jarl."

"A word of warning, Jarl Igmund," Ulfric spoke up, biting back a smile as the room perked up to listen to his words rather than focus on the tense match between Igmund and the Dragonborn. "A Civil War in Skyrim is not so easily won, specifically when you fight against the Dragonborn."

Igmund chuckled. "But, it seems losing one is an excellent way to ensure the deaths of your enemies."

Ulfric eyed the Thalmor soldiers standing at perfect attention to either side of the throne, just far enough to stay out of direct sight when speaking with the Jarl, but easily close enough to hear every word to report back to whatever Justiciar they served. He wondered how many Justiciars and soldiers the Reach had been through now; before the war they were approaching double digits of Thalmor somehow getting lost in the ancient ruins of the Keep. "Not all of my enemies."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Close. They were close.

Ulfric hadn't seen this view in years, and then it had been from the center of an entourage designed for speed and to barely look like an envoy. He'd known exactly what Torygg would do once he received the Rite Challenge. He'd known he would have to kill the boy.

It wasn't supposed to turn out the way it did. Hostility as he fled; war. If the Old Ways had been followed, none of this mess would've happened in the first place; Ulfric wouldn't've had to challenge Torygg in the first place. 

His legs felt like ice as he trudged up the mountain road towards Solitude, vision tunneling until he could barely tell the cliffs rising on one side from the open air on the other.

It was a wide road, well- traveled by merchants from all over the Empire, though those from Skyrim made up a sure majority, some turning off-road to travel down small paths to farms, stables, outstanding villages that were still part of Solitude, as far as the census and taxes were concerned. None seemed to recognize him, or cared, with their caravans of goods and mercenaries. Ulfric wondered how long this anonymity would last. He had it on good authority that the Guard who held the gate for him to flee had been executed to public cheers. How far could Vittoria Vici's protection go, really? How far could the Dragonborn's? He almost wished they hadn't disembarked from their Dragons a mile ago, instead jumping off from above the clouds to fall into the city proper--it certainly felt the safer option in this moment.

He tasted blood; he had chewed his cheek to shreds. Ulfric was grateful for the distracting flavor, feeling the tears in his flesh with his tongue and reveling in the stinging pain it brought. Anything to distract him from his memories of how Torygg's head had rolled, Elisif's screeching, and the countless piles of bodies he had brought to Skyrim.

He'd been so stupid to play right into the Thalmor's hands. Their campaign against him had started the second they let him go free, and he couldn't call himself less than blind to not see it. He played every single conversation he'd had in the past twenty years over and over in his head, wondering who they had used to manipulate him into challenging Torygg, to sparking that damned war, to weakening the two largest armies in the Empire just for them to move in.

The Thalmor would be here soon.

Gods, they would be here soon.

With their chains and spells and swords and towering arrogance, they would be here soon.

Elenwen would save him personally for herself, just to laugh at him and gloat and keep him as hers because she loved having him to play with. Her perfect General, so simply broken, such a wonderful puzzle he'd been for her to unravel. If she had any mercy, Elenwen would keep Ulfric from where he could see her playing with his people, the brave souls of Skyrim that he was stupid enough to try and protect from her.

Ulfric wondered if he looked as panicked as he felt as the thick, tall walls of Solitude came into view. One hundred feet of stacked boulders rose against the mountains, blending in with their peaks to the point where ancient yews twisted their way around the allure, holding strong and hiding archers within their branches. It certainly seemed to him that more steel arrowheads glinted in the boughs than three years ago; Ulfric was convinced it was because of him, rather than what his spies had told him--they'd taken to tying little bits of iron in the trees to scare off his armies.

A strong arm against his chest stopped him in his tracks, and he grasped for his sword before realizing it was the Dragonborn, holding him back before he carried on ahead into the farmer in front of them, herding a dozen sheep into the city. A line, he realized, a line to pass inspection into the city. He'd passed through simply the last time he was here, with the Sigil of Windhelm, and no inspection of anything he or his men brought into Solitude.

How would they ever get the Jagged Crown inside?

Ulfric blinked, because the Jagged Crown should be the last of his worries right now. It was safely buried below a thorned holly bush along with most of what they'd brought from Whiterun, from Sky Haven. They only carried 'essentials', money and letters and potions and ingredients and a few of the more mundane pieces of jewelry and gemstones he and Lydia had plundered.

The Dragonborn cursed beside him, and he thought she commented on how long it would take them to get inside Solitude at this rate. He couldn't much care, and would much rather turn and run like a coward, because the Solitude guard would take him and turn him over to Elenwen, because they were Imperial Soldiers at their core, and the Empire was in the pockets of the Thalmor.

Which, he realized, would mean the Dragonborn was in the pockets of the Thalmor, but that certainly wasn't the case.  Ulfric released his grip on his sword, hoping it looked more like an impatient twitch at having to wait rather than a panicked lunge. 

"Are you listening?"

He turned, looking down at the Dragonborn, who looked an odd mix of annoyed and concerned. Her eyes scanned him up and down, and he watched the ways she traced him, the whites of her eyes fast-twitching with her visual search.

"Stormcloak," she started, then shook her head, continuing, "Ulfric, are you alright?"

He could count on one hand the times she'd said his name. She said it all wrong with her Cyrodiilic accent: Uhl-fric, rather than the proper pronunciation, Oohl-fric, but he didn't quite care. What did he care about, in this moment? His thoughts had scattered with the shock of hearing his name out of her lips, and he knew that was a good thing. He held his breath, feeling his heart beat too hard, too fast inside his chest. He'd been close to…something. Something less than ideal.

"You know," Ulfric said, suddenly acutely aware of the sheep, donkey, and horse shit that lined the road (had he stepped in any?), "they very well may kill me the second they realize who I am."

The Dragonborn scoffed. "Vittoria and I already sent word that you are not to be harmed. Elisif signed off on it, might I remind you." She shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. "If you die, I'll go to Sovngarde again and apologize."

"Don't disrupt my eternal reward," Ulfric muttered. The Dragonborn chuckled, though Ulfric hadn't meant it as a joke. "I'm serious."

"We went over this last night."

A trader--Ulfric couldn't bring himself to describe two mules buried under saddlebags, led by a single man, as a merchant--joined the line behind them, giving Ulfric an exhausted nod of acknowledgement when they met eyes. He lowered his voice; the shepherd wouldn't hear them over the brays of his flock, but this man may. "Forgive me for considering my life to be in danger."

"If I die, you won't see a single coin."

"When you live, I'll be rich.

"You're already rich. I haven't a piece to my name." Because I am your slave, Ulfric finished inwardly. He couldn't place the emotion that thought rose within him. "I die and get nothing."

"I said I'll deliver it to Sovngarde."

Ulfric dodged manure caked into cobblestones as they edged closer towards the gate. The Guards were making quick work of those entering. He shook his head. "A guard's arrow will not send me to Sovngarde."

The Dragonborn nodded. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

Ulfric bit back a retort, because he knew she knew that wasn't what he meant, but he also knew she didn't care what he meant. He kept his head down as the guards briefly inspected the shepherd and his flock, shaking their wool down for any hidden goods in the thick fur. Nothing, and they were waved through.

Ten steps until they reached the guards. Ulfric plodded two behind the Dragonborn, keeping his head down and his hood up as she paid the gate toll for both of them—two Septims each. He vaguely listened as she gave her name and Thane’s Cord, listing him as ‘Hoagsson’, which, while not incorrect, she still butchered his father’s name. A quick search of their bags and a list of their weapons later, Ulfric walked through the gates of Solitude.

As simple as five steps, and the city walls broke for a blue, cloudless sky over a wide main plaza, lined by cobblestone and tile buildings, banners strung high between the roofs. A swirling mass of people meant they had no choice but to keep moving with the crowd, falling into step with the core heading deeper into the city, rather than hiving off to any number of stalls and stores off to the side.

He knew the sound of the city was deafening, especially near the main gate like this, with merchants all trying for first pass on any travelers, taverns and inns doing the same with doors wide open to entice with bards and smells and women, travelers pushing nearly shoulder to shoulder trying to get past the first plaza, the Second Gate, as it had been called.

Ulfric had specifically timed his challenge to Torygg to avoid the greatest crowds, just in case everything turned out the way he hoped it wouldn't.

He kept a sure eye locked onto the top of the Dragonborn's head, watching her stumble and weave through the crowds, pulling away from merchants who placed a firm grip on her elbow to drag them to wares, following her as she led him past the bulk of the people and into a side street. She took a second to glance over her shoulder, confirm with a nod that he was still close behind, before continuing her limped steps forward, up and up and through and around and back again and another turn until Ulfric began to recognize the roads and buildings as the beginnings of the High Streets, the upper class district he almost forgot she could easily afford to live in.

Ulfric stared down every alley, waiting for an assassin or a Thalmor soldier to jump from the shadows and stab him through the heart, slice his neck.  The crowds were less here, but that simply meant less witnesses. Someone was always behind him, though when he turned he saw nothing but clear cobblestone streets. The Dragonborn continued her unsure step up and up and up and up and up and he could not have told anyone the route from the Gates to her house if his life depended on it.

And then he was inside a warm, welcoming space, with tapestries adorning the walls and scented candles burning to brighten a dark stone room, couches and chaises off to the side, bright windows facing the cliff and sea before him, the Dragonborn turned and speaking to him with words he did not hear. She did not notice and kept speaking, walking forward with a gesture for him to follow, her bags discarded and forgotten by the door, a deceptively delicate woman walking in from a side room, armored in plate too expensive, too sturdy to be anything but a threat.

But to him? She was a Housecarl, as sure as the sash on her shoulder, and with a nod and a terse smile she ushered in servants who collected everything the Dragonborn had left behind, staying in the shadows for the remainder of the tour Ulfric couldn't care less about. He'd be lost walking around his own chambers, he realized, stepping inside the huge bedroom, windows framing the bed, a wardrobe and washroom off to the side opposite of his own sitting room to welcome guests, if he had them.

"Is it to your liking?"

The first words he'd heard in an easy hour.

Ulfric tasted blood, and noticed he'd devoured his left cheek at some point. He swallowed roughly, turning from the window--he'd been watching hawks weave and dance over the cliffs, the waves below--to face the Dragonborn. Again, there was that need for approval. He didn't trust himself to respond. The room was splendid, comfortable, well decorated. He nodded, swallowing more blood.

"Excellent. Lunch will be served in…," the Dragonborn paused, looking expectantly at a servant hidden off to the side. "There's food in the kitchen whenever you want. I'll eat in an hour or so, with Aventus and Sofie. If you need anything, you know where my chambers are--" Ulfric had no idea where that was. "--and Kyneslod is here specifically for you." She gestured at the man Ulfric had noticed following them around for the past dozen minutes. A simple man with clothes too rich for him; a servant--his servant, Ulfric realized with a start--that had been hired from…a tavern, by his stance. Not used to the home, and not used to a home with more than a few children running around.

Nine! Ulfric realized the Dragonborn had been running her household with little more than letters the past few months. Whenever he had been on campaign, he'd let go of a majority of his staff (always making sure they were placed in a good temporary position), but, then again, he had no children of his own (as far as he knew),  and no reason to keep a large staff other than the essentials of Stewardship to Windhelm.

Which was no longer his own.

Ulfric took a turn around the large chamber once he heard the door shut behind him. Deep red quilts adorning a bed much too large for one person, couches and chaises in a sitting room seemingly designed for a family, and a washroom more than equipped with everything Ulfric didn't know he wanted--he turned a valve and steaming hot water gushed from a pipe overhead to fill a tub deep enough for a bear. Red curtains matching the quilts were thrown back from windows framing the bed, the large couch in the sitting room, above the tub. Ulfric tried closing them, hating the way the light was tinted bloody.

A bookshelf taunted him next to a desk across from the bed, stocked only with irreverent novels (The Real Barenziah, Abridged, for one), and he cursed himself for not remembering if the Dragonborn kept a library. He wouldn't doubt it, but he also wouldn't be surprised if she kept all her choice books locked away in her chambers. Which, he knew, as former master of a Keep much more grand than this--which he could hardly believe his own memories--her chambers were far more eloquent than his own.

Knowing Solitude and its propensity for showy wealth, her chambers were likely triple sized of his own, if he had the Honored Rooms. Quintuple, if he was delegated to a simple Guest.

He dared to poke his head out of the door, noticing that he was the first set of rooms on the hall. Ulfric cursed; he was Honored.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Ulfric startled, nearly slamming his door shut on his own neck, before he remembered Kynelod had been set to mind him. "No, no," he said, trying to sound calm. "I was getting my bearings."

He finally managed to take in Kyneslod, a slight Nordic man of pale red hair and a full beard, late twenties or so? The type of man he would never trust a bow or longsword, but would leave an axe or short blade in his fierce hands for him to strike like a sabrecat. Strong stare with green eyes, stronger nose. A proper Nord. Ulfric found himself nodding. Kynelod nodded back, a slight furrow to his brow. Ulfric realized he was coming off as quite the character, and straightened up, ignoring his thumping heart, the blood rushing behind his ears in a battlecry, as his sword was safely tucked in its sheath--the Daedric sword the Dragonborn gave to him--and there were no enemies in sight.

Kyneslod didn’t even blink to his own credit. "Of course, my lord."

Ulfric did blink. He'd never been called 'my lord' since he was a small child, and it startled him. "How long until lunch, would you say?"

"An hour, or so," Kyneslod admitted, with barely a care in the world. "But, there is always food at the ready in the kitchen, my lord."

"Don't call me that," Ulfric demanded. " I'm not your lord. I'm not anything."

"Of course…" Kyneslod trailed off. Ulfric could almost taste the 'my lord' in his statement. "If you need anything during my shift, I shall be right outside, or, at a respectable distance behind you."

"How many other staff are there?"

"Four, currently, and the Housecarl."

Ulfric still felt the distance from the honorific he denied. Kyneslod wasn't used to calling his employers anything other than 'my lord, my lady'. Ulfric cursed himself for insisting on traditional titles as Jarl. It felt so nauseous inside of his throat to even think of being called such a thing. "You'll give me a second tour," Ulfric demanded, cursing himself as he fell easily into the aristocratic wants. "Ending, if possible, with a seat at lunch."

Kyneslod smiled and nodded, starting with an explanation of the formal names for all the chambers on the guest hall. Ulfric learned he stayed in the King's Suite.

~

Ulfric had gotten used to eating her food and drinking her wine, but now he must get used to answering her children's questions and enduring their stares.

It was obvious Aventus remembered him all too well, with his piercing, unblinking gaze from across the table, no matter how many times the Dragonborn scolded him (she was an unexperienced mother, and a Legate's techniques were no use against a boy of his age and determination), and Sofie was more curious than anything, as a child her age should be. That, at least, set Ulfric somewhat at ease. War hadn't taken all of her youth, but she nearly took his life when Sofie had the innocence to ask if he was their new Da.

Ulfric choked on a fatty side of salmon nobody had any business choking on, Kyneslod appearing from the shadows with a goblet of water to wash down what in more polite company would be explained away as a rogue bone. Aventus called Sofie an idiot, and the Dragonborn scarred her heavy oaken table, cut from a thousand-year old tree side, by slamming her knife point down into the grain, demanding Aventus leave until he could behave himself. Ulfric swallowed the water thickly, waving Kyneslod away with a grateful nod. "No, Sofie, he's not," the Dragonborn finally replied once Aventus had stomped from the room, tightness dominating her tone.

"He won't be anyone's Da, either," Aventus snapped from the hall, his voice growing more distant with each slammed step. "He'll send you away first chance he gets!"

"Aventus," Ulfric coughed, "that's not true!" He started after him, barely rising and pushing his chair back to catch against the rug when he heard the unmistakable sound of the boy scrambling upstairs on all fours. Ulfric bit his cheek, sitting back down, noticing that the Dragonborn had also begun to go after Aventus. "I'll speak with him this evening."

About what, he didn't know yet. Did he blame him for the death of his father? Ulfric recalled how tightly he clung to his mother at the brief funeral they held for Hothur Aretino, part of a larger ceremony he'd held for the hundreds of dead buried or cremated closer to Whiterun where they'd fallen in their failed siege. He wondered how much Aventus knew of the Dragonborn's involvement in the War. But to specifically mention sending him away--Had the boy expected Ulfric to adopt him after his mother succumbed to illness-in no small part because the Dragonborn's own efforts to strangle trade into Windhelm? Even if he had been the nurturing type, the center of a rapidly crumbling rebellion effort was not the best environment for a tween.

Ulfric had considered the possibility that Aventus would pick up the pieces of Windhelm once he became of age and left Honorhall, try and restore whatever damage the Empire did to his beloved city.

"Let me speak with him first," The Dragonborn said. "He's been through a lot." Had she told Aventus of her involvement in his parents' deaths? Ulfric glanced at Sofie, happily shoveling her food into lines on her plate; she was a war orphan, too. How much of a hand did the Dragonborn have in those deaths?

Ulfric leaned back in his chair, biting his cheek. The Black Sacrament, the Dragonborn had claimed. He tried to imagine the quiet little boy who sat through hours of debate and politics on his father's lap, enjoying a sugar sweet or toy with wide eyes, turning into this angry creature. Even the last time Ulfric had seen him, when he had sent the boy to Honorhall, he had been quiet and tearful, content to listen and nod with Ulfric's decision, though he had ignored his offer of a hand to clasp before leaving to board the merchant's cart to Riften. There hadn't been any rage on his face then, just a simple acceptance of his lot in life. What in Oblivion happened?

"And you've been gone for months," Ulfric pointed out, hushing his tone and covering his mouth to pretend like Sofie wouldn't hear. He glanced over at her; she was preoccupied with pressing her food lines into food mounds. "He's upset with me, not you. I've known him since he was blessed at the Temple." He lowered his voice further, nearly mouthing the words, "I'm worried he feels abandoned."

"Mister Ulfric," Sofie said, not looking up from her food, "did you ever meet my Da?"

Almost certainly he hadn't. Out of the tens of thousands of brave Souls who had joined his cause, Ulfric had spoken with perhaps a hundred. He knew all of his generals and most of his lieutenants, and he couldn't recall a single one with a daughter by the name of Sofie. Ulfric paused, unsure of how to answer this child.

"My Da said he and Ma had to go help you win the war and that the war was to kick out the Elves and Imperials because they want to take us and eat us. But Aventus is a half-breed Imperial and Ma is a Elf and they haven't eaten me but my Ma said that Elves only eat bad children so I do what I'm told always," Sofie said, taking a beat to cough open mouthed onto her plate. Ulfric blinked, even more unsure than before, noticing the Dragonborn also seemed caught off-guard, her lips pressed tight and her eyes wide. Sofie continued, "But Da said he was going to go be your best soldier and Ma would be the best archer you'd ever seen and Da would tell you just where to go so you'd win the war and they'd come home and for being so good in the war Da and Ma would get a big farm with lots of cows so we can have cream fresh every day as much as I want. But they died and you lost the war but now that Ma adopted me since she has a lot of money I get allowance and I can buy cream from the farmers even though they're not my cows."

Sofie finished and scooped greens into her mouth, looking around the table as she chewed. The Dragonborn nodded at her; Ulfric followed her lead, nodding amicably enough that, with any luck, the girl would forget she'd asked a question and he could continue the meal in silence. Sofie swallowed loudly and continued, "My Da said that Jarl Ulfric would never lose the war so long as he was fighting for you. So is that why you lost? 'Cause he died? Shieldsister Jordis said you lost the war but she said I was too young to know why."

The head of a severe Nord woman poked through the door for a second before the Dragonborn waved her away; Ulfric figured it must be Jordis. He focused on her low brow and bright hair, left long and free despite her battle armor--she was symbolically ready for battle at a moment's notice, but relaxed enough to let her hair down. Ulfric brought a hand up to his half-braided hair, knowing how foolish a warrior would be to leave it down when on alert. He'd grabbed his fair share of fistfuls of hair in battle.

"Sofie," the Dragonborn spoke firmly, casually, "wars are not lost or won by one alone. Do you know how many thousands are in an army?"

"Lots."

"Right. So, even though your Da and Ma were very brave and very strong, even if Ulfric was commanding his army perfectly…Sofie, wars, battle is not fair. Good people fall, no matter how strong they and their leaders are. Sometimes, we have to take what the Divines give us." Sofie nodded sagely at the Dragonborn's words, though Ulfric was unsure how much exactly she understood. "Victory is not about strength. It is about choices."

War was about duty, honor, Ulfric told himself, cursing choices. There had been no choice for him, no choice but war. Wasn't that why the Dragonborn succeeded when he failed? Because of her simplistic view of the war? Because she had no stakes in the future of Skyrim, damned her ideas of Empress and High King? He took a long drink of wine, finishing his glass.

"Your Da and Ma chose to fight for what they believed in," Ulfric said, the strength of his voice surprising him. The stone dining room had an echo to it, that was certainly it. "That places them among the strongest in Skyrim. Sovngarde has surely welcomed them with open arms."

Sofie agreed, swallowing another mouthful of food. "Jarl Ulfric, how come you're still alive?"

Ulfric felt his heart stop, his throat closed, every pore broke out in sweat. He did not know where he found his voice, coming from beyond himself, "Your parents' burden was to die for their cause. My burden is to honor the sacrifices of all who fought for me."

He refilled his wine glass, avoiding everyone's gaze until he finished his meal and had an excuse to head to his own rooms.

Nariilu dispelled the frost on her hands as she realized who had tackled her in a hug at the opened door and squeezed Vittoria Vici back. "It's been too long!" She breathed, smelling how fresh her friend was; lemon and orange and florals that were too early for this season. Nariilu knew she smelled awful, even if she had taken a while to scrub half of the dirt and blood off of herself before she ate, but hadn't bothered to put on any sort of scent beyond the soap she'd washed with. She'd noticed Stormcloak hadn't even cared to wash himself--dirt had caked his face, clothes, and hands.

Regardless of his hygiene, Nariilu was sure she smelled of rosemary and lye soap at best, and blood and gore at worst.

Vittoria pulled back, holding her at arm's length. "Look at you!" She said. "Gods. Look at you. What happened?"

What didn't? "Ugh." Nariilu rolled her eyes. "Won a war. Killed a god. Dealt with the Forsworn. Typical Morndas." She glanced past Vittoria at her two armed guards. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Oh, no, no, I just came to say hello. Is…Is he here?"

Nariilu had a gnawing feeling in her stomach that nothing would ever be about her again. He'd downed a bottle of wine at lunch, retreating to his room immediately after his plate was clear. She wished she knew how to approach the subject with Stormcloak. "Yes, but I'm sure he's resting after a long journey."

Vittoria lit up again. "Excellent! Now, you know, we need to get him back into society as soon as possible. Both of you are invited to luncheon at the Blue Palace tomorrow afternoon. I've already been working on Elisif, and of course he's welcome to stay in Solitude as long as you are. Now, the Thalmor are another story--"

"The Thalmor are here?""

"Nariilu, the Thalmor are everywhere. But I've worked out a deal with Elenwen where, as long as he behaves himself, Ulfric is as free as you are, but is your responsibility. That means that if he, well, it'll be your head, and his."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"Elenwen is really quite delightful, once you get to know her. Truly, she only wants what's best for the Dominion, and to work with the Empire," Vittoria said, clasping Nariilu's hands. "She's having another party at the Embassy soon, and I do hope you'll come. It was so nice to have you there a while back."

Nariilu bit her tongue and smiled. "Oh, I've already received invitations for Ulfric and myself. I'll have to meet with you to discuss what to wear. I'd hate to have our dress colors clash."

Vittoria smiled warmly. "Well, speaking of invitations," Vittoria smiled warmly, bouncing on her toes enough that Nariilu could tell her excitement was genuine, "let Ulfric know you're both invited to Evening Salon tomorrow."

"Ah! We happily accept!" Nariilu replied, screaming internally. 'Evening Salon' referred to the wine tasting event Elisif and the Blue Palace held on occasion, always sponsored by Vittoria and the East Empire Company, featuring the finest wines and liquors the Empire had to give. She could already see how drunk Stormcloak would get at such an event.

"Excellent! Oh, I can't tell you how much the good Jarl Elisif has missed your presence."

Nariilu doubted that. She'd always found Elisif to be a bit dull for her liking. Well, Elisif knew how to entertain a crowd, but nothing about entertaining an individual. "And I yours, Vittoria. Few have your mind for gatherings. I'm sure you've kept an entertaining group over my absence."

"Oh, flattery suits you." Vittoria swatted at Nariilu's shoulder playfully, sticking her tongue out just enough to show her that the jest was genuine. "I pray I'm the first to welcome you back to Solitude. Divines know I've prayed for the end of that awful war for years on end."

"By the glory of the Empire," Nariilu quoted. "Prayers answered. You're the first friendly face I've seen."

"And Ulfric? He's…?"

"Resting." Nariilu answered almost too quickly--Vittoria caught her haste, obvious in the gleam in her eyes.

"Ah. The road has been long. A rest is well deserved."

"Indeed."

A beat. "But you'll both be at the Evening Salon tomorrow?"

Nariilu forced her most gracious smile. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Ah!" Vittoria properly squealed, pulling Nariilu into a tight hug. "It's been too long. I look forward to catching up. And, catching him up." She released her, leaving Nariilu blinking and fumbling for Vittoria's shoulders to squeeze back. Nariilu didn't think she'd ever get used to the Solitude-style of familiarity. She would've died before touching any of her friends back in the Imperial City--but, that was also well before Vittoria was even born. "Rooms available, as always."

She'd have the both of them leave well before Stormcloak could get drunk enough to make a fool of them both, ensuring a stay at the Blue Palace--or Aurelia Hall, for that matter. She'd be damned if Stormcloak managed to stumble his way next door instead of back to Proudspire Manor. Nariilu waved Vittoria's suggestion away. "Oh, Vittoria, it was one time."

Vittoria shrugged. "You never know, dear," she singsonged. "But Jarl Elisif and I truly will be saddened if the two of you aren't in attendance. I trust he is in good spirits?" Is he alright, all things considered?

"The day's rest will do him good." Don't expect him to be the epitome of Stormcloaks. " And Jarl Elisif will be in the greeting party?" Is Stormcloak really safe?

"Oh, she's hosting the damn thing!" Vittoria replied with another lighthearted slap. "Of course." She must accept him.

"Divines," Nariilu smacked her forehead, seriously considering her wardrobe. Salons weren't a place to wear anything but the latest fashion, lest the other Housecarls and political heavy-hitters decide you couldn't afford your position in Court. "If I can get us both an outfit from the Raiment in time."

"Oh, don't worry a second. Ulfric's about Aesgir's size, and you've never worn anything but high fashion!" Vittoria gestured to the casual wrap Nariilu wore--a year old and faded from her leaving it out on a stand while she was off winning the war. Nariilu posed despite herself, just to play along with Vittoria's lies, and wondered if Vittoria even knew she was full of empty flattery. "I'll send my maid over with a few outfits for you both. I'm sure something will fit."

"I'll still call…Oh, you know the Raiment sisters," Nariilu insisted. Vittoria agreed with an eyeroll, and Nariilu knew she hadn't worn anything but Radiant Raiment attire since the first day when Nariilu had strolled into the Blue Palace with that outrageously adorned cloak that had somehow influenced Solitude's high fashion. "Just to be sure everything sits properly."

Vittoria laughed once, more of a bark than anything, and departed with a crisp, polished wave, sandwiched between her guards.

Ulfric threw back a finger of whiskey before knocking on the nursery door. Or, rather, hovering his knuckles an inch above the solid carved chestnut door of the nursery. Lambs and calves and chicks danced along the grain, their forms contorting where the artisan couldn't work around a particular knot in the wood. He listened for any sounds from inside, knowing it was where Aventus was, deciding he heard nothing--the boy was surely asleep to pass the time. Who was he to wake him?

Aventus had, as a tot and child, once sat in on Ulfric's Court in his father's lap, only banished from Ysgramor's Palace once Ulfric decided he was too old to still his tongue, too young to be trusted with the secrets of a planned rebellion. The boy's mother, fought harder than her own husband to have her son of less than a decade returned to Court, ignorant of what he would be overhearing.

Ulfric wondered when, if ever, he would have the nerve to tell Hothur's son how his father died at Whiterun, struck down by an arrow in the initial charge for the city walls. Ulfric supposed it was a mercy; he never lived to see the utter failure of the War he'd been a vocal supporter of for years. Instead, he'd fallen quicky at the first failure of the campaign.

He'd already lied to Sofie, telling her that her parents had died for some honorable cause--hopefully she didn't believe in it. Surely she didn't know the role the Dragonborn--her new Ma(??? Ulfric hated to think of the Dragonborn as a mother of any sort)--had in the defeat of his army, her parents. Aventus was too old to deceive in the same way. He'd see through any attempt to frame how his father died in any noble way, and he'd already been told the truth.

Aventus' father had died in a battle they'd lost. There was no way around that.

Aventus' mother died from an illness that hadn't seemed to spread past her own body. He wasn't even granted the comfort of knowing she'd perished in some unbeatable plague--the winter's cold and perhaps a fair share of heartbreak at the death of her husband had been too much for her.

What would he even say to the boy? He searched for answers in the nursery rhymes on the door, some way to frame his own failure to protect the Aretino family and to avenge their deaths. No, they were too juvenile for a boy of Aventus' age. Besides, why would he need to defend himself to a child?

Ulfric left to snag another drink from the cellar, recalling his own childhood where he was left to stew in his own emotions. It had been a good exercise in preparation for joining the Greybeards, sitting with his own thoughts. It would do Aventus good to figure his own way out of his anger.

"For you," Nariilu announced, holding the sleeping potion at arms length, hoping Stormcloak would grab it sooner rather than later. "Since you've been having trouble sleeping."

Stormcloak's red-rimmed eyes slowly tracked down her arm to focus on the bottle, a green thing, corked and coated in wax.

"Wuunferth gave me the recipe," she continued. "I'm sure you know your own dose." Nariilu had already exhausted her daily prayers on the hope and desperation it didn't interact with the alcohol she knew Stormcloak had already imbibed in. He swayed softly at the door, very deliberately grasping at the neck of the bottle, closing his hand firmly around her own. Nariilu ensured he had a solid grip before pulling her hand out from his grasp. He was warm with drunkenness.

"Wuunferth," Stormcloak muttered. Bloodshot eyes scanned the bottle, staring at the wax seal. He didn't seem to notice or care that Nariilu had to wrench her hand from under his.

Nariilu figured from his glare that he'd meant it as more of a question,. "I met with him back at the College. He gave me his recipe and--"

"He told you?" Stormcloak sneered. Nariilu didn't have a chance to respond before he continued. "Figures. Fled my court, sells out to the enemy. Wizards follow the coin, eh? No matter if its three days or thirty years of loyalty." His shoulder thudded against the doorframe, holding most of his weight up.

She inhaled through her nose. Best to end the conversation quickly. "We have an engagement tomorrow. I'll tell you more tomorrow." Nariilu didn't dare mention Elisif or Vittoria now, lest Stormcloak go on some rant against Solitude or the Empire.

"With Bolgeir?"

"I..Yes." Bolgeir, as Elisif's Housecarl, would be anywhere the Jarl would be. Technically, there would be opportunity to speak with Bolgeir, even if it was more speaking around Bolgeir that would be actually happening.

"Good."

Nariilu nodded, and turned to leave. "Goodnight, then."

"Wait."

Nariilu bit her cheek and sighed, turning back.

"Who? Where?"

"I'll tell you more tomorrow, after you get some sleep. You're tired." She added the last bit just to try and convince him to take a drink of the potion, shut the door, and head to bed.

"Just the sight of me will make Elisif sob," Stormcloak pushed himself from one side of the door frame to the other, the exaggerated sway leaving him to stumble on his still feet. "If Bolgeir's there, she'll be there, too. You know I killed her husband." He picked at the wax seal on the potion, letting a tiny flake fall to the floor. "She held Torygg while he bled out. Did you know that? The bard's never sang about that. I think she actually loved him."

"She won't touch you." Elisif couldn't, not with Nariilu there, even if the girl wasn't such a weak-minded figurehead. Vittoria didn't seem to want Stormcloak dead, either. Who knew what Bolgeir wanted, or the rest of the Thanes, for that matter. He would be safe, just like she'd promised.

Stormcloak shook his head firmly. "There's more ways to kill a man than with a sword through his heart." He dug at the cork, pulling it and drinking a quick pull, wincing against the taste. "She says the wrong thing and a mob bursts through your door and tears me apart." He tried to replace the cork, leaving it a crooked half-centimeter into the neck, swelling and threatening to pop out. Ulfric's eyes lingered on the movement, finally pressing his palm into the cork to firmly place it into the bottle, suddenly chuckling in short barks that betrayed his own sobriety rather than any joy. "This is the part when you tell me how you'll keep me alive, no matter what, isn't it?" His hand white-knuckled around the green glass.

She didn't say anything. Stormcloak yawned and didn't bother to hide it, finishing with a sigh and a stare at her.

"What life is just being alive?"

Nariilu didn't miss the choke in his voice, the sheer desperation reminding her of…gods, that night a few days ago when he'd stumbled into her chamber, vomited a few times, and passed out on her mattress after beckoning her to join him and relax before he'd passed out. Drink was obviously a choice vice of his, were women another? She forced herself to ignore all of that. "You can't build a life without being alive," she said, doing her best to keep her tone uninterested and neutral.

His stare didn't break. She almost looked away but refused, instead forcing herself to meet him in--Nariilu suddenly wondered if Stormcloak was challenging her with his dark gaze, but, no, there was too much weight behind it. She'd seen him with murder in his eyes, and this was far from it. Stormcloak's free hand twitched towards her, but she was a step from his reach, and he clumsily moved to run his hand through his hair, catching on his braids and in sweat-tangled locks, as if that's what he'd intended. Nariilu cursed inwardly; she needed to leave. "No, I suppose you can't," Stormcloak finally responded, his voice low.

"Goodnight." It was all Nariilu could figure to say to diffuse the situation, turning and leaving and--

"Wait, I can't make it to bed on my own."

Against herself, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Stormcloak very deliberately sitting himself on the floor, still watching her with those darkened eyes. Nariilu hated what she saw, the way her heart sped up as Stormcloak slowly blinked his way down her body and back to meet her eyes. "You're drunk." She had nothing else to say. It was simple enough, he would never look at her like that if he was sober. If she had the guts to tell him exactly what he looked like he wanted right now tomorrow, she would certainly never have to deal with this type of behavior again.

On the other hand, Ulfric Stormcloak was looking her up and down, blushing either because of drink, or…she couldn't bring herself to even think it, or because he was looking at a Dunmer like that. Her eyes widened, and Nariilu tried to imagine what in Oblivion the Stormcloaks that had cursed and slung slurs at her after their capture would think if they saw Ulfric Stormcloak right now.

"Get up," Nariilu commanded, trying to summon the voice she used to lead her troops--what was she doing? She was the Dragonborn. She repeated herself, trying to summon the Voice she used to slay Dragons.. "Get up."

And Stormcloak stood, leaving the potion bottle resting by the doorframe, the beginnings of a laugh ghosting out of his nose. "Pitiful. You never should've left the Greybeards," he laughed to himself, ending in a yawn, punctuating his sentence with a stumble towards her. Nariilu stepped back, considering which way she should dart before she backed up further to the wall. "I could be a doll in your hands, but you…," Stormcloak's voice had lowered to a soft growl, and Nariilu backed up despite herself, her back hitting cold stone.  He scoffed. "You don't even know what you could do."

She raised a hand and pointed past the door, finding her first prayer in months that her Thu'um held. Nariilu hated how aware she was of how Stormcloak towered over her. It was far from the first time that he loomed, but something about being looked at like..like…she didn't even want to dignify the way he looked at her with a description. She'd seen starved people look at their first meal in weeks more innocently. Any spell she cast at this range would hit both of them, her swords were stashed in her room, her aching bones would do nothing to help her if he decided to hurt her--which, Divines help her, she knew he wouldn't. Divines help her, that was somehow worse. "Go to bed." Somehow, her Voice didn't crack against the thickness in her throat.

Stormcloak sighed as he turned around, a jerk in his body to grab the potion from the floor as he made his way back into his room and to his bed, setting the potion bottle down haphazardly enough that it toppled over, greyish liquid dribbling from the mouth. And then he stopped at the foot, turning on his heel to stop and address her as he pulled off his boots too slowly, leaning heavily against the bedpost, once again staring her down, too heavily, too deeply. 

"Look at me. You say rise, I rise. You say sleep?" Ulfric tossed a boot to the corner in affirmation. "If you asked me to run myself through with my sword, I wonder if I could stop myself. You claim I'm not your slave, but if you said kneel?" He turned his coat inside out taking it off, half-taking his thin tunic with it, still not breaking her gaze, and Nariilu hurried to the door to shut it. "I'd never get up again."

She slammed the door shut with every ounce of strength she could muster, holding the knob against any errant escape attempts. Her face burned and she took a deep breath, sinking down to the floor, listening to Ulfric's laugh rolling through the door, deep and echoing. Her hands shook, and she sat on them to keep herself from opening the door, from making him kneel.