Happens after the Markarth Incident.
WARNING in the AN below!
Ulfric's muscles ache from trying to keep up his poorly composed facade of calmness. His nails bite into the palm of his hand and he clenches it shut even more tightly to prevent the occasional tremor from showing.
When the arrival of his visitor is announced he does not get up to greet him but sprawls in his – Ysgramor's – throne in an attempt at negligence.
He is the Jarl now.
oooo
When he returned from his imprisonment in Markarth it was to find a city in mourning, white and blue banners still adorning the walls and palace almost three years after his father's passing. The citizens remembered the Great Bear's son, the passionate youth who would not bow to the Empire's decree, who resisted the prohibition of the worship of Talos and would not let Thalmor into the city to drag away and interrogate people guilty only of paying respects to their gods.
In the people's eyes Ulfric was the war hero who selflessly rushed to the aid of another Jarl when no other help was coming, only to be betrayed by his host. In the following years they witnessed their beloved Jarl, once a strong and intrepid man waste away and die – from grief of losing his family, some said – and they were heartbroken when, months late, Thorsten, the Jarl's former housecarl, stepped up to read a eulogy Ulfric had to have smuggled out of prison.
When the cheers over the son's return died down, angry voices rose; the citizens clamored for justice and a war and they set Ulfric on the throne in the hope he would give them both.
Justice is a fickle, fleeting thing, difficult to find and more so to keep, ever changing with the one contemplating it.
War on the other hand is something Ulfric can give them.
oooo
The man on the throne straightens when his steward's voice calls out in greeting to their visitor, the respectful tone a stark difference to the profanities that had fallen from the man's lips when his lord had wordlessly handed him the letter that had arrived at this hour exactly one month ago.
Ulfric's glare becomes colder with every step the other man takes. It has taken a great deal of planning and persuasion on his part to ensure Galmar would be gone today so that this meeting could take place. He listens to the soft rasp of moccasins over the stone floor, watches the opulent robes billow around the figure striding down the main hall and catches a glint of firelight reflected in a polished golden brooch in the form of an eagle.
For a moment he has to remember that he indeed is a Jarl now, not the scared lad he was when released from prison after torture and the murder of his comrades. After he had –
The Thalmor agent stops at the dais of the throne and inclines his head marginally, offering a greeting that is as polite as it is insincere and which the Jarl does not return. Ulfric drums the fingers of his left hand on the armrest of his throne, but they wander to caress the blade of his axe.
A look of unease crosses the elf's face; he has to look up to the Jarl and he hates every moment of it.
Ulfric stands abruptly, his hand falling to his side again. He needs a drink.
He has the satisfaction of seeing the Thamlor stumble back, over the hem of his robe, as he descends the stairs. The fury on the mer's face as he has to step out of the way to let the Jarl pass or be knocked to the side is gone as quickly as it had appeared, but not before Ulfric has made notice of it.
The bench groans in protest as the Nord sinks down upon it. He has always known the day would come when they called on him again. He is as ready as he will be. Always fulfill expectations. His friend has taught him this much.
"Jorleif." Ulfric does not have to raise his voice for it to boom in the silence of the stone hall. "Bring mead."
The Thalmor coughs softly, a small irritating sound. "Wine would be more appropriate."
Ulfric ignores him.
Jorleif is glad to leave and loath to return and place a pitcher and two mugs upon the table and swiftly makes his escape to put a safe distance between himself and the elf. Beneath his rough spun shirt he can feel his amulet of Talos burn into his skin.
Ulfric is wearing his in plain sight.
The mer reaches for the nearest mug, but the Jarl's hand atop it stops him. Ulfric does not offer the other mead or bread or even a place at his table but pours himself a cup of the cool golden liquid and drains it just as quickly.
"Speak," he orders.
The Thalmor's nostrils flare in annoyance but his tone is the arrogant drawl of his kind, a silken caress like the sticky web of a frostbite spider. The Jarl wonders how many innocents, how many of his kinsmen it has ensnared. He listens to the overtures and the truths behind them, seeks to discern the few facts from the story woven around them.
When Ulfric hears that the Dominion wishes to make progress towards a long-lasting and mutually beneficial relationship, he grits his teeth. When the word peace falls his grip tightens around his mug to the point where he imagines the crockery give away under his fingers. The Jarl wills himself to let go and masks his slip by refilling his cup.
Ulfric has not contacted the elves since his discharge from the army, has burned all instructions and lists of contacts after the decree that outlawed the worship of Talos. Of course, the Jarl's religious beliefs and attitude towards the false god are a thorn in the Thalmor agent's side, but he assures his host that it is not too late for him to embrace patronage of the Dominion. He now politely wishes to enquire whether he agrees to collaborate for the good of all.
They want his cooperation. Compliance is what he hears.
oooo
"Tell us or the Empire will find out who betrayed their secrets. Who really is responsible for the fall of the Imperial City."
He was still a part of the army. Such an accusation could land him into an Imperial torture chamber in no time. Ulfric has just left one, he never wants to see another one again. The very thought is enough to give his stomach cramps bad enough that it takes all his will not to double over from the pain. To curl up in protection and in shame.
It does not work. There are more of them, they are stronger. He tried to hold out once and they showed him just how little his resolve actually was worth. His pride, his honor, all the values of his Nord heritage he had been raised upon. Gone. Down in the dark with only his own ragged breath and sobbing for company he clings to his prayers – Ysmir, Kaan – and to every day that he – somehow – managed to survive. But no one lasts forever. He is no exception.
This time there would be no escape. Once they were done with him they would nail him to a cross on the wayside as a warning to other would-be traitors, there for his former comrades to throw stones at. He knows that. The other knows it too.
He tells them everything they want to know.
oooo
Ten years later the memories are no less vivid, the disgrace just as caustic. Ulfric does not answer and it visibly unnerves his visitor, the mer pursing his thin, bloodless lips.
Jorleif watches their terse exchange, nervously pacing back and forth, the man's footsteps the only sound in the hall.
The Jarl has gathered enough information for his part.
"How long do I have?" is all he asks.
He receives a satisfied smile in return that only a fool would mistake for beneficial. The elf thinks he has won, that the rebellious troublemaker has fallen in line. He probably already envisions his reward for the illusory success.
"The Thalmor expect contact before Sun's Height has passed. That should guarantee enough time to account for…coincidences." Like Skyrim's oftentimes unpredictable weather conditions. The Jarl nods his head in understanding. Five months is indeed a generous amount of time.
The elf isn't done talking, though and once more addresses the Nord. "You will direct all your reports to the Madame Ambassador, Elenwen."
The barest flicker of a flinch is visible in Ulfric's eyes, then he blinks and his face is set in stony impassivity once more.
The other does not miss the expression judging by the cruel curl of his mouth. He knows and basks in the Jarl's discomfort.
Ulfric has had enough. Enough of hiding, enough of this appointment and, most importantly, enough of this smug, pointy-eared bastard and the whole rest of the Thalmor. He won't ever again follow their demands or give in to pain, to fear or the past that still haunts him even in his waking hours.
The time has come for him to step up to his legacy.
Ulfric pours himself another mug of mead, his third during this brief, one-sided conversation. He sets down the cup with exaggerated care so none of the liquid inside will spill, but he keeps his grip on the now empty carafe and turns to face his visitor.
He has never offered the protection of guest right, after all.
Without any warning Ulfric smashes the decanter into the Thalmor's smirking face. The elf convulses and flails around, hands going to his broken nose, slanted eyes bulging out of their sockets in shock, the look of haughty superiority gone in an instant.
The Jarl gets up without hurry. He pulls down the Thalmor's hood and grabs the mer by his hair, fine silken locks that wind around his fingers, almost tenderly. The hair on his arm stands on end, he can feel the familiar crackle of magic building up, pleased that he has not lost that particular sense after all those years.
He is the one smiling now.
Ulfric kicks the other man's knee hard enough the joint snaps with a wet crack. It bends the other way, backwards, and it is only the Jarl's grip that holds up the screaming elf.
The magic splutters, flares up again and dies, the mage's concentration lost in the haze of agony.
With all his Nord strength Ulfric picks up the struggling Thalmor, drags him over and smashes his face into the bench he had been sitting upon moments before. The resounding thud is hollow and a small splotch of blood seeps into the furniture to leave a permanent stain. The mer is screaming, and Ulfric pulls his head up again.
The second strike disintegrates the elf's nose, his blood now flowing more freely.
With the third there is a crunch to signal teeth shattering and their small white fragments get stuck in the wood.
Ulfric tightens his grip and continues to methodically slam that golden visage into unrecognizable pulp. He does not stop when the elf's shrieks grow shriller only to die down into inarticulate moans, when the mer's broken jaw is ripped off by the force of a particularly vicious blow, or when he can feel the bone give beneath his hands. Only when they break through the fractured skull and reach into the soft mush of brains and little shards of bone prick at his skin, does Ulfric drop the ruins of the Thalmor's corpse.
There is some sweat upon his brow, more from excitement than exertion and when he wipes at it with the back of his hand it leaves a streak of grime.
The Nord puts one leg over bench before him and then another, flicks his hands. Blood and grey brain matter splatters on the hem of his cloak and the table, wet and glistening. Ulfric sits down again, his heavy breathing growing calmer as he regains control of his emotions. He picks up the mug he had discarded before, his grip slick and raises it to his lips.
Jorleif watches in mute shock as his Jarl takes a swallow, not minding the blood that paints rivulets of crimson over his hands and bare forearms and drips to the floor in sticky pools, nor the dead body lying barely a foot away.
"Jorleif."
The steward jerks and swallows convulsively to regain his voice. "My Lord?" The words come out feeble and quaking.
Ulfric swirls the mead around before he has another mouthful. The Jarl's eyes are far away, unfocused, but he sounds perfectly composed. "Send my answer back to Solitude."
Never again. He will never again bow to another; will never rely on a person other than himself again. He has lost five years of his life to war, and six to Igmund's betrayal and his own stupid, idealistic naiveté. There is only one thing to guarantee him safety and gain obedience: power.
Ulfric watches impassively as several guards come running, their eyes wide. Galmar follows, drawn by the noise and grins tightly with grim approval upon beholding the macabre scene. So he had, after all, found out. Ulfric is not surprised by his housecarl's perceptiveness.
A soldier moves to drape a cloth over the detached parts of brain and skull to collect them whilst two others grab a leg each and drag the corpse off.
Ulfric's eyes catch on the man-thick smear of red the action paints across his hall.
"Galmar!"
The housecarl looks up expectantly to see his lord's eyes sparkle with unquenched bloodlust and evident amusement.
"I trust everything goes according to plan."
"Of course", Galmar replies with a grunt and pretended offense at the insinuation that it might not. He is not the only one glad that they won't have to bide their time much longer. "You need but give the word, Ulfric."
"Good." The Jarl sounds pleased, and he briefly raises his blood-crusted cup in a silent toast to his friend. "We have five months left. Let us not waste them."
oooo
On the northern border of Haafingar, in a stiflingly hot room furnished entirely in spruce the hearth's fire burns even in summer. A robed figure sits bent over a crammed desk and, in a flowering script a delicate hand changes Ulfric Stormcloak's status to 'uncooperative' upon receiving his answer.
AN: This story contains violence. Quite graphic, gory, bloody violence and a seriously pissed off Jarl with anger management issues in its midst.
This was part 6 of the 'Price of Freedom'. After the last three installments of this series it felt wonderfully cathartic to write Ulfric's little outburst. So many repressed feelings bubbling up...
Well, this is it for now. I will continue with part 5 once I finish BtS; part 7:'The Rebellion' won't be out for quite a while yet because I need to reach a certain chapter in HT before I can post it. Parts 8 and 9 are short and silly, the comic relief that my brain needed. Of course there might be more in time.
Ulfric's next appearance will be at the end of BtS, and his story continues in HT.
I hope you enjoyed this series. Thank you for reading.