A/N: This is very much a crack piece based on a bizarre idea that came to me on Tumblr one day. A Skyrim fic based on the hilarious webcomic Fated by Jasmine Walls, in which a brave warrior with his back against the wall accidentally ends up saving the day by seducing the bad guy (can't link on FFN but google it, it's hilarious). Of course, first I had to find a Scourge of the North, and a hero who challenged him at some point. Which meant I had to find some candidates, with interesting backstories and sufficient personality, who do face each other on a battlefield at some point... and I ended up with this crack pairing.
Welcome to an AU of the Markarth Incident, where Ulfric's voice gets put to entirely different uses, and the Scourge of the Nords decides Dibella's weapons might serve him better than his previous tactics. While it is technically Ulfric initiating proceedings, quite honestly the real Throzar Skullcrusher in this one could be either of them. One of them's a terrifying bloodthirsty warlord in dire need of a redemption arc, and the other one's the King in Rags. ;) As this is pre-Cidhna Mine, he's about 34 to Ulfric's 29.
Summary: History can change on a knife-edge, especially when gods get involved. When Ulfric Stormcloak goes drinking with immortals, the consequences change everything, both for him and the Reachman warlord whose city he's besieging. AU of the Markarth Incident, Madanach/Ulfric
Warnings for mentions of past rape/abuse/torture and for a starving city that's been under siege for two months by this point.
4E 176, Mid-Year. Stormcloak War Camp, just outside Markarth, Druadach Kingdom of the Reach (formerly a hold of Skyrim)
"Come on!" Galmar Stone-Fist shouted, shaking Ulfric by the shoulder. Ulfric groaned, rubbed his forehead and tried to shake the hangover from his head, without a lot of success.
How that couple had got into the camp in the first place, let alone got their hands on the mead store, Ulfric had no idea, but a Breton man called Sam and a blonde Nord woman in a very revealing outfit who was called Bella or Ella or something like that, with a pair of breasts so impressive, Ulfric would have had difficulty remembering her face even if he'd been sober all night, had turned up in his tent with a crate of mead and demanded his company. Somehow he'd found himself agreeing to a drinking contest with the man after the mysterious Sam had implied he wasn't a Nord if he said no. Ulfric hadn't been about to let that one stand, especially when Bella had been lying alongside him, arching her back and purring and whispering a big strong man like himself wouldn't have any trouble outdrinking someone like Sam, would he?
He didn't really remember what had happened next, but he was in his tent in the Stormcloak military camp, he hadn't soiled himself, he was mercifully alone, so despite the raging hangover, he decided it could have been worse. And so the twenty nine year old leader of the Stormcloak militia staggered out of his tent, ready to see what the day would bring. The siege of Markarth was entering its eighth week, and the Reachmen still showed no sign of surrendering. Hadn't they been starved out yet?
Apparently not, because Galmar was telling him Madanach himself had been sighted on the battlements of Markarth. The so-called King of the Reach had been notoriously absent in person so far, preferring to let his people die for him or have his witches fling their heathen spells from a distance. The fireballs alone had been a problem, but they'd been infinitely preferable to the blood magic. It had only been the power of Ulfric's Thu'um that had broken Reachman lines and cleared them a route to the capital.
Madanach's response had been to have his forces retreat into Markarth, and Ulfric had set up a blockade to trap them in there. The two sides had been at an impasse ever since. Madanach hadn't been able to get out. Ulfric's forces hadn't been able to get any nearer due to the fireballs and blood magic and raised corpses of their fallen comrades. Ulfric's main plan at this point was waiting for the Reachmen to be too weak to cast any more then go for the throat and Shout those gates in.
That Madanach himself was actually rumoured to be showing his face was too good an opportunity to miss.
And so it was Ulfric Stormcloak rallied with the stamina of a true-born son of Skyrim, his physical ability to throw off the after-effects of alcohol unrivalled even among his fellow Nords, making for the front lines, keen to get his eyes on Madanach, King of the Witchmen.
Alas for Ulfric, while his ability to recover physically from alcohol was unmatched, the strong otherworldly ale that had laid him low the previous night was still lingering and fogging his mind, subtly enough that he was barely aware it was still there. In particular, the parts of his brain responsible for inhibition and ensuring he didn't just come out with the first thing that crossed his mind were still very much passed out in his tent with a bottle of Daedric witchbrew clutched in their hands.
So it was that he had several fearsome epithets lined up for the so-called Scourge of the Nords as he approached the Stormcloak barricades, slipping through them and racing up the path to the city gates to where the Reachmen were being held, eager to get a look at his foe for the first time. Ulfric was all ready to taunt and outrage the heathen blood mage necromancing Witch-King.
But what he wasn't ready for was seeing the distant figure of a man much like him, if shorter, a man with blonde, shoulder-length hair with braids at the front, the same leather and bone armour of all his kin, gold circlet on his head and a wooden staff with feathers on it in his right-hand. A man with intense silver eyes and looking surprisingly well for someone who'd been half-starved in his own city for the last two months.
The Witch-King was not in fact a ten foot tall Daedric blood-drinking horror that breathed fire, but a man like any other, and not an unattractive one either, and while Ulfric might under other circumstances have repressed that thought, the previous night's drinking had shut off the bits of his brain that normally handled that sort of thing.
He meant to call the man a murdering usurper who the gods had finally come to cast into the bowels of Oblivion, he really did. He honestly meant to insult Madanach's ancestry, masculinity, competence and honour, he really truly did. He really, quite definitely, meant to issue bloodcurdling threats regarding what he was going to do to Madanach's city, people and physical person when he got inside those gates.
But what came out was something entirely different.
"MADANACH, WHEN I GET INSIDE THOSE GATES, I'M GOING TO DRAG YOU OUT OF THAT KEEP AND INTO MY BED, SO HELP ME TALOS, YOU BEAUTIFUL WITCHMAN BASTARD!"
Silence. Silence, just the wind in the canyon as Ulfric's own troops turned as one to stare at him, open-mouthed as they tried to process what he'd just said, and the Reachmen on the battlements all lowering their weapons and staring at him, looking utterly baffled… before glancing at their leader to see how he was taking it.
And Madanach… Madanach's eyes had widened, and then, to Ulfric's horror, Madanach's stance shifted from that of a fearsome warlord surveying his foes to something altogether less confrontational. The man had crossed his legs, leaned up against the stone parapet with one arm, the other hand on his hip, head tilted and smiling, and if that wasn't a lover's pose, nothing was.
Ulfric was a feared warrior, veteran of many battles, survivor of the Thalmor's interrogation chambers, wielder of the Thu'um and at home on a battlefield like nowhere else. But he'd spent his youth as a celibate monk at High Hrothgar, emerging not even five years ago to join the Legion in the Great War, and the fighting had left little time for relationships. At twenty nine years old, his experience of romance was near non-existent. War, not love, was his reason for living.
Which was why Madanach grinning at him from afar with a come hither look in his eyes, giving the appearance of being a man all too skilled in matters of the bedroom, and not only with women either, struck fear into Ulfric's heart.
"Men, we're leaving," Ulfric rasped, stepping backwards one step, then two, then without actually running or giving the impression he was fleeing in terror (he hoped), he retreated as briskly as honour would allow, although he had a horrible feeling his reputation was in tatters already.
The last he saw of Madanach was the infuriating, beguiling, enticing, murdering blood mage warlord shaking his hair back and smoothing it carefully into place, possibly even fluttering his eyelashes, although it was impossible to tell from this distance.
Ulfric had no desire whatsoever to see the man close up.
Madanach for his part had been all set for a ritual exchange of insults, with a few choice ones on how he was going to rip Ulfric's soul from his body, enchant it into a sex toy and use the thing to fuck his parents with, before draining the blood from his body, brewing it into wine and making his underlings drink it. Maybe the threats were as impossible as they were unachievable, but that generally wasn't the point. He was two months into a siege that no one was coming to help lift, the bulk of his forces were here, or else cut off and impossible to organise, his sister was the only one he could reach, and her forces had been part of those harrying the Stormcloaks as they'd poured into the Reach. Which meant they'd either been killed, forced to flee north or were here in the city, starving with the rest of them.
The passageways had helped keep them alive, but their supply lines had been strangled to not nearly enough to feed an entire city, Keirine hadn't been able to get the teleportal spells sorted out aside from the kin-bonded spell, and while Madanach had a talisman that would evacuate him out of here to her side, he couldn't abandon his city. Not unless all was lost, and he wouldn't count it as lost until the Nords were hammering in the gates and storming in… but in all honesty, they were running out of food, most of them hadn't eaten properly in three weeks, and Madanach really didn't know how long they had left. Not long, he didn't think.
But he had no intention of letting Ulfric know that, and so when he'd come to survey the situation to see for himself how bad it was, see if any answers presented themselves, and try his best to raise morale among the defenders, he'd seen Ulfric himself approach and prepared the most threatening insults a Daedra-worshipping blood mage could think of. Which was a considerable number.
What he'd not remotely expected was that Ulfric, a member of a culture with a strong oral tradition, a strong warrior culture in which the art of the battle cry and taunting one's opponents had been developed into an art form, and if word was true, skilled not just with his voice but The Voice, had taken one look at him and lost his head completely.
It was completely unbelievable, and yet, looking at the way Ulfric had gone pale and made as dignified an exit as possible under the circumstances, Madanach realised there was no other explanation. Ulfric Stormcloak, feared Nord warrior who was certainly winning this one, found Madanach, King of the Reach and Scourge of the Nords, attractive.
Madanach had never considered this possibility, but he'd bedded men before, and even bedded Nords before – well, one former Nord lover was right here on the battlements with him, wasn't she? Inga Fair-Shot, light-brown hair, blue eyes, same height as him, still very pretty even if no longer interested due to, in her words, not having realised he was genuinely insane when she'd first known him, and mother of his illegitimate son, recently acknowledged at last after his wife had been felled by a Nord archer in week three of the siege. But seeing as Queen Mireen had spent their eleven year marriage making his life a misery and, it turned out, the lives of their four daughters a misery, Madanach was hardly mourning the loss. Her death had been a shock, true, and it had necessitated immediate and urgent alternate feeding arrangements for the three month old baby she'd left behind, but Madanach could not in any way be called grieving.
So it was that he descended from the battlements and swept back to Understone Keep, his mind suddenly full of possibilities.
"Madanach," and that was Inga, her recent promotion from assistant blacksmith living in the Warrens to one of his best markswomen (partly assisted by several others having been lost to enemy action admittedly) having emboldened her. "Madanach, wait!"
Madanach slowed his pace and let her catch up, not needing to ask what she was after.
"Something wrong, my dear?" he purred, slowing down as they entered the great hallway of Understone Keep.
"Madanach, tell me you're not thinking about it!"
"The enemy commander thinks I'm beautiful, should I not give it thought?" Madanach purred, feeling altogether a bit too pleased about the turn things had taken.
"Madanach, please tell me you aren't serious." A heavy hearted sigh from the man who was part bodyguard and part captain of the Markarth City Guard, Uailon ap Uaiseth, his distinctive yellow eyes and silvery hair marking him out even among Reachmen for whom unusual hair, eye and skin tones were par for the course. "You can't possibly be thinking of taking the man whose militia are currently besieging our city into your bed."
"I'm considering opening negotiations to find out what the Silver-Bloods and Igmund ap Hrolfdir are paying them and if they'd be open to a better offer," Madanach said calmly. "If the exact terms of that offer are evolving as we speak, that's neither here nor there."
"He's a Nord!" Uailon cried, throwing up his hands, before noticing Inga glaring at him and apologising. "Sorry, Inga. But you know what I mean. He's a Talos-worshipping Nord! You just lost your wife to his men barely a month ago! Your wife who was a descendant of Red Eagle, daughter of the chieftain of Karthspire and to whom you owe your entire right to lead in the first place! Karthspire will defect if you do this! And others will follow!"
"Mireen is dead, and our marriage was dead for some time before that," Madanach growled. "And maybe that was true ten years ago. It isn't now. I am Reach-King, Uailon, beyond any tie of clan or tribe. We are one people, we are the Reach folk, we are united against our foes. If I decide Dibella's weapons will serve me better against this one than Molag Bal's are presently doing, then that's my decision to make. What would you have me do, barter Eithne off to him instead? She's ten years old!"
The other alternative was his sister Keirine, but Madanach would rather hand himself over to the Nords than suggest that idea. It'd be cleaner, quicker and less painful than his sister's wrath, and at least he'd be guaranteed a chance at the afterlife. When Matriarch Keirine, one of the finest necromancers in the Reach, got hold of you, your afterlife was most likely to be the inside of a soul gem.
"Who's bartering Eithne off?" And that was his steward, Nepos the Nose. A little over forty, already bald, weirdly long nose, famously homosexual, not brilliant as a warrior but one of the finest minds Madanach had come across and a most able spymaster as well as being Madanach's right hand, and likely determined to interfere with this one. "Madanach, not that the Keep wouldn't be quieter, but must we trade off your heir? Are things truly that dire, and do you honestly trust Ulfric not to abuse her in front of you then invade anyway?"
"It's not Eithne he had in mind!" Inga said, folding her arms, and really, the way his ex and his steward had become close friends was truly a troubling thing. Thank Sithis she'd not met his sister yet, although Madanach had a horrible feeling it was only a matter of time.
"Ulfric Stormcloak inadvertently revealed he found Madanach attractive, and now Madanach is seriously thinking of seducing him in an effort to make him change his ways," Uailon sighed. Nepos didn't even move, staring at Madanach with no change in his position or expression… and then Nepos the Nose blinked once.
Madanach was in serious trouble over this one, he could already tell.
"He has revealed a weakness we were not previously aware of and I am considering how best to turn it to our advantage," Madanach said, hands going to his hips, and not in a come hither way this time.
"How best to – Madanach, this is not an old war wound or a deep dark secret!" Nepos cried, composure finally snapping. "This is a purely physical infatuation at best! It is hardly the basis for lasting peace! And even if it was, the man is a Nord extremist who idolises the man who enslaved us in the first place! You cannot possibly expect the Forsworn to put up with you making cow eyes at a Talos-worshipper. Mireen's barely been dead a month. How are Karthspire going to react?"
"Don't you even dare mention Mireen," Madanach growled, and Nepos did have the sense to flinch back at that. He was one of the few who knew what she was really like, after all. "And Karthspire were right in the way when Ulfric invaded – half of them died holding the line, half of them are here. Those that are still alive want this siege over as much as I do."
"At what cost, Madanach," Nepos said grimly and Madanach, on seeing Uailon was nodding in agreement and even Inga not having his back on this one, finally lost his temper.
"How about the lives of every man, woman, other and child in this city?" Madanach snapped. "Because if they get in here, that is the price we will be paying! They have us trapped, reinforcements aren't coming, we are losing! Inga, you've got a ten year old son, and thanks to my wife's untimely demise, everyone in this city now knows he's mine. What do you think the Nords will do to him if they get their hands on him. Best case scenario, he ends up as a political pawn with his parents dead. Worst case scenario, they kill him in front of us. Uailon, your son's safe in Sundered Hills for now, but do you want him run down in turn once they're done with us? Nepos, this is the first time since they reached Lost Valley that they've shown any sign of weakness whatsoever. If we don't take advantage of this, we risk losing everything. Maybe it's risky. Maybe it's uncertain. But what isn't? We cannot afford to ignore this, Nepos. We cannot afford to have a weakness finally unveiled and not strike. Now if any of you have any better ideas, I would love to hear them, but if you don't, then I expect you to follow my lead on this, because the alternative is all our executions. Probably painfully and drawn out, particularly in my case."
Silence, no one meeting his eyes, and Madanach at least had got his court going along with this, however reluctantly. The rest of the Forsworn would follow, he hoped. It wasn't like he was going to convert to Talos worship, or add him as an official deity. But Talos worship had recently been forcibly outlawed throughout the Empire, thanks to the White-Gold Concordat. A treaty Madanach hadn't been a party to, what with not being part of the Empire.
It was a very slim chance to save the Reach, and never in Madanach's wildest dreams had he thought offering the worshippers of the Reach's ancient adversary sanctuary would be key to it. But if it was that or have his city sacked and ravaged, he didn't really have a choice. The fact Ulfric was younger than he'd expected and remarkably easy on the eye didn't hurt either.
Making his way back to his bedroom, Madanach began to plot.
"What were you thinking, Ulfric?" Galmar shouted at him, and the sound made Ulfric's head hurt even more. "Has the mead addled your wits completely? Insinuating you're going to make him submit to you is one thing, but calling him beautiful? He's a witchman barbarian!"
The Imperials think the same about us. The elves certainly do.
Of course, Galmar's opinion on elves was barely above his opinion of the witchmen, in fact it was probably worse. Ulfric didn't care to discuss it anyway.
"Unless… it was him, wasn't it!" Galmar laughed triumphantly. "He did something to you with his heathen magics, didn't he! Ah, I knew it. Well, don't you worry, Ulfric, we'll show him who's boss when we sack his city, slaughter his people and paint Markarth with witchman blood!"
Ulfric couldn't help but flinch and whether it was the noise making his head hurt or something else, he couldn't say. Had Madanach done something to him?
He didn't think so. Ulfric took comfort in the fact Madanach had seemed as surprised as anyone when Ulfric had called to him. But to have done it at all… what had he been thinking? The humiliation burned, all the more for its self-inflicted nature.
I will show Madanach who is the man among us. I will make him suffer for this. I will Shout him to the floor, pin him down, put my hands around his face and kiss him… what?
Ulfric angrily hurled the mead bottle across the tent, letting out a roar as he got to his feet, furious at Madanach and the effect the stubborn usurper had on him.
"Enough, Galmar!" Ulfric shouted, face flushing, and hopefully the rage would hide the embarrassment. "Gather the men. We'll march on Markarth today, assault his walls, show him what we're made of! I will find Madanach myself and give him he- HAVE his head!"
Talos help him. But Galmar didn't seem to notice anything amiss, mercifully, and history might have remembered the next few days as bloody slaughter… if an illusion spell hadn't drifted into the tent, a small white globe bouncing along, winding its way between the two men… and Galmar spotted it first and dragged Ulfric away.
"Watch out, Ulfric!" Galmar cried. "Who knows what heathen trickery it is?"
Ulfric had reached for his axe, although Talos only knew what an axe would do against this spell… and then it stopped by the hearthfire… and it changed, growing and morphing and suddenly a glowing, ethereal version of Madanach was there, warming itself by the fire.
Despite the colour being bleached out of the apparition, it was an extremely good human likeness, and as ghostly Madanach lifted his head and grinned, Ulfric realised he was in a great deal of trouble.
Shorter than him but muscled, and the fur and bone gear didn't leave a lot to the imagination. Slenderer and more delicate features than the Nordic ones Ulfric was used to, something not quite in tune with Ulfric's ideas of masculinity but still masculine nonetheless, hair falling round his face and those intense eyes staring out at him, a bewitching smile on the man's face that only meant one thing… trouble.
"Hello Ulfric," Madanach purred, and Ulfric bit back an involuntary grunt even as he felt his cock twitch and grow hard. The voice was not a woman's, it was a low growl, a darkness to it that caressed his ears and promised pain, pleasure, everything in between. Madanach's voice had a danger all of its own. Maybe there was no Thu'um at Madanach's disposal but no one could ever call Madanach harmless.
"What do you want?" Ulfric said, gritting his teeth. The apparition just kept grinning.
"This is a sending, Ulfric, and a one way one – it can't hear you. It's an illusion, carrying a message. I'd like to invite you to a parley. Just you… well, you can bring five of your men with you, I suppose, but the discussions will be one on one. In my Keep. I've got some ale left that the last Jarl left behind – it's called Black-Briar Reserve? I have no idea if that's any good, but there's a bottle with your name on it if you like. Come, Ulfric. Come and talk with me. I know you're not here under the Empire's banners or a Jarl's banner. You're here as a hired sword. I'd like to know what the Silver-Bloods are paying you. I think I can make you a better offer. I know your men are being paid by the day, and I know they were hired to fight, not sit around idle. I imagine you're as tired of this siege as we are. So come talk, Ulfric. I'll be waiting."
The apparition disappeared, the smile seeming to linger for a few seconds longer than the rest, and Ulfric barely restrained himself from reaching out after it. Black-Briar Reserve was one of the finest, most expensive meads in Skyrim, and that alone would have tempted Ulfric, but the thought of Madanach holding out a bottle and lying back on a bed, grinning up at him and holding his arms out to embrace Ulfric in turn, was sending chills down Ulfric's spine and his cock was straining in his smallclothes.
Gods damn the man. And if Ulfric didn't reply, he'd likely send another, and another, and perhaps one would turn up at night and crawl into bed, whispering filth in his ear until Ulfric gave in.
Ulfric gave a frustrated roar and kicked a nearby table over, sending books flying.
"Patience, Ulfric," Galmar growled, placing a hand on Ulfric's arm to restrain him. "We'll sack his city and make the man pay. That I promise. In the meantime, don't let him get to you."
"He's right about the men though. They grow impatient," Ulfric said, not liking admitting Madanach saw things more clearly than he'd thought.
"Then we'd better plan an assault, hadn't we!" Galmar laughed… and then his laughter died as he saw Ulfric's expression. "Ulfric. You're not seriously thinking of meeting him? The whole thing is a trap."
The whole thing was going to prey on Ulfric's mind until he gave in, taunting him with what he might be missing out on. And if he really did sack Markarth, Madanach would never be his.
Ulfric hadn't hated anyone this much since Elenwen. And yet it wasn't the same. Madanach was taunting him, yes, but Ulfric didn't sense quite the same agenda in his case. Also Ulfric wasn't a prisoner. Ulfric could walk away quite easily.
Except it would involve admitting defeat, and Ulfric was never going to do that. And yet the thought of invading in force no longer appealed either. It was no longer about conquering Markarth and driving the Witchmen out. It was about conquering one particular witchman, and hang the rest of the city.
That could be accomplished as easily by talking as by fighting. Some said there was no difference, only in the weapon you used. Words were weapons – the Greybeards had taught him that.
A one on one fight then, using weapons other than their axes. Ulfric could handle that.
"I'm going," Ulfric decided. "And you may enter the city with me, but the negotiations will be held in private. Just him and me."
"You cannot be serious!" Galmar cried. "He's probably going to try and murder you as soon as you walk in that front gate."
"He's welcome to try," Ulfric said, reaching for his axe. "I don't think he will succeed. Galmar." He finished fastening his axe to his belt and turned to face his friend and housecarl, clapping his hands to Galmar's shoulders.
"I don't fear death, you know that," Ulfric told him. "None of my Stormcloaks do, we both know that too. But I won't lead them to their deaths when there is another option. Let me see what he has to say. Who knows, it might prove of interest. And if it does not, we can return and resume hostilities. Trust me, Galmar. His voice is no match for mine."
"It's not his voice that bothers me," Galmar said, glaring. "But if you're insistent on this, at least let me come with you."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Ulfric laughed, patting Galmar on the back. "Come, round up some men. We'll see if Madanach is serious."
Half an hour later, and Ulfric was arriving at the gates of Markarth with Galmar Stone-Fist and four of his scarier Stormcloaks at his back, all armed to the teeth and grimacing at any Reachman in spitting distance. The Reachfolk on the walls responded with icy stares of their own.
"What do you want, Nord?" one shouted down.
Ulfric folded his arms and stood his ground.
"Your king invited me to parley, Reachman," Ulfric snapped. "If that offer is genuine, let us in and take us to him. If not, we will resume hostilities within the hour."
The gate defenders shared looks of contempt before one disappeared. It seemed to take forever before the solid metal gates suddenly clicked, and one swung open.
"Enter," a Reachwoman's voice called out, her accent dripping with scorn. "But no funny business, Stormcloak, or we will cut you down where you stand."
"Try it, witch," Galmar growled, reaching for his battleaxe. Ulfric put a hand on his shoulder and made him lower his weapon.
"Galmar," Ulfric warned him. "We're in their city as guests. Be civil. There may come a time for bloodletting, but not under a flag of truce. Show them we are not without honour, hmm?"
"Bloody witchmen don't even know what honour is," Galmar muttered, but he did put his axe away. And so they proceeded into the city, Dwarven stonework all around them… and witchman decorations, from Spriggan hearts hanging from front doors to goats' heads on stakes either side of each door, to deer skulls on the bridges. Ulfric shivered at the sight of it all. He could practically sense the unnatural magics radiating out of it. No wholesome people, this. And they were staring at him, every native of the Reach in the city watching him, hate in their eyes, hunger in their eyes, their ragged fur armour hanging off emaciated frames. Every single one was staring furiously at him – men, women, feral children hanging off their parents' kilts. Mercifully none approached him.
The Keep appeared unchanged, apart from Madanach's Forsworn guarding it rather than Nord guards. They seemed a little better fed than the Reachfolk in the city but not much.
"The Stormcloak's decided to parley," their escort told the Keep's guards, not troubling to hide the contempt in her voice.
The guards raised eyebrows and looked him over, clearly surprised.
"Hadn't thought he'd say yes," one remarked. "King's clearly not as crazy as we thought."
The casual insubordination rankled at Ulfric. Madanach put up with this from his troops. And yet he was still in power, despite trying circumstances. No one was overthrowing him. Madanach commanded support, clearly.
The doors swung open and they were waved on through.
More Forsworn in the Keep, in fact the place looked packed with them, all with that same haggard look about them. Not completely starved yet, but clearly feeling it. All staring at him with that mix of desperation and anger, and Ulfric felt his men all drawing nearer to him for safety.
"Easy, men," Ulfric murmured. "We're not here to fight. They would have gone for us if they were going to. We're safe unless Madanach gives the order."
Which he might yet. But Ulfric didn't think this was quite his style. Too many people knew Ulfric was here under the flag of truce. Madanach was not known for his honour or respect of the rules of warfare, but he did have at least some care for his reputation. He wouldn't betray a flag of truce unless he had an excuse.
Of course, Madanach was also known to be as cunning as he was vicious, and wouldn't have much difficulty manufacturing one.
They brought him up to the Mournful Throne itself, and Madanach was there, looking surprisingly relaxed, and definitely healthier than everyone else, radiating some sort of heathen magic from the look of it. Legs crossed, positioned so Ulfric could almost but not quite see up the man's kilt, heavy-lidded silver eyes watching him with interest, slow, lazy smile on his face.
"Well, well," that chilling, Daedric voice purred, caressing Ulfric's ears and sending shivers down his spine. "You answered my invitation. I wasn't sure you would. Welcome to Markarth, Ulfric. You know, if you wanted to see inside so badly, you could have just knocked and asked. No need to drag an entire warband out here."
Ulfric hissed under his breath, infuriated by the man suddenly, and suppressing the desire to drag the man off his throne and shut him up by grabbing his hair, yanking his head back and kissing him until…
Ulfric dragged his mind forcibly back to the present. Concentrate, he told himself. You're here to negotiate with the majestic bastard, not mate with him.
"I didn't come here for small talk, Madanach," Ulfric replied, raising his voice so it echoed around the great stone chamber. "You wanted to parley. Here I am. State your business."
Madanach's eyebrows flicked up as he exchanged glances with the long-nosed Reachman on his left.
"My, we're hasty, aren't we? Straight to the point, I see. Very well. Your men remain here. They won't be harmed. You come with me. We'll speak in my study."
"Fine," Ulfric said shortly, motioning for the others to remain behind. Galmar put up token resistance, but did not stop him. And so Ulfric followed behind, following Madanach into the corridors of Understone, the very belly of the beast. And if that kilt clung nicely to the contours of Madanach's arse, that was no one's business but Ulfric's.
Madanach's study was actually very nicely fitted out – Dwemer stonework and chairs, but the chairs were covered with fur throws and a cushion for each, and mercifully, there was not an animal part to be seen, other than the deer skull over the doorway. The little dragon statue, possibly a shrine to some god or other that was not one of the Nine, Ulfric was sure, radiated magic of some sort, but it was out of the way at least.
Madanach reached into a Dwemer cabinet and pulled out a bottle of the promised Black-Briar Reserve for Ulfric, and for himself, an unlabelled bottle of some green liqueur which he poured into a glass tumbler barely bigger than his thumb. Steam rose off it, and Ulfric failed to suppress the grimace of distaste as he saw it.
Madanach noticed and grinned as he sat down.
"Jenever, Nord," he grinned. "Traditional brew of the Reachmen, fermented juniper and potatoes. The really good stuff has a little nirnroot added, and it sparkles in the light, glows in the dark. Never, ever store any version of it in metal containers."
Ulfric shuddered at the thought of anyone willingly drinking the stuff, and Madanach laughed.
"Don't worry," he laughed. "I won't make you drink any. Is the ale to your liking?"
"Mead," Ulfric corrected. "It's mead. And it's…." Heavenly, divine, perfect, thank you thank you thank you, I could kiss you. "Acceptable."
Madanach just smirked back at him, as if he knew damn well what he'd actually been thinking. Ulfric shifted awkwardly, keenly aware of his cock making its presence felt, wanting very much to throw Madanach down, oil him up and get inside him, wiping that damnable smile off his face for good.
"So, you wanted to talk," Ulfric growled, toying with his mead bottle. "Spit it out then, Madanach. I don't have all day."
Madanach just leaned forward, practically preening.
"What about all night?" Madanach purred, eyes twinkling. "You called me beautiful, Ulfric. I'm extremely flattered. And, as it happens, single. Shall we?"
He inclined his head towards what Ulfric vaguely remembered was the direction of the Jarl's bedchamber, and Ulfric promptly slammed down his mead bottle, knowing his face had gone involuntarily crimson.
Damn the man, but while he'd suspected something like this might happen, he'd not expected the man to be so damn brazen about it. Even if the idea of finding something else for Madanach's mouth to do did appeal.
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Ulfric roared, getting to his feet and preparing to walk out. "I am NOT sharing a bed with you, witchman!"
Ulfric had definitely not anticipated the sad pouting expression that had suddenly materialised on Madanach's face and which made Ulfric feel twinges of what he was sure was not guilt. Or regret. Definitely not either of those.
"Stop that," Ulfric warned him. "I am wise to your tricks, witch."
Madanach's pout only deepened… and then Madanach knocked back his jenever, downed the whole thing in one and reverted his face back to a more serious expression.
"All right then, if you're not comfortable discussing matters of the bedroom, I will leave it… for now," Madanach said, shrugging as he indicated for Ulfric to sit back down. "Might we instead turn to the matter of the armed force you currently have camped out on my doorstep, hamstringing my supply lines?"
Ulfric sat back down, at least somewhat intrigued to hear what Madanach had to say. So far, recent revelations about Ulfric's sexual preferences aside, Madanach was not the one with all the cards here. Which meant Ulfric supposed he had nothing to lose by at least listening to the man.
"I have a job to do, Madanach," Ulfric said, taking a sip of what was really quite good mead. Dead Jarl Hrolfdir's mead, which took the shine off somewhat… but not enough to stop Ulfric drinking it. Not the Black-Briar Reserve. "I was hired to reclaim the Reach for its rightful ruler and for Skyrim. That's what I intend to do."
To his surprise, Madanach's grin actually broadened.
"You are being hired as a mercenary, I knew it! Now, you're not a Jarl yourself, are you? Your father is. You're the son of Jarl Stormcloak of… somewhere cold and northern."
"Jarl Hoag Stormcloak of Windhelm is my father, and you leave him out of this," Ulfric growled. "He's got nothing to do with you, or with this. The true Jarl of the Reach has hired me."
"Has he?" Madanach asked, raising an eyebrow. "He's a boy in his teens, Ulfric, and his wealth is all here in the Reach. I'd wager it's not him funding this, it's his Silver-Blood backers who want their mines back. I imagine they've promised you a generous portion of their lost wealth if you oust me, hmm? And they approached you because not only are you a formidable fighter, you can use your father's coin to fund all this, because I know damn well they've got nothing to pay you with up front, and a two month siege can't come cheap."
"They've promised me something more than coin, Madanach!" Ulfric snapped, not really willing to think about how much of his father's coin he was having to spend on this so far fruitless venture. "They have promised me a gift you'll never appreciate."
"Try me," Madanach said, pouring himself another jenever shot. Ulfric knocked back another mouthful of mead and leaned forward, folding his hands on the table.
"Talos-worship," Ulfric told him smugly. "We do this for the Jarl, we get to live here and worship Talos under his auspices. Since the end of the war, freedom to do that is worth more than any amount of coin."
Madanach's eyebrows shot up, and he toyed with his tumbler, frowning as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Talos is not well thought of by us Reachmen, and I think you know that," Madanach mused. "But nor is having a company of violent mercenaries camped on our doorstep. And I don't think the situation is to your advantage either. You think you're to be paid with a treasure worth more than coin? I think they're writing you an IOU they can't cash. You'll be living here and swearing fealty to Jarl Igmund, correct? Who'll be swearing his fealty to the High King of Skyrim – Istlod, isn't it?"
"We're Nords," Ulfric said shortly. "We're loyal to our King. What of it?"
"King Istlod is and remains loyal to Emperor Titus Mede, who just signed a treaty forbidding the worship of Talos throughout his Empire," Madanach said, starting to look unbearably smug. "As soon as his new Thalmor friends learn of this arrangement, they'll be accusing him of a treaty breach. He'll have to do something about it or the war's back on. I don't think anyone in the Empire has the stomach for another war with the Dominion, do you? Your free worship of Talos is going to last about five minutes before the Legion turn up to arrest you. You're going to end up being bailed out by your da and sent home in disgrace. Your men are probably going to end up in the Thalmor's dungeons. I'll let you contemplate that for a bit."
Ulfric tightened his grip, growling at Madanach, suddenly furious at the man, outraged and angry and… The Thalmor had promised. Elenwen had promised. She'd come to him, purring away and telling him the Empire would be very interested to learn he'd been the one to sell out their capital city to Aldmeri armies, wouldn't they? But not to worry. A job offer would be coming his way from the dispossessed teenage Jarl of the Reach very soon. He'd be wise to take it. And as a personal favour, if Ulfric were to demand that the young Jarl allowed him and his followers to live in the Reach and worship Talos under his rule, Elenwen would pull strings in the Thalmor and ensure they turned a blind eye. After all, the Thalmor owed him a great debt, didn't they?
He'd yelled abuse at the elven bitch and told her to get out of his sight. She'd laughed and left, telling him not to forget her. As if he could. But her words had stayed with him, thoughts of the laughing harpy churning in his brain, and he realised the Thalmor did owe him, didn't they? Perhaps this could work. So he'd daringly named that as part of the price, and Jarl Igmund and his uncle had been desperate enough to agree, much to his surprise. And so here he was.
Except Madanach's words had hit home, and the scenario he described seemed all too plausible, and he only had an unwitnessed promise from Elenwen that the Thalmor actually would let this exception stand and how much did he trust the elf, really?
Deep down, he knew the answer to that one, and for the first time, doubt began to creep in. Was this going to work? Or was it going to go horribly wrong, even if he won?
He didn't know. He genuinely didn't know, and while he'd risk his own life, he couldn't risk those of his men. He knew what the Thalmor did to their prisoners. No Nord feared death, but there was heroic death in battle, and then there was the soul-breaking agonies of the Thalmor interrogation chambers.
"You had a counter-offer, I take it," Ulfric said, desperate to change the subject. This whole business was starting to rankle, in fact the more he thought about it, the more tainted he felt. If Madanach might be offering a way out, he might just be inclined to take it.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Madanach purred, settling back in his chair. "Istlod has sworn fealty to Titus Mede… but I haven't. I'm not a vassal of the Emperor, in fact the emissaries I sent to Cyrodiil report they are being given the diplomatic runaround. No doubt Titus Mede wants nothing to do with me but doesn't have the resources to force the issue, else the Legions would be here in your stead. So he's giving my people the brush-off until someone else deals with the problem for him. That, for me, is a problem. But it could be an opportunity for us both." Madanach leaned forward, eyes twinkling again. "I'm not bound by the White-Gold Concordat. You could settle here in your own little township and worship Talos freely among yourselves. We're not acknowledging him as an official god of the Reach, but we'd be willing to let you worship him unofficially, in private. If you swear fealty to me, and lend your troops to the defence of the Reach and stop harassing my people."
Ulfric lowered his mead, not sure what he was hearing.
"Are you serious?"
Madanach nodded. "I'm serious. I can't stand Talos, would happily rip down the shrine and burn it if I could. But my kingdom is small and wealthy, two things that are deadly in combination. I'm short on allies and trading partners. I could negotiate with Hammerfell, but despite the fact we share a border, we're separated from their major cities by the Druadachs and the Alik'r Desert. It's not an easy undertaking. The Orc and Reachman communities in High Rock have been receptive but they're not wealthy and can't really help militarily, although some of the Western Reachmen have joined our cause."
All useful information, and Ulfric filed it away for further reference… but Madanach must have a reason for sharing this.
"And? You think my men could hold an entire Empire at bay?" Ulfric asked, raising an eyebrow. "Your opinion of our military capability is generous, Madanach."
"I'm not expecting you to fight," Madanach said, grin quirking at his lips. "I need allies, Ulfric. And your father is a Jarl. If he were to learn that his son had taken refuge in the Reach and could worship Talos freely there, and that other Talos-worshippers were crossing the border to join him… tell me, Ulfric, how many of the Jarls of Skyrim worship Talos in secret still, and resent the treaty even as they enforce it? How many would find somewhere they could sneak their dissidents useful? Do you think King Istlod is among them, Ulfric? Does he respect Jarl Hoag's opinion, and do you think he'd recognise the Druadach Kingdom of the Reach and agree to respect my rule and the Reach's boundaries if Jarl Hoag asked him to on his openly-Talos-worshipping son's behalf?"
Yes. Yes, he might well do. Because the Empire didn't have the resources to force the issue, not without Skyrim's support, and if the High King made the decision to recognise the Reach for them, they'd likely be stuck with it. And where Skyrim went, the nobles of High Rock would probably follow, ethnic Bretons like the Reachmen who'd be happy to trade with their kin. Cyrodiil would have no choice but to follow, and the Thalmor could likely do very little about it. The White-Gold Concordat forbade worship in the Empire but it said nothing about the Empire acting to wipe out Talos-worship outside its territories.
It wasn't a permanent solution, and the Thalmor would likely start plotting to overthrow them… but it would buy them time, and looking at Madanach, Ulfric began to wonder if the Thalmor were actually prepared for him.
"And?" Ulfric had to ask, thinking this was perhaps a little too good to be true. "Don't tell me you don't have a price for this. You can't be giving all this away for free."
"Of course not," Madanach snorted scornfully, "if I just hand this to you on a plate, my people will think I'm weak, and you'll find yourself facing another Reach-King within a year, one who'll have carved his way to power on declarations of kicking Talos-worshippers out of the kingdom. And he'll do it too. Perhaps he'll get the Thalmor to help him out. No, I'm going to need a concession from you. An admission you were wrong, a show of conciliation, a sign of true loyalty and that you're definitely with us."
Madanach had grown very thoughtful as he spoke, looking Ulfric over very carefully, and Ulfric suddenly began to feel rather nervous, certain urges making themselves felt again, except this time it wasn't the claiming and domination of before, but a certain nervousness, a feeling that he wasn't as in control as he thought and that Madanach the so-called Reach-King would be no easy prey, in fact the prey in this scenario might just be Ulfric.
Ulfric didn't know how he felt about that, because in no way was he submitting to this witchman… and yet his cock was straining at his breeches, clearly having other ideas.
Ulfric swiftly pushed these thoughts right down where he wouldn't have to think about it, not ever, and returned his attention back to the negotiations.
"What sort of sign," Ulfric said warily. Madanach hesitated, then picked up his tumbler and downed the entire thing in one, slamming it back to the table and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and really that should not be as alluring as it was.
"Marry me," Madanach said calmly, and Ulfric's entire brain just ground to a halt.
"What," he managed to say, because Madanach had not just said that. He could not have just said that, because the mere idea was ridiculous. Outrageous. Absolutely, in no way, shape or form, had Madanach just proposed to him.
"You heard," Madanach said, still sounding eerily calm, but his smile had gone and he was twirling the empty tumbler rather nervously. "The Forsworn will not tolerate me just handing territory over to the first Talos-worshippers to lay siege to my city. But they will buy that the fiercest Nord warrior in Skyrim turned up to overthrow me, took one look at me, fell instantly in love, repented his actions and agreed to devote himself to defending his husband's homeland. Which, I believe, is where we came in. So, Ulfric, how about it? Shall we continue this discussion in a more intimate setting?"
He had got to be joking. Hadn't he?
No. No, he wasn't, and Ulfric realised with horror that he was deadly serious. Madanach had genuinely just proposed to him, with an offer of sanctuary for him and his Talos-worshipping followers.
Images of Madanach in his bed assailed him, Madanach writhing beneath him, wanton moans coming from his mouth as Ulfric fucked him, the King of the Witchmen with his legs wrapped around him, arching his back and begging for more.
There was nothing wrong with this scenario.
There was everything wrong with this scenario. He should be putting this city to fire and the sword, not fantasising about having sex with its dark mage barbarian of a king. And what Galmar's reaction would be, he had no idea, oh Talos, Galmar. The mere thought of explaining this to Galmar appalled him.
"This discussion is over," Ulfric snapped, shoving the chair back and getting to his feet. Madanach tilted his head, still looking hopeful.
"Is that a yes?" Madanach said, curiously. "Have we moved beyond words?"
"I. Am. Leaving!" Ulfric roared, pausing only to grab the remaining mead before storming out, not waiting for Madanach's reaction, wanting only to find Galmar and get out of this city of witches and heathens and heathen witches, and their heathen madman Witch-King, with his toned thighs and his exquisitely carved backside and bewitching smile and intense eyes that stayed in the memory long after he was gone.
Madanach watched him go and poured another jenever. That had not quite been what he'd hoped for, although what he'd expected he wasn't sure. But it had gone better than he'd thought. Ulfric was interested, he could definitely tell that. Obviously, he was having difficulty accepting it… but given time, he might start coming around.
The question was, did they have that time, or would Ulfric return to his camp, crush any feelings he might have and let his men talk him into resuming hostilities.
Madanach didn't know. No one would know until morning if they had a lifeline or if hope was all but gone.
Madanach had a feeling he wouldn't be sleeping well tonight.
A/N: There you go, chapter one! It was interesting indeed plotting out the details of the Markarth Incident and how it worked, because on the one hand I wanted to show Madanach the competent commander, and yet Markarth's a fortress, the Reach's canyons are a nightmare to invade, the Reachmen have weird magic and know the terrain, and yet Ulfric triumphs and it's not even a proper army. So I ended up coming up with details such as the Thu'um being the only thing that broke Madanach's lines, and while Madanach is holding his city, he's being slowly starved out, and it's only a matter of time before Ulfric rallies his men, Shouts the doors in and the defenders are too weak to stop him.
I also needed to get into why Ulfric ever thought Igmund could keep his word regarding Talos-worship in the Reach when it'll be back under Imperial auspices if he wins. We can blame Ulfric being young and impulsive, Elenwen manipulating him and Ulfric naming that in the price as an afterthought and not thinking they'd actually agree.
I'm very proud of myself for coming up with glow in the dark Extra Special Nirnroot Jenever. It just seems like the sort of thing the Reachmen would come up with, and it's guaranteed to appal Nords. :D
Next chapter is Ulfric thinking all this over and wondering if he's done the right thing. Because Ulfric is a man who needs to believe it's his idea to do something. :)