Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak is not a man to be trifled with. When the Empire makes their move he is more than ready to meet them head-on. Little do they know that he has a surprise waiting for them. The wagons roll on, and at night he can hear some of the Imperials raise their voices and sing in triumph. Let them. He knows better. His bindings chafe and the gag spreads a horrid taste in his mouth, but he cannot give away his game just yet.
The next day they learn that no trial awaits them in Cyrodiil; they are to be executed as soon as they reach Helgen. Where is the bloody justice in that?
"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along!" the Nord horse thief complains.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," Ralof replies solemnly.
The driver of the carriage shouts at them both to shut up.
"Hello, Muffin," the other prisoner, the dark haired stranger with cold blue eyes addresses the Jarl. "I'm the Dragonborn." And then he winks, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
When they line up in front of the chopping block, the trap is sprung.
"What in Oblivion is that?" Tullius roars in fear as the dragon descends from the heavens to land next to Ulfric, who takes a moment to saviour the looks on the General's and the Elves' faces.
"My dragon," the Jarl replies with pride, bindings and gag miraculously gone.
The self-proclaimed Dragonborn wolf-whistles, breaking the stunned silence.
Their surprise is understandable, but then Wuunferth outdid himself this time. Save for two feet of a steel bolt sticking out of its head, the beast is absolutely perfect, the terrifying picture of a real, live –
"Ulfriiic!" Tullius turns to berate the Jarl in a condescending tone.
"Uullfriiic- " the dead dragon moans in accord.
oooo
"Ulfric!" Galmar's rough voice snaps his friend out of his slumber, finally breaking through to his sleep-addled brain.
The Jarl raises his head from his crossed arms, conscious of a gauntleted hand that rests heavily on his shoulder. His is quite sure it had been shaking him but a moment ago. He blinks; in the dim light of the room the gleam of the candles appears too bright. A few heartbeats pass before his eyes adjust and the table before him comes into focus. He uses the time to rub at his face, feeling the familiar ridge of the scar on his cheek and the rough scrape of stubble.
He should shave.
"I think we ought to call it a day," Galmar sighs and stretches, palming at his back when some vertebrae pop.
Ulfric agrees. It is a bad sign when the table's flat wooden surface beckons to him with the allure of a soft feather pillow. His elbows hurt. Wax has dribbled over his hand and he picks at it idly, nodding at his old friend. These nightly meetings to discuss tactics are wearing on them both. The creases lining his housecarl's weathered face seem more pronounced in the flickering light, the shadows under his eyes darker.
The Jarl knows he doesn't look much better.
Long after darkness has fallen and quiet settles over the palace, after servants and officers alike adjourn to their rooms to rest, he and Galmar sit in the War Room and prepare. And plot.
Only a few guards are still up at this hour; Ulfric can hear the clink of their armour whenever one of them moves. The heavy, regular tread of their feet reaches his ears and, sometimes, hushed voices.
His focus is once more absorbed by the map that lies spread out in front of him. It is a true masterpiece of art, fine lines and colourful inks, the attention to detail paid heed to by the cartographer simply remarkable. There are many charts in the Jarl's possession, his father's father's and a few others he had semi-legally acquired during the war, but none can rival this one. It is just perfect to provide the watcher with an instant overview of Skyrim's terrain, her settlements and major fortifications.
Ulfric briefly speculates whether the Empire regrets its loss more than Torygg's. Probably. Unlike killing the High King, purloining it from Castle Dour's treasury has turned out to be one of his better decisions and with far less severe consequences. It would not have been possible without their acquaintance's help and he has yet to think of a suitable reward. Whatever he comes up with, somehow he does not believe it will be accepted.
Galmar's hand leaves his shoulder and the other man shuffles around to the other side of the room where he exchanges a few words with the soldiers on watch.
The Jarl's eyes fix on a small wet patch below his chin. He had drooled on fort Hraggstad; how delightful. Kyne willing, a few Imperials would drown in the autumn downpours this year. Ulfric grabs his sleeve; wipes at the spittle. A tiny, bright red flag is knocked over by his hand and he watches it roll in a tight circle.
The fort has fallen! If only war was this easy.
But it isn't and maybe that it for the best. Ulfric remembers how hard it had been to shove his sword through the chest of a living man for the first time. The burning guilt he had felt for taking a life when he had been taught the ways of peace for most of his. It became easier over time; although his stomach still turned the first time he abused the Voice to rip apart his enemy. He did it in order to save a fellow soldier who was surrounded, trying to protect an injured comrade. She stared at him wide-eyed, in fear and admiration and later introduced herself as Rikke, and he barely recognized Galmar who was lying at her feet, covered in blood from head to toes.
They became friends afterwards, the three of them: Ulfric, Galmar and Rikke, the troublemaking trio of the second cohort of the fifth legion. They were inseparable and, together, unstoppable. Nobody stood in their way and lived.
Strange, that he should long for those times when they are also the source of some of his worst nightmares. And now they face each other on separate fronts, albeit struggling for the same cause. It's a shame, really. A gods-damned waste is what it is. The Dominion is probably laughing at them; they do not even bother to do so behind their backs. Those haughty, puffed-up morons. They do not see, either. Nobody does. Too many trees in the wood. The last laugh belongs to the Jarl.
His father and his friend have taught him well. Elenwen did, too.
More warriors willing to fight for the cause of the Stormcloaks file in every day. Some are soldiers, others adventurers who expect glory and eternity in songs. Ulfric shakes his head at their naiveté but does not crush their hopes. He needs the numbers. A few arrivals want to escape the Empire. They stand before him uneasily, their eyes always shifting. He tells them they are welcome to join his ranks as long as they leave their criminal pasts behind.
It does not escape his notice that out of all of them he is the only one branded a traitor; the worst kind of criminal in the eyes of some. When they are gone again he laughs at the irony until some of his guards throw uneasy looks his way. The Jarl is anything but amused.
Ulfric shakes his head, but it doesn't clear. His thoughts are murkier than the canals of Riften on a cloudy day; the pain relief must have kicked in.
Standing up is no easy feat. The room tilts, the floor lurching precariously beneath his feet. Leaning against the table helps and the dizziness recedes, but does not pass. The Jarl wonders whether it is the side-effect of the medication or whether somebody poisoned his food at last.
When his housecarl returns, the other Nord grabs his friend's arm and slings it around his neck, supporting him. Ulfric gets his nose full of bear pelt and it tickles; he snorts and Galmar chuckles as they unsteadily make their way up the stairs and through the narrow hallway. The guards stationed on the upper floor salute them briskly. They are Ulfric's most trusted soldiers, the ones charged with protecting their sovereign's life. He does not see Ralof among them today.
The Jarl's quarters are at the end of the corridor, past those belonging to the officers. "Damn, it's cold in here!" Galmar complains, rubbing his hands together once they enter the room and he has put down the lamp he was carrying.
"We are running short on firewood." Ulfric sinks down on his bed, feeling the mattress give way. He lets himself fall back and stares up, at the ceiling. The banners of the Bear of Eastmarch hang motionlessly, collecting dust. When he breathes out, a white cloud of mist forms over his lips. The room spins.
Ever since Falkreath stopped shipping wood into Stormcloak territory they have been barely able to cover the demand. With winter looming ahead and the northernmost regions under his control, Ulfric knows that things are looking bleak. He can only hope that Balgruuf will continue to trade with both fractions of the Civil War, because the last thing they need is a shortage of food. Motion he sees out of the corner of his eye makes him turn his head.
"Leave it," Ulfric commands when Galmar bends down to put some logs into the fireplace. He barely feels the cold and when he does, he welcomes its numbing effect. The Jarl kicks off his boots without sitting up first.
Reluctantly the older man straightens. "How much did you drink?" There is disapproval in his voice.
Just a cup of wine in the afternoon, Ulfric thinks. And the bottle of Abecean Red at dinner. And the two bottles of hot mead he and Galmar had polished off before.
"Not enough."
A heavy silence settles; Galmar harrumphs. He doesn't like it when his friend and leader talks like this. It makes him worry for the man he loves as his Jarl, as his brother. It is a good thing he does not know that Jorleif has explicitly told him to stay away from alcohol when drugged. Come to think of it, Ulfric does feel somewhat queasy. He should not have sampled the more exotic dishes, but he had been curious. Now his stomach rumbles unhappily.
"What was that new cook's name?" the Jarl enquires all of a sudden.
He does not see his housecarl's eyes narrow. "The Gourmet."
Ah, yes. A man whose reputation precedes him, a connoisseur travelling the lands of Tamriel to serve at the courts of kings and the highest of nobles. There is said to be no better chef, nobody who can turn even the simplest of fares into a dish fit for royalty; whose meals bring such pleasure to the palate. That was how he had introduced himself.
Ulfric's mind is made up.
"Sack him."
Ten years in a monastery, five in war and a total of six in prison and his greatest joy in the morning is a hot, steaming loaf of dark bread with freshly churned butter.
Sifnar had complained about the Gourmet, he remembers. Something about the steaks that he could not discern the origins of, because the master cook claimed them to be one of his newest inventions, a discovery made in Skyrim. How can one 'invent' food? Ulfric did not touch any and the rest of the leftover meat landed with the dogs in the kennels.
He's had enough of mystery meat in war and in prison. Prison. It makes him think of Markarth and the Forsworn and how Igmund broke his promise, how the Empire branded them villains for helping themselves when no other aid was coming from their side. 'Necessary sacrifice', they called it and a 'balance of interest in favour of the remaining funds'.
It's not Tullius who reads the verdict, it's some other interchangeable puppet and the iron gates of the dungeons beneath the keep close behind him with a sound of finality. At least it's not Cidhna Mine. He gets to know his friend and saviour there; the company becoming the centre of his otherwise miserable existence and the only reason he does not lose his sanity or will to live.
She visits him in secret, once only, because it's too dangerous and they cannot afford to associate. Even now he can see the pain in her eyes as she affectionately runs her hand over his face; through his hair.
"What did you get yourself in this time, Jori?"
What indeed?
Galmar lingers, Ulfric notices, aware of his surroundings once the memories stop assaulting him. "Go," he dismisses his old friend. "Get your rest."
He will be fine; he always is in the end. Some days are just worse than others.
With one last glance at his Jarl, the housecarl leaves. What remains behind is Ulfric's dream, the pictures still vivid. It made such perfect sense in the odd way that dreams often do, the mix of events lived through and rumour and the weird conjurations of a tired mind.
And anything is better than losing oneself in memory and sorrow.
He is not alone in this, he knows. Four years with the Legion and living through the entire Great War are enough to turn any man into a psychotic wreck. Sometimes he meets them downstairs in the middle of the night or the wee hours of the morning: Yrsarald, Hjornskar and Arrald, Istar and on occasion even Galmar. They sit together and stare into the fire and share a bottle of something that never quite succeeds at silencing the voices in their heads.
No questions are asked, for there is no need of explanation.
There is no such thing as a retired soldier. Few war veterans make a living outside of the army after their honourable discharge. Most end up in the streets, beggars, cripples and drunks or join bandits, never able to leave the killing behind, and become training fodder for their young, bright-eyed and eager replacements.
But he must go on and function, be a Jarl and the leader of a rebellion because Titus Mede has shit for common sense and something even worse for courage. Good tactician that he might be, he's a terrible soldier and his diplomatic skill does not surpass that of a cockroach; he was, after all, just as easily crushed beneath the heel of the Dominion.
The Jarl of Windhelm snorts without humour. What does that make him? They should have acted sooner, but nobody had the energy to go on back then. Four years of warfare had leeched the fight out of even the most hardened of soldiers. They had prayed for victory and peace and received a blow to the guts instead; ridicule and sacrilege. The Whitegold Concordat, robbing them not only of everything they had achieved, but also of their very right to worship their god.
And now Ulfric has set the wheels in motion once more.
'Sundered, kingless, bleeding.' He does not recall where he heard the phrase before.
It's far easier and less hazardous for his sanity to contemplate a silly dream.
Helgen. If not for his past he would be horrified at the fate of people, not just soldiers, but villagers, their wives and children being burned alive. As it was, all he felt was a sense of having lived through all this before.
The screams do not seem out of place at all.
The 'Dragonborn' had the dark haired prisoner's face, the stranger who had joined them at the border. If surrendering to the Imperials had been difficult, then not tearing off his bonds and shouting the guy to pieces when he rested his feet in the Jarl's lap had been a true test of fortitude.
If nothing else, Ulfric has patience.
He tells his soldiers to stand down and wait for help, which has to be on its way since their contact immediately sends out news of their capture.
But help does not arrive in time and the only thing that comes for them is that big, black dragon. It saves their lives and claims dozens of others in their place.
Reinforcements find Ulfric's company four days later and escort the Jarl back to Windhelm.
If he had a dragon, Ulfric decides, he'd name it Lily-of-the-Valley. Because he could.
He'd fly it over High Hrothgar and let it have a huge crap over Arngeir's head. It would serve the two-faced, craven old fart right. The other three share his opinion, spineless and blind as they are. Who'd kept their precious mountain safe, if not the men and women dying hundreds of miles away from their homeland? Who faced the tide of Altmer forces as they swept over them, wielding magic that felled soldiers by the hundreds, with a prayer on their lips and a hope of Sovngarde in their hearts? Who held fast defending Skyrim with body and shield?
From atop the Throat of the World, the Greybeards dared sneer down upon them.
And then Ulfric would go to Solitude and let his dragon eat Tullius, the Colovian bastard, for trying to have their heads chopped off without as much as a trial, because the damned Elves wanted it so. For actually chopping off Tori's head.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. Wuunferth would have his work cut out, but if anybody is up to the task, it is him, of that Ulfric is sure. There are few still alive who know why the nondescript man is called 'The Unliving'. And after the fighting was done the Empire wanted to execute him for necromancy, when he had raised the bodies of their fallen enemies and sent them straight back at the gold-skinned, pointy-eared freaks.
Sometimes Ulfric wonders whether his life is a satire written for the amusement of the Divines.
oooo
The next morning Wuunferth is confronted with a most unusual demand as he is approached by his sovereign.
"Raising dragons," is the only thing Ulfric Stormcloak says to his court mage with a faraway look in his haunted, sea-green eyes.
"My Jarl?" Wuunferth asks, not sure if he has heard right. A finger is held up to silence him.
"Look into it."
AN: Welp, Ulfric hopped up on drugs is difficult to write about. I hope you enjoyed reading this. Thank you for indulging in one of my weirder creations.
The idea for this story came from a silly chat between Springinkerl and me and it was supposed to be pure crack at first that morphed into something – else.