Jorleif
Jorleif blew hot breath on his gloved hands as he shivered alone at his station. The gripping cold of Skyrim's harsh midwinter seeped through cracks in the blackened stones as a bitter storm whipped hard beyond the walls. The glowing brazier beside him was the least bit of warmth his Jarl of Windhelm could offer to a servant of the Palace. I stand on his side, and this is what he rewards me, he thought bitterly. Jorleif supportedUlfric and believed in the just cause of his Stormcloaks, but when the duty he owed his liege jarl had to do with suffering quietly in the cold until he would be sent for, Jorleif could scarcely resist cursing his own loyalty. Ulfric's bannermen would've laughed at him if they were to see him now, and mocked the impurity of his blood. The steward himself had fancied that as the reason why he had felt so displaced from the Nords of Windhelm, why he had often felt silly calling himself a true son of Skyrim amongst all the others saying the same. Having a Nord father fighting for the Empire's side in the war and an Imperial mother who had fled back to her home province when the civil war was still but a whisper did little to win him the favor of anyone other than Ulfric Stormcloak, the very man who had pardoned him for his father's treason. Perhaps Ulfric's compassion was what won him over at the start, but that love was slowly wearing thin in the howling winter wind.
Just another hour until he was sure to freeze to his death, he caught an echo of his jarl and his bannermen's talks coming closer to the mouth of a corridor off the far end of the hall. Jorleif straightened his back and shook himself out of the cold as Ulfric walked into the hall beside Galmar Stone-Fist, still in the thick of their conversation as a third person trailed behind them. Of being a steward, Jorleif knew when to be blind, deaf, and mute, and that is when he isn't called for into his jarls' privy, but the presence of an Altmer in their midst had made him alert. An elf? In the Palace? Does Ulfric know of this?
Just as the steward raised his voice, Ulfric turned on his black cloak and saw the elf with his own eyes. Galmar held his battleaxe at hand as he followed suit, and suddenly the hall was quiet. Ulfric came to speak when the others seemed like they would keep their silence. "Only the foolish or the courageous approach a Jarl without summons... do I know you?" The jarl's voice was a thunder to accompany the storm outside. It told much about his contempt for the elf before them, how he sounded like he would've loved to give Galmar the order to swing the axe if someone didn't say something soon.
"We've met before," he thought he'd heard the elf say — or whisper, rather, going by how faint his voice was. The steward knew he shouldn't be listening to what was quickly appearing to be a private matter of his jarl's, yet he had only moved closer to them, standing by the trestle table running the length of the hall under the pretense of cleaning.
He had a clearer view of their Altmer guest where he sat. The thick furs that swaddled him made it clear that he had only been out in the storm a little while before. Though he was likely thin as a branch of pine underneath the billowing layers of fur, the Altmer's height alone projected an intimidating figure. He must have stood taller than Galmar by a head and a half, and from below, his face was an unreadable mask that peeked out from under his hood.
Still, three Nords were stronger than one elf and all the magic he might bring, but Jorleif wasn't so sure if he'd be able to fend for himself should it ever come to that. "Is that so...?" The jarl crossed his arms. The tension was almost palpable now.
Galmar gritted his teeth, scowling in the maw of the bear draped over his war helm. "Let me cut him down, he's a spy of the Thalmor!"
Ulfric waved a hand to stay Galmar's fury, and lent the tense situation a lighthearted chuckle. He seemed to have remembered something that allowed the Altmer some measure of tolerance. "Ah yes, you were with us at Helgen. Destined for the chopping block if I'm not mistaken."
Jorleif had known how Ulfric and a handful of his Stormcloaks had barely gotten out of Helgen with their lives when a dragon swooped down and breathed living fire on the Imperials that held them prisoner. He trusted his jarl enough to know that no detail was an exaggeration, yet he didn't recall Ulfric telling him anything about an elf being there with them.
The elf pulled his hood back, in a move that he had likely thought would dispel the last bit of the mistrust that remained. The light made clear of his alien beauty that was common to the Altmer, the kind which possessed of well-defined features, large cat's eyes and flawless skin marred not with dirt or pockmarks by which even most jarls in Skyrim are still afflicted — Ulfric included, despite Jorleif's best efforts to scrub him thoroughly. If he hadn't known better, it would've been hard for Jorleif to think that this elf was of the same blood as their enemies in the Thalmor.
With viridian eyes that gave their faces no more but a fleeting, studying look, the Altmer pulled a sword out of the thickness of his coat. Galmar gripped his battle axe tight, already set to bring its jagged head over the elf's collar when he'd surely take it near enough to his jarl's throat, but he held it back in restraint when the Altmer dropped to his knees and laid his blade at Ulfric's feet. "I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms."
Jorleif knew those words well, having been made to say them when he received his pardons. But to hear it from an elf? The idea of their very enemy taking up their vows surprised him as much as it did Galmar and Ulfric, he'd bet. Ere he thought the elf was about to drive that very blade through his jarl's skull.
"All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim," Ulfric joined the elf at the ending of the words, and helped him up to his feet when it was done. "I'm always looking for able fighters. Not everyone can say they made it out of Helgen, or bend the knee to our righteous cause... not for elves at the least," Ulfric chuckled at his own joke, with Galmar and the elf only smiling out of courtesy. "Seems we're all branded villains these days... So long as your criminal past stays in the past, and you fight for me with honor and integrity, we'll welcome you into our ranks." The elf gave his new lord a curt nod, but Ulfric wasn't able to see it before he turned to his steward, sitting uselessly at the table, listening to everything they had just said. "Jorleif, bring this elf his Stormcloak colors. He'll be heading to the northeastern front at Whiterun soon."
And to his certain death. Jorleif was starting to think that Ulfric was warming up to the elves. It seemed like his jarl was as implacable as the winter storm outside. He should've known better, though; Ulfric had barely asked for the elf's name, just as he had for everyone else who wasn't a Nord with goldspun hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky. They were sent to the Stormcloak's front at Whiterun, too, where their forces were struggling to defend their foothold despite the planned siege on the hold's capital looming mere months away. As much as the conquest of 'southern' Skyrim seemed to be Ulfric's focus since the previous year, Jorleif wondered whether Whiterun was even worth the fight. Jarl Balgruuf and his city would hold little more than symbolic value at most in the hands of the Stormcloaks or the Empire, despite its strategic position at the center of Skyrim. Truth be told, Whiterun's prospects were not of much worth. The city was a sparsely-manned hold comprised mostly of farmfolk from the surrounding areas who've had enough gold in recent years to settle behind its crumbling walls. Though agriculture was its primary source of income, Whiterun harvests were meager yields few and far. There was even less to be said about its other resources, after all being surrounded by near-inhospitable tundra that stretched as far as the eye can see.
But then, Jorleif knew was in no place to be doubting Ulfric's plans. That man's strategies were as unreadable as the common alphabet was to most folks in Skyrim, and yet his Stormcloaks have won all of the major battles they've fought so far... all of which added up to naught. Villages and smaller towns were different from the fortified holds, and swords and axes alone won't break through walls of stone. Magic would, but Ulfric had as much disdain for it as any other Nord. Only within the last fortnight did he have Wuunferth, the court mage, scoured from his quarters under the suspicion of having dabbled in the forbidden art of necromancy. If Ulfric would cut away a man based on pure hearsay of magic, then Jorleif was certain he wouldn't have half the mind to enlist common battlemages who are more likely than not to have had firsthand experience at wielding darker magics.
Yet here he was, outfitting an elf Ulfric drafted himself with a full set of Stormcloak regalia. He chuckled at his jarl's occasional moments of indecisiveness.
"Is something funny?" the elf asked him, as he was fastening the straps of a blue-dyed, boiled leather breastplate around the Altmer's side.
Getting down from the stool he'd been standing on to match the high elf's height, Jorleif made the last few adjustments to the armor's fittings before answering his inquiry with another question. "Do you happen to know any magic?" He shuddered as he realized that he had allowed such an assumption leap off his tongue so easily while he was thinking deeply on the subject. The steward had no other worry but that he might come across as a racist fool. He loathed how the dark elves of Windhelm were always looking down on him during his errands through their Gray Quarter because of the Nord he appeared to be, when he felt just as much a foreigner in Skyrim as they were.
"Are you only asking me that because I'm an elf?" The Altmer's large eyes were squinting now in a mix of astonishment and insult. He definitely seemed to have taken that question as an offense.
Jorleif knew he had to come up with something quick to diffuse the situation. The last thing he wanted to do was earn the enmity of who would be the first elf to join the Stormcloak Rebellion. "No, not at all," he said, barely overcoming a stammer. "If you were, you'd be the first for the Stormcloaks in two things."
An exasperated sigh escaped the Altmer, who sat down on the vacant stool. "I've lost many a good friend to the magic wielded by the Thalmor. I've qualms about fighting fire with fire."
Jorleif wasn't expecting that answer, though he probably should have. At the risk of assessing the Altmer with liberally broad strokes, Jorleif had never met one who would fight against their own kinsmen, save for when the offending party were kinslayers themselves, to be clear. And if another thing he'd heard about the high elves were true, then it would be that they hold their kinships dear, having had centuries to build solid relations.
"I'm very sorry." That was the best he could manage, having been in a city full of Nords not known for solemn mourning for so long. He never learned the best approach to console someone who was in deep grief, yet there did seem to be a first for everything,he mused.
The Altmer looked down at him with tears unfallen. "Don't be what the Thalmor should."
Vengeance keeps a man fighting, Jorleif supposed. The same must apply for elves.
"Dying would be the least of my worries here," he made an effort to the room with a joke, but already had the gloom vanished. The elf even chuckled lightly at his joke.
"Neither is having your head dashed against the stone as many times as it would need to become red pulp." The elf had frightened him when he said that, but as he smiled and came into easy laughter, Jorleif found no true reason to be wary.
Sliding the elf's hands into gloves, Jorleif remembered that he hadn't had the chance to be properly acquainted with the Altmer standing there before him. He figured that he should be. "You never said what your name was."
"Your jarl and his bodyguard never asked for my name back there." The elf shrugged. "I thought you Nords didn't care about the names of recruits until they've come back from the field still able and not so wet behind the ears."
Jorleif thought the elf crafty for getting back at him with broad strokes on the Nords, but he knew better to just let it die down. "Well, I'm asking you now, so here's one that cares," he smiled instead, draping a blue linen sash around the leather breastplate as ornament. Ulfric may be appealing to the truest Nords, but the man undoubtedly had a soft spot for fashion the way the Imperials did.
The elf held his hand out as if inviting the steward to shake it. "Orin, of nowhere but Bruma."
"Jorleif," he replied, shaking hands with the Altmer known as Orin. "Steward of Windhelm — or as of now, your personal dresser."
The elf chuckled. "I don't suppose you'll be following me around now the way that squires do?"
"Not your squire," he said, a grin playing on his lips as he tilted his head up so that Orin could see it. "I won't be following you around either, but I will escort you to the barracks, so you won't get lost. I imagine they'll not believe their eyes when you'll walk in." Putting the elf's feet into fur-cuffed boots, Jorleif's duty to dress the new recruit in armor was finally done. He put his hands on his hips and stood back to see how all the leather pieces had fit someone of Orin's dimensions so well. "It's a good thing Windhelm's armorers overestimated the height of the average Nord," he remarked, and the elf made a sheepish grin.
Shortly afterwards, Jorleif had escorted him to the barracks at the back of the Palace, exactly like he said he would. The recruits who were already there had also stared with eyes wide with disbelief as they saw perhaps the first Altmer in their lives who didn't immediately try to arrest or attack them. Jorleif had worried that Orin wouldn't be very well-received by his fellow recruits, but sure enough, they took him in no differently than they had with their kinsmen. "An elf who fights on Ulfric's side is better than an elf dead on the Empire's," Jorleif had heard one of them say, as he was already on his way back to his station. He was glad that no unnecessary hostility had taken root in the barracks that evening.
The steward had to be honest with himself, once he reached the lonely privacy of his little desk. He would rather miss the elf, despite how brief they had only known each other. There had been no-one else in the Palace with whom he could share in their hurts and his, only to laugh it off afterwards the way he could with Orin. Jorleif mused that perhaps, before one of Galmar's captains would be taking the recruits on the long march to Whiterun, he would meet with Orin one last time to say his proper good-byes. Oh gods, we've only known each other for a few hours, yet here I know I'll be missing him as though he were an old friend.
Still, the notion never left his mind as the night grew quieter as the storm subsided. He was fortunate it didn't creep into his dreams as he slumbered on the wooden pillow that was his desk.