It was two-sixteen in the morning, but flames and clinking iron could have easily mislead one to believe that the sun had risen at high noon; a blanket of reflective light lit the clouds and soft snow complimented the crumbling grey blocks of stone that had once sheltered Wildhelm. The scenery had the potential to be an inspiration to an artist, though due to the weight of Imperials' boots and the heat of fresh blood, the snow that always draped the city's gravel was turned to mud. My teeth eased pressure against the tip of my tongue as I watched my brothers and sisters being trampled by an enemy presumed to have been defeated. How foolish we had been! A rebellion was inevitable, we weren't naïve enough to believe otherwise; yet we had made the foolish mistake to blind ourselves with speckled optimism. Thousands of men and women belonging to the Imperial Legion swarmed the Stormcloaks' posts and now the capital. My attention shifted to the Jarl.
He, too, watched the carnage. The light highlighted his swollen, bruised eyes and the scars accumulated from tragedies that had happened upon him he regretted to admit. The color of his skin was that of death; if his chest did not rise and fall with passing breaths, I would have mistaken him as a propped corpse. I wondered what he was thinking, if anything – was he plotting the next move? An escape? Or. . .defeat, death? If I believed the gods answered prayers, I would have asked them for the latter to not be true. "Ulfric," I spoke following a hollow thump from just outside the resident's wall. "We must leave."
I presumed my words to be deaf to his ears, for he showed no sign of registry – not even a sideward glance or a quick motion of fluttered lashes. "Do you hear me?" I tried again impatiently, "we cannot just stand here! This isn't over, Ulfric; they fight for a chance. Do you want their deaths to be in vain?"
He seemed to have been penetrated, for his Nordic visage hardened with contemplation. "I have forgotten an important lesson of the Greybeards," he admitted, sliding his tongue along broken, chapped lips, "we musn't tamper with time. All things end for new things to be born. We do not know what this new thing is, but extending our death is selfish, and we must assume the new thing is best. Talos is punishing me – I should have died long ago."
"No," I refused crisply, reaching for his armored wrist. A pang of panic caused my chest to ache as it had the first day we had met and I had been knocked to my knees, my head leveled against a block of wood for an axe to steadily detach my skull from the rest of my body. Perhaps I wasn't as dedicated to the cause as the Jarl was, for I still had a will to survive – but only if he did, too. I tried to reason these innate feelings to defeat the stubborn streak that prevented me from dragging him with me into the hidden escape route built solely for situations such as this. "This is not the will of gods, but the will of men; if you were supposed to die, you would have. But you are alive, as you are meant to be; your stupidity and stubbornness will not be smiled upon!"
I heard the entrance of the building smack hard against the floor. They intruded at last. I took a step towards the hidden entrance, my fingers still constricted around his unyielding limb. "Come, now, Ulfric! I know of a place we can stay where they won't find us. Please."
"You must live," he whispered, "for you are Dragonborn. But I. . . I have made mistakes."
"And you must live for you are High King," I snapped, forgetting any formalities that had been considered in the tone I had spoken to him with. I could hear the Imperials swarm his throne and buzz closer to us.
A throatless chuckle resonated. "I had planned to speak to Maramal to request your hand in marriage –"
"And you still can," I interrupted without considering the intention of his reflection, nor that of my response. I was becoming desperate; though I felt my spirit squirming through the small passage, I stood in the open, vulnerable to a poison-laced arrow or blade. "But only if we leave inow/i."
As the stomps of heavy armor began to circle us, something very queer happened – the defeated king gave into my tugging arm and crept behind my muffled boots.
A/N – I was originally going to write a oneshot where Ulfric dies, though I simply could not do it – so I will continue this. I am not accustomed to writing in first person, so please, critiques are welcomed. I thought first person would be the most appropriate, as I could like to avoid naming the Dragonborn and/or giving her a race, as I would like for my readers to envision their own character and not implement mine.
If you have no figured it out, this takes place sometime after finishing the Stormcloaks' quests. Plenty of Imperials still linger throughout Skyrim, so I thought it would be possible for something like this to occur.
I am also going to try to avoid naming specific quests and legions that the Dragonborn may have aligned with aside from the Thieves' Guild, who will be introduced next chapter. I am unsure if I will name the Dragonborn as the Guildmaster, or if I will simply mention her as a member. What do you guys think?
Please, please review – even if it's a simple compliment. I welcome critiques. I welcome suggestions. If you would like me to implore any themes, such as Ulfric's imposed grudge against all races aside from the Nords, do suggest them! I have a basic idea of where this is going, but I do not have an outline yet. This is the time to speak up.
- I. N.
