Just FYI, this is also posted on my ArchiveOfOurOwn account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.
The first time he saw that face, it had been standing behind that woman, book and quill in hand.
He looked to be in his early twenties, but with Mer, one could never really be sure.
And he could remember the way that face, that Mer, that Thalmor, looked away when his interrogator set sparks alive in her hands, just before she would press them to his body, as though the mere sound of his screams of agony gave her immense pleasure.
Even after he finally broke, he saw that face, that Mer, that Thalmor who hated standing in the presence of torture but did so by duty every day after with that woman, that Thalmor interrogator.
Her name was Elenwen.
But the name that belonged to that face he never learned.
He didn't want to learn it, even after he escaped from the clutches of the Aldmeri Dominion and fled.
The Imperial City had fallen to the clutches of those Altmer bastards.
And it was his fault.
And when he came home to Windhelm, his father, his mother, even the best friend he had found while fighting in the war did not blame him for cracking. The Thalmor knew how to break even the strongest wills.
Even as he tried to recover from the horrors that had happened to him, outwardly, he remained strong, and in the call for aid from the Jarl in the far corner of Skyrim, he came.
All he demanded in return for his help was the free-worship of their god again.
And he reclaimed the Reach.
Only for his help to be returned with betrayal.
And in the deep silver mine of that city he helped liberate, he learned of the death of a great man.
His father had died.
And was forced to deliver his father's eulogy in the form of a letter, smuggled out of the mine with bribes and bargaining.
And a month after, under the cover of night, one of the few men that he trusted came and broke him free from the prison, to bring him home to a city in mourning.
He did not take up the title of Jarl by choice.
He did not sit down in the throne where his great father had once sat and ruled his people.
The ones who put the mantel of Windhelm upon his shoulders were the people themselves, crying out in grief and in anger.
And so he ruled.
A short handful of years later, his mother went to join his father in Sovngarde.
Leaving him alone in that cold city, the only one he trusted never far from his side.
And so he grew strong again.
The nightmares that would sometimes attack him even during the day started to become less frequent.
The awful tremors that would wrack his body with phantom pain in memories started to still.
The scars left behind on his skin itched less and didn't feel so raw.
The physical reminders of his time under the hand of the Thalmor would ache though.
He would never be able to truly escape from what they had done to him.
And in his strength, in his pain, he thought deeply.
Considered the options, the paths that could lie in the future.
And when the High King breathed his last breath, the Moot gathered.
It was only gathered as a formality to the people to grand the title to the direct heir of the previous High King.
But that boy that the Jarls hummed and sighed and nodded their heads to agree that the title would pass on was just no man who had the gall to lead his people like a king, preferring to entertain his wispy, soft spoken bride.
And he spoke out at the Moot.
He dared to suggest breaking away from the Empire, become an independent nation that could govern itself, one that its people could be proud of and live the way they always should have.
The Nords were the hearty people of Skyrim. And Skyrim should be ruled by the Nord's way.
But there was little support to his suggestion, to his request.
In the months after, he researched and he planned.
Until, he came back to the jewel city of Skyrim, warmly welcomed by the High King and his court.
And he challenged the boy king as to the right to the throne.
If he was not fit to lead their country, he was not fit for the throne.
And the young High King of Skyrim, shocked by the allegation, accepted the challenge.
He had no choice.
If he declined, he risked losing face in the eyes of his people by the act of cowardice, and a new Moot would be called, and he would have been disposed of as High King.
It was an unfair challenge, he was a grizzled war veteran with the power of the Voice under his tongue, and his opponent was a young man with limited martial training.
He made the death of Torygg, High King of Skyrim only in namesake, a very quick one.
Young men did not deserve torture as he had faced.
And as he left the Blue Palace, the weeping cries of the dead king's wife followed at his back.
None would stop him though, as the act had been done in the old way and such was legal in Skyrim.
And there on the path towards the gates of the city, he saw that face again.
That golden face that had stood behind that woman, book and quill in hand. That face that flinched at the sight of torture.
That face.
That face didn't recognize him as he walked past.
And for the first time, he heard the voice that belonged to that face.
Singing.
The verse that echoed after him was from a song of old, one that was rare-known and not often sung.
But he recognized it none the less on the tongue that belonged to that face.
And as he hurried back to Windhelm, dodging the Imperials which had been ordered by the military governor stationed in Skyrim by the Empire, he heard that verse over and over in his mind.
And that face haunted him for what might have been days, might have been months after that gate closed behind him.
Yet at the same time, that song soothed the nightmares away.
The Song
Beauty of Dawn – Elder Scrolls Online (End Credits)
The Verse Sung
These are days and nights of venom and blood
Heroes will rise as the anchors fall
Brave the strife, reclaim every soul
That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn