Part 5 of the 'Price of Freedom' series. While it is advisable to read parts 1-4 (especially part 4!) it is not an absolute necessity. Because they're all tied together, additional knowledge of the Blacktyde Chronicles certainly helps to follow the plot better, though it should be possible to understand what is going on without it.
WARNING in the AN at the bottom.


Ulfric is slow to wake to the throbbing in his head timed with the beating of his heart. He either has the worst hangover ever, or-

Or somebody knocked him out even as they butchered his guard around him.

He fully jerks into consciousness to darkness and a cool, damp draft. Behind his eyelids Jytte's head dissolves again to spray blood, brain matter and shards of bone on her Jarl and lover. Not that they are the same person. Ulfric has not touched a woman since...since the events that led him disinclined to do so in first place. But he can hear Fjori's anguished shout as the pretty brunette's head crumbles onto itself. Fjori, who has been his friend since they had shared a tent in the Legion. Fjori who suddenly sprouts a spear through his neck, who had survived four years of war and the elves' ruinous magic to die choking on his own blood and reaching out to the corpse of the woman who carried his child.

Ulfric catches sight of an eyeball and a part of the jaw, teeth still remarkably intact lying in a pool of blood and draws air into his lungs, despite reeling from shock. There are more screams as his other soldiers are overwhelmed and he does not recall whether he manages unleash that Shout because the rest is only blackness.

Betrayed. He has been betrayed. It seems he is doomed to suffer that fate from those whom he believed to be his allies. First the Empire, now Igmund. The former fallen so that a Colovian noble could keep his throne and afford all the luxuries the Dominion has to offer and the second succumbed to fear and whispers from poisonous tongues and bought off with promises of land and power to sate his greed.

Once more Markarth has proved its saying to be true. Blood and silver.

Blood of his soldiers covering the polished stones of the city in slick rivulets of crimson and silver from the mines to acquire the silence of any possible witnesses.

This time though he will not remain a prisoner. He is not helpless, and he is backed by an army, the bulk of which is still stationed inside the city. Suddenly he feels a pang of relief at sending Galmar away. A bad idea it might have been, but it saved his housecarl's life. He had long ago devoted his life to protecting his friend, and Ulfric is happy to return the favour.

Without anything else to do, Ulfric raises his hand to his head and gently probes at the sore area. His fingers come away sticky and he rubs them together. The action causes the faintest odour of his blood to rise to his nose, a smell he is more familiar with than he cares to think about.

His breath falls into a deep but quick rhythm that he is all too conscious of.

The Nord tries to focus on other things. Like the absence of shackles that he would have expected to be there in such a place. He does not have to see to know that he is in a dungeon again. He knows the distinct feeling of one. The cold, clammy air of a place far underground surrounded by thick walls. The smell of mould and wet stone and the never-ending sound of water dripping and the scurrying of small feet echoing through the empty space.

Ulfric imagines he can hear voices higher up. He sits up and strains his ears, but try as he might he cannot make out what they are saying. The warrior imagines Igmund, the faithless spawn of some half-Nord bitch and his goat sire issuing orders to his guards and it brings up memories that boil over in a hazy mist of fury the colour of Jytte's blood.

"IGMUND, YOU DUPLICITOUS BASTARD! WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE I WILL HAND YOUR TRAITOROUS HEAD TO THE FORSWORN! YOU BETTER START SLEEPING WITH YOUR EYES OPEN, YOU CRAVEN BOOTLICKER!"

It is beyond enough to provoke a duel. He may not be in form or in good health but he has his anger wrapped around him tightly, like that cloak that has become a part of his name and there is always the Voice and Igmund knows that. The conversation stops for the longest while. The Jarl does not come down to face his captive's charges.

Oily smoke curls in plumes of black from a single tallow candle the nervous guards left for him so that he can find his way around in the dark. The food they brought was disgusting, barely better than offal from the kitchens. Ulfric briefly chokes on the overcooked vegetables, stringy meat and white clots of fat, but he manages to swallow it all and keep it down. There is no cure to being picky better than war and starvation.

His prison consists of two walls and iron bars that he cannot Shout apart because the power of his Voice will go right past them. He could try Shouting at the stonework, but the chances are high it will either avail him nothing or bring down the whole place on top of his head. Either would be bad.

The cell is rather spacious and covered in straw that smells of horse, but empty. He has a pallet that does not look as much filthy as it does old and a roughly spun blanket. Other than that there is only a bucket for him to shit in. Again, he tells himself he suffered worse, although the indignity of it burns under his skin.

There, he had been a prisoner of war. Here, an honoured guest.

For a nation that prides itself on beauty and perfection he has found the elves' minds are full of the most vile atrocities only perverted sadists can come up with.

He half-expects to see her again.

Somebody else comes for him instead. Footsteps, he can hear them resonate – slow and heavy.

It's not one of the guards to bring his food. Ulfric does not know how much time has passed, down here it is all too easy to lose track of it. His candle will burn for a good six hours at least. The rest of the time he has to spend in the pitch black of underground. When the light is out he lets himself fall into a fevered state of unconsciousness that is neither restful, nor can it be called sleep.

He hopes to be released now that several weeks must have passed. Igmund has made his point. After all he has done and been through Ulfric did not expect to be left to rot down here. He is having second thoughts.

The man who arrives does nothing to alleviate them. Ulfric recognizes the hefty Nord with braided blond hair and amber eyes. He watches impassively as the lad pulls a loaf of bread from his bag and hopes the growling of his stomach is inaudible. The other man seems to waver between handing it over and laying it upon the none too clean ground.

Ulfric decides to help out. "Why don't you just throw it at me?"

The warrior looks at him emotionlessly as the seconds stretch between them. "If that is what you want."

Ulfric's head hits the wall at his back none too gently. "What I want, boy, is for you to sod off."

"Alright." The food disappears again as the other man turns to leave. "Have fun in the dark", he throws over his shoulder. "On your own."

"Wait!", Ulfric calls after him, gets up with difficulty because his knee almost buckles beneath his weight. He has to grit his teeth but he manages to force out an apology. "I am sorry. That was uncalled for." He approaches the bars and reaches out in a manner that he hopes appears grateful rather than greedy. "Thank you."

The other Nord hands over his little gift and all Ulfric can think of is that he has not had real bread in ages. When he looks up again it is to find himself under the scrutiny of his visitor. The lad made his delivery, but now he lingers.

Ulfric is not some curiosity to be gawked at. He scowls and walks back to his pallet to slowly sink down on it. "Do you want something else?"

"I wanted to look at the man whose orders killed my brother and friends and ripped my family apart."

"Well?" Ulfric's words have almost doomed a nation; he finds it difficult to care for one measly family. "You've seen him."

"You look different than you did at the parade." The lad makes to introduce himself. "I'm-"

"Yes, I know who you are", Ulfric interrupts the other Nord and reclines, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I have lost my freedom, not my memory."

Ulfric's bitter response apparently robs his visitor of the last patience and desire to deal with his dark mood. He inclines his head in farewell. "It was nice meeting you, Ulfric Stormcloak."


AN: If you are uncomfortable with any of the following topics, you might want to refrain from reading this fanfic: graphic depictions of violence, death and torture, blood, gore, abuse, crude language, homosexuality or otherworldly religion.

I can't be the only one thinking that there is something incredibly hot and satisfying in picturing Ulfric bellow swearwords in that gorgeous voice of his.

I wanted to get this out as a kind of placeholder for part 5 of the series because it will be a lengthy affair. Part 6 should be up soon, but updates for this story will be slow and probably not before I finish BtS.