Elisif the Fair was the rightful High Queen of Skyrim. Civil wars aside, opinions of old men be damned, that much was fact; the throne was hers. Her husband had died High King Torygg, leaving her a widow, and more importantly, leaving her the only person in Skyrim with a valid claim to the throne. She knew this well. And she knew that others knew it. Her court knew it. Her people knew it. The Empire knew it.
But still they all refused to acknowledge the fact.
Oh, they would make speeches and idle chatter about how there was no one else worthy of the title. About how the only other candidate was a murderer and a traitor. About how she was the true High Queen. But since Torygg's murder, not a single soul had actually acknowledged it when put before her.
She was treated to a demonstration of this in her own court that very morning. A citizen of Dragon Bridge had approached her throne—her throne!—and petitioned for a detachment to be sent to handle concerns surrounding Wolfskull Cave. The farmer swore up and down that there was something supernatural occurring within the cave, unsettling the people of Dragon Bridge.
"We will send a legion immediately to search the cave and secure the town. The people of Haafingar will always be safe under my rule," she had said, attempting to reassure the man. A glance around her court told her before she even finished speaking that someone was going to have something to say about that, but none seemed willing to until Sybille spoke up.
"Your eminence, my scrying suggests nothing in the area. Dragon Bridge is under Imperial control and the closest any Stormcloaks have been sighted is as far out as the border between Hjaalmarch and Whiterun Hold. The people have nothing to fear and this is likely nothing more than superstitious nonsense."
Elisif had offered a polite smile. She had a high opinion of the woman and had considered her a friend and confidante even before Torygg's death, but sometimes she wanted to throttle the woman. "I trust your abilities, of course, Court Mage Stentor, but Skyrim is ripe with dangers, and the rebellion is far from the only thing its people must be wary of. We've been made aware in the past few months of a number of mages being cast out of the College for immoral experiments. This could potentially be something of great—"
"Perhaps, Jarl Elisif, a more tempered course of action would be in order? We could debate the hypotheticals and possibilities all day, but our resources are spread very thin."
The voice of her steward made her head hurt. She heard it more than she heard her own voice these days, and often she heard it in the same context as she did now—speaking over her.
"Falk Firebeard, I appreciate your input, but I would much rather the people of—"
"As Court Mage Stentor said, my Jarl, a Stormcloak encampment has been seen on the border of Hjaalmarch. They could be planning to march on Morthal."
"Well, I highly doubt—"
"We need all the soldiers currently available stationed there, to ensure that Hjaalmarch and the Imperial strongholds within its bounds are secured and, if need be, defended," the steward continued, as if he hadn't even heard her. "If Ulfric were to acquire Hjaalmarch, he could be at our gates before sunrise."
"Okay. Yes. You're right," she conceded, feeling her thoughts cloud and her head pulse painfully. "Inform Captain Aldis of the situation and have him assign a few extra guards to Dragon Bridge."
The farmer frowned. "Thank you, Jarl Elisif, but about the cave?"
Before she could even open her mouth, her steward spoke again. "I will send someone to investigate the cave as well, Varnius. Thank you for informing us of your concerns. You're dismissed."
She wanted to hit him. She could barely ever bear the thought of violence since watching her husband be killed, but by the Eight, did she ever want to fucking hit him.
Varnius's frown deepened, but he gave a respectful nod of his head to Elisif and left without protest. Falk followed practically on top of the man, claiming he had things to discuss with Tullius about the war effort. Bryling and Erikur had almost immediately dismissed themselves for lunch, so following their example, she'd retreated into her quarters, claiming a debilitating headache. Only Sybille was allowed in to bring her cups of tea. Elisif sent her out the second she heard the cup touch the table, every time. Alone in her bedroom, she paced and ranted and raved animatedly, though she left no damage in her wake and kept her words soft. Even the thick, heavy doors which shielded her from her court couldn't block out all the sound.
"I have a throne, I have a palace, I have a title, and I have wealth, but I have no power. Absolutely none. They treat war hounds with more respect and regard for standing than me. My thanes talk over me, my mage discounts my every other word, my housecarl demands that visitors address concerns to my steward…"
There she paused, and thought for a moment before nearly upending a tray filled with boiled crème treats. She only just held in a scream of anger.
"My steward. My double-crossing, arrogant, self-important, subjugating steward, who is far more intent on doing my job than his own. He maintains a perpetual open invitation into any and all discussions on the war effort, while I am not even permitted to step foot into Castle Dour! I am Skyrim's High Queen! I should be the one leading the discussions on the war effort. Instead, my dead husband's gods-forsaken advisor and some half-wit, disrespectful Imperial who barely comes up to my neck are leading my country in my name! What justice is this?"
She stomped another circle around the room and threw herself onto the bed in a way she couldn't remember doing since childhood. She threw her fists against it over and over until the rage died away and all she was left with was bitterness. She sat up properly and cradled her head in her hands. The tea wasn't even helping now. The headaches got worse every day she got out of bed.
"Torygg, my dear…" she murmured. "Is this what you left me with? Is this, this… bunch of milk-drinking bastards what you leave for me to contend with? Was this your intention, when you accepted that damned duel?" She choked up. Her late husband's smiling face filled her mind, and she instantly regretted the words. She'd never been able to think badly of him. He'd always smiled, even when he was raging mad, or when he was crying, or when he just didn't know what else to do.
He had even smiled when Ulfric had arrived that day, a day now months in the past but the wounds from which were still fresh. He had warmly welcomed the man into the Palace with open arms, as though they were the best of friends, age-old comrades.
But he wasn't smiling when Ulfric issued his challenge. He didn't smile when Ulfric's shout blew him straight across the room. Elisif hadn't watched the rest, unable to see from the tears streaming down her face, but she knew that her husband had not died smiling. He had died in shock and pain, with his wife and court looking on, unable to do a thing about it. His death was not followed by a eulogy. It was followed by shouts of "MURDERER!" as Ulfric fled Solitude—and through its own front gates no less. He didn't die smiling.
She sobbed again, a cracked, tormented sound. The tears weren't just falling now. They were pouring.
That's how he should have died, though. How he deserved to die. Never in his life had he harmed a single soul. He deserved a peaceful death as an old man, with sons and daughters and a loving wife by his side as he slipped away. He deserved to die smiling.
"Torygg…" she whispered. "Torygg…"
Unable to do anything else, she fell back against the pillows and curled into a ball. She didn't bother with removing her shoes or jewelry, or pulling the covers up around her. She merely tucked herself into as small a form as she could and continued to weep.