Thank you guys for your encouraging comments on the prequel. You've encouraged me to write a part two.
The shrill ring of a small bell is audible throughout the keep, breaking the heavy silence and signaling that dinner is ready. Galmar gets up from his position at the desk and knuckles at his lower back. Too much paperwork is not becoming the warrior. He'll have to split some skulls, and soon. Not now, though. Right now his stomach grumbles in complaint as the housecarl stretches and heads into the main hall. He is the first to arrive and when he asks the cook where Ulfric is all he gets in return is a shrug.
"I'll go and get him," Galmar says to no one in particular and heads back the way he has just come from in search for his friend and leader.
Sometimes the Jarl retreats to his chambers early. He isn't in the best health and today had been another long and stressful day. The housecarl doesn't want to know what that stone chair is doing to Ulfric's back, it is enough that he has to deal with the results. He prays that his sovereign is just resting and not drowning himself in the bottle.
Galmar's fears prove to be unfounded and he meets the Jarl halfway up the stairs. Ulfric has discarded his heavy hauberk and leather jerkin as well as the fur-trimmed cloak that he usually insists on wearing during official hours and replaced them with plain clothes; a faded old shirt and linen trousers. Hardly clothes fit for the middle of winter, even if one lives in a palace, maybe especially if one does, but Galmar knows Ulfric enjoys the cold.
He seems to be in a strangely good mood, too. Together they walk to the one table that is decked and take their respective places. The one at the head remains empty; this is not to be a formal affair.
With the palace closed for visitors a sleepy calm has settled over the place. There are few servants still in the Jarl's employ and most have left for the night. Sifnar has lit a few candles and there is a fire crackling in one of the hearths that line the length of the walls. Galmar inhales the smell of food and begins to pile it on his plate without ceremony.
The everyday fare is not rich but it is hot and Sifnar always does his best. There are plenty of vegetables, cooked and roasted, thrown together with a spicy sausage as well as fried mushrooms and white curd cheese. Ulfric spreads butter over a steaming chunk of bread. Galmar fills up his friend's plate as well when Sifnar comes back with two bottles of red wine and the housecarl glares darkly at him.
"Will you not join us?" Ulfric asks, motioning at the empty space.
"Thank you, my lord," the servant declines and bows his way out "I already ate."
Galmar picks up his fork and bends over his plate and – and the damned bearskin slips down to cover his face. The warrior curses, pushes it up just for it to fall down again and finally he discards the pelt with an annoyed grumble. "That bloody thing was less of a nuisance when it was still alive!"
Ulfric watches with an 'I told you so' expression but does not comment. He stabs his fork through a piece of carrot and leek and chews on his food slowly, apparently lost in thought.
"You have given me an idea, Galmar."
Galmar acknowledges the comment with a grunt of his own until he remembers when he last heard those particular words. Then, his head shoots up in alarm. "Uh, Ulfric?" the housecarl asks, apprehensive of the answer. "This isn't like the time we posed as– "
"Gods, no."
The warrior breathes an audible sigh of relief. "Because that went really badly wrong."
A furrow appears between Ulfric's brows. "I know," he says pointedly.
"What went wrong?" a cheerful voice asks and Galmar turns around to nod at the newcomer.
Ulfric beats him to the answer. "My last blind date."
Yrsarald stops in the middle of sitting down and stares at his Jarl who proceeds with the meal like nothing unusual had happened. The young officer's face reflects his surprise; he has not yet grown accustomed to their informal ways when in private. He busies himself uncorking and pouring the wine. In the end, curiosity wins out. "When was that?"
The housecarl knows he is in for it when his Jarl's eyes sparkle in the light of the candles like two emeralds. "In the war, when Galmar dressed up as a Gilanese harlot."
"That was Morwha, the Yokudan goddess of fertility, you ignorant heretic," Galmar shoots back and next to him Yrsa chokes on the first sip of wine. "How did you know it was me, anyway?"
"The hair on your legs gave you away."
"Rikke liked it," the warrior remembers with narrowed eyes. "Pity somebody ordered me to shave it off." He snorts in offence. "Punishment for inappropriate behavior, my ass!"
"I guess I don't need to ask who wore the pants in that relationship," Yrsarald mutters into his cup.
"Hehe," Galmar chuckles with mirth and slings an arm around the officer's shoulders. "I like him." Then, he punches him in the shoulder. Hard. "But that's no way to talk about your Jarl!"
"Wait. He?" The Stormcloak looks from one man to another and massages his shoulder as understanding dawns on his face.
"You have to admit, Galmar, Imperial skirts made it the perfect penalty," Ulfric drawls, not bothering to conceal his gloating.
"I was emasculated that day." Despite the words Galmar grins broadly. He misses the man that Ulfric has been before the Great War, the quick-witted friend who honed his tongue and would stay up whole nights just to trade meaningless banter with him and Rikke. Those had been times. Despite all that had happened there are many memories he looks back on with fondness and he knows Ulfric does too.
Sometimes the housecarl longs for a simpler time when camaraderie was everything that mattered and not every action and word was weighted carefully and laced with meaning. They have both learned this complex dance of politics just like they have that of swords but he never thought that one day they might have to dance around each other.
"So, what's that idea of yours?" Galmar asks to distract himself from such dark thoughts. He wants the good mood to last.
Ulfric excuses himself from the table and Galmar and Yrsarald trade looks and the housecarl wonders what it is going to be this time.
The Jarl returns soon enough and hands a package to his friend. "Here. Try this on."
Galmar opens it to find fur and leather and cloth, all bundled up. "What's this?"
"Clothes," Ulfric retorts with an annoyed wave of his hand. "I hear you like them smelly."
"I know it's clothes, Ulfric," Galmar growls. "Why are you giving me clothes?"
"Because," the Jarl answers "We will need uniforms to distinguish our officers. We have already established a chain of command, but some standards won't hurt. I had them tailored after your– ," he makes a vague motion in the bear pelt's general direction " –fashion."
Galmar sounds hurt when he asks "What's wrong with my fashion?"
"It's only an insult to four hundred years of aesthetic philosophy," Ulfric responds with distaste.
The housecarl lets the matter of taste drop and considers the idea; it is a good one. Years in the Imperial army might have influenced their way of thinking, but then there are valid reasons for the Legion's success. It does not change just because they are the enemy now. A wise commander learns from his opponents.
But… "Does everything have to be blue?" Galmar asks and quickly acquiesces without further protest when the Jarl glowers at him.
Yrsarald picks up another piece of the uniform. "Is that a kilt?"
"Hands off," Galmar barks. "It's my kilt." He changes into the new uniform and decides on the spot that he likes it. The bear claws sure are a nice touch.
"Well?" Ulfric asks. "What do you say?"
Galmar thinks for a moment before replying. "I like how airy things feel. To let it just dangle, now that's freedom, that is," he states with a grin.
"I did not want to know that," Yrsarald groans unhappily.
"I think you may have scarred him for life," Ulfric rebukes his friend.
"It might get cold though," Galmar continues not paying any heed to the other Nords. "And drafty."
"Then you should be glad you are here and not in the field where you'll freeze your balls off," the Jarl argues and Gamlar regrets having complained about being stuck in the palace too often. "Or we could tailor you furry smalls," Ulfric muses. "Just you remember; live ferrets and smallclothes don't mix."
"Is that something like a veteran's wisdom?" Yrsa enquires.
"Something," Ulfric deadpans.
"I wonder what happened to the guy I'm replacing?" the young officer asks with a glance towards the ceiling as if he expects to find the answer there.
There is no trace of laughter in Ulfric's voice when he states "He went mad."
Yrsarald blanches and Galmar has to stifle another chuckle. There is nothing in the Jarl's face to give away how much he is enjoying himself, but the housecarl has known his friend for long enough to see right through the serious act.
"Thorygg?" he snorts "Eh, he's always been cracked. Tried to kill the sun once by shooting at. Course, he was drunk so bad he almost killed the Lieutenant. Didn't help him when you– " He stops abruptly and coughs when he notices Ulfric's glare, this time for real. "This might be inappropriate," the housecarl murmurs.
"Fifty Septims Yrsa will run screaming before winter is over," Ulfric replies without any trace of the flash of ire he has shown before.
"You're on," Galmar agrees and turns to the officer. "Want to throw something in as well? Bigger pool's more fun. Plus, it's only fair you get a cut."
"How about my sanity?" the Stormcloak asks and takes a big gulp from his cup probably wishing it was something stronger.
Galmar considers the offer for a while before deciding "Your sanity's no good for anyone."
"True," Ulfric agrees. "Just take a leaf from Galmar's book. He still managed to make second-in-command somehow."
The housecarl sits back down at the table when he is done parading his uniform around. He'll just leave it on for now. Get it nice and worn in. "While we're at it... how long do you think before old Skald kicks the bucket?"
The Jarl appears mildly displeased with the topic. "Is that any way to talk about the noble families supporting our cause?" he enquires, shortly followed by "The old scarecrow might yet outlive us all. I'm more worried about Korir."
"I'd trade them both to the Imperials," Galmar scowls at the table as if it had just offered him insult. "Might scare them off."
Ulfric's eyes snap up. "Galmar, you are brilliant."
"I know," the housecarl agrees with a solemn nod.
"Korir hates the College and there's nothing of any worth in Winterhold. It's no place for his heirs to grow up, only to inherit a frozen wasteland," the Jarl muses. "Given the right initiative… " He lets the sentence hang unfinished.
Galmar catches on quickly and grins in a predatory manner.
"I'm feeling left out," Yrsarald complains.
Ulfric reaches for the second bottle of wine and pours it for the Stormcloak in consolation, but does not explain further. Some plans are best not voiced aloud. Galmar thinks of an old saying. Two could keep a secret if one was in Sovngarde. Three was dangerous, but in their case a necessity. Four though would be an unnecessary risk. Maybe in time they could initiate the officer to the whole picture and until then they had a pretence to keep up.
"So, everybody agrees on our new uniforms?" Ulfric asks cheerfully though his tone already indicates that his mind is made up. Yrsarald thinks it is somewhat unfair. He does not have to wear them.
Galmar raises his cup in a toast "To the Stormcloaks."
"To victory."
"Do we get to vote on the skirts?" Yrsa asks without much hope.
AN: Not quite as cheerful as part 1, sorry. Yrsarald has somehow turned into the baby of the trio. Oh, and any opinions voiced on imperial skirts serve purely storytelling purposes and in no way reflect the author's personal view ;)
So, that was…part nine of the 'Price of Freedom' series. For now. It might change yet.
Thank you for reading!