Pregnant clouds hovered over Riften as they often did in the late afternoon; they summoned the high tide, causing waves to fold upon the shores and lift salt-crusted vessels nearly to the docks' surfaces. Ellyn observed the fishermen as they raced the inevitable storm and chuckled into her warm tankard of milk and honey – they spent most of their days teetering on wedges of floating wood to avoid the sea and yet they were terrified of being sprinkled? If anything, she thought to herself, they could certainly benefit from a bit of rain. She distinctly recalled the odor of decaying fish smothering her and her teetering restraint to demand they bathe before bedding her. Fortunately, laboring men like themselves only wanted to cum and made it quick – a few minutes, really – not like they could actually afford much more. But no matter how expensive the perfume she cloaked herself with, the smell would shroud her for days following her time with the client. Luckily, a certain steward of the late High King mistook the fragrance as curiosity of other women and thus only supplied her with a heavier purse until accepting common clientele was no longer necessary.
Funny how things worked.
Ellyn readjusted her robes before resting her elbows against the railing. She flashed a smile at one of the men who happened to look up, perhaps to evaluate the oncoming storm, and noticed the contrast of her snowberry-kissed hair against the full paneling of Honeyside, or her face that, like a good wench's should, was familiar, but the kind of familiar that was like reaching into a dream forgotten in the earliest minutes of waking. He watched her, his hand half in the air, until a drop flicked the tip of his nose.
"You'd best tie up your little boat there, lad! It's gettin' away from you!" Ellyn shouted. The boy blinked at her before looking over his shoulder and to the docks, where a sad rowboat was being stolen by the current. It also carried his words away, but Ellyn suspected they were inappropriate for her ladylike ears.
With a smug nod of the head, Ellyn poured the remaining layer of cooled milk and thickened honey into the drizzle and returned inside where she rubbed the sleep from her hazel-green eyes with her knuckles.
"Good evening, my thane," Iona greeted her with an amused smirk played on her lips. "I've prepared venison stew – if you're hungry."
Ellyn pursed her lips. "No,. . .too early for venison stew. Are the sweet rolls still good?"
Iona looked over a batch of desserts she prepared four nights before. "Nothing is growing on them, but they're harder than dragon's bones."
"Tha's how I like 'em," Ellyn grinned. She took one into her hand as one might take an apple and bit into it, stepping around the crumbs as they fell onto and in-between the floorboards. "Bare, hard, and tasty."
The housecarl blushed. She parted her lips to say something predictable, like 'my thane' or sorts, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"High King Ulfric Stormcloak's courier, milady!" a muffled voice announced.
Ellyn's brows kneaded. "Ulfric's courier? Is that what he said?"
"Yes, my thane – should I. . .?"
"No, it's quite alright," the redhead stepped forward. She was hardly dressed for a guest; only a thin, silk robe covered her bare body and her hair puffed like a halo of static electricity, but nevertheless. She twisted the knob, pulled the creaking door forward, and greeted 'High King Ulfric Stormcloak's courier, milady!' with another bite of a sweet roll in her mouth. "Wha'-uh-'it-dooh-ooh-'ant?"
The courier's eyes drifted uncertainly. "Pardon, milady? I, uh – I have a message I'm supposed to deliver. His Grace requested I return with an answer as conveniently as possible."
He extended a letter folded and sealed with the Stormcloak sigil. Ellyn accepted the parchment and swallowed the bite. "Right, right. Always as conveniently as possible. Well. Why don't you room at the Barb and I'll get back to you tomorrow afternoon?"
The man cleared his throat and laced his hands together at his hips. "Yes, I might ordinarily, but you see, the storm delayed my journey and. . ."
Ellyn rolled her eyes and stepped inside, leaving the door open for the man follow. "I'm very busy, you know, makin' venison stew," she said quickly and passed the letter to Iona as she began tending the stew. Ellyn was illiterate; being a poor farmer's daughter and former prostitute, it was never necessary. When she was granted the title of Dovahkiin, however, she did begin picking up what some of the markings meant, but she could read about as much as a child if she studied the symbols for hours and hours. It was a very frustrating business and she hadn't the patience to perfect it. "Please read it to me."
"Yes, my thane," Iona cleared her throat and broke the seal. Flattening the paper, she began,
"Dragonborn,
I write to you to request your audience at Palace of the Kings. Please inform my courier when you will be able to make the journey – expect to stay for seven days. Food and bedding will be provided.
Yours always,
High King Ulfric Stormcloak".
Ellyn forgot her prop. "Seven days? What the shit takes seven days to discuss? What does he want me for, for seven days? I,. . .I have things to do, you know!"
"I don't know, milady – I'm only a courier."
"And the 'yours always' part – did he really put tha' there?" (Iona nodded.) "Yours always. What the shit does that even mean? Tha' piece of shit! I'll give yah a broom to stick up his tight ass! I don't wanna look at 'im, why would I want to stay in that dungeon they call the 'Palace of Kings', eh?"
"I, should I –"
"Yes, you should tell him to go fuck himself."
"My thane," Iona began, "I advise you to reconsider. He may be seeking your aid against the recent Aldmeri Dominion activity. As Dragonborn, you should set aside your predispositions for the better of Skyrim. At least hear what he has to say."
"I don't pay you to advise me," Ellyn assured the other woman as she sank into a seat at the dining table.
"You don't pay me at all."
Her fingers curled and lifted her cheek. "Fine. I don't not pay you to advise me. I do not pay you to follow me about and hype me up like I'm an important person. But, for the matter. . ." she trailed and smoothed her brow with a thumb, "I suppose you're right."
The former prostitute devoured what remained of the sweet roll as she considered the king's request. She was expected to be present when politics applies to her, slay dragons when they were spotted near holds, and listen to the Night Mother when her voice crept into her ear on starless nights. Yet since the Civil War had become to an end and Ulfric was named High King, the business of land and its people hardly concerned her and the dragons were no longer as brave as they had once been. The Night Mother, however, had been beckoning for her; she had names for her, orders that demanded to be assigned to one of the lofty recruits. Ellyn rolled her fingers between her lips to cleanse the sugar from them before lifting her doe-shaped eyes to catch the courier's gaze.
"Iona – a quill, won't you – ah, thinking ahead, good lass. Right, well, tell High King Ulfric I'll begin my travel in two days' time. I have business in the North, so please urge him to shorten that seven days. If he expects me to listen to him blabber on for that long, he might as well have me executed."
"You look nervous, my thane," Iona observed as she extended her hand to stable Ellyn as she stepped off the carriage and onto the frozen mud.
The Dragonborn exhaled a puff of mist and tugged the edge of her forest-dyed cloak tighter around her chest. The duo departed Riften before the first rays of light could reach the tallest mountain peaks and had just arrived in Windhelm after they were drowned by its rivers and ancient tombs. It had been a long journey, an uneventful one at that – but the anticipation splashed the carriage's rails and spooked the mare like they'd been attacked by all of Tamriel's bandits. "I hate this place," she explained. "And I hate the man inside it even more."
Iona followed Ellyn obediently, carrying all that her thane deemed necessary for the journey. "May I ask why that is?"
"Don't play stupid. I know you've heard," she snapped.
"There were rumors you worked with him during your stay in Solitude, but I don't care much for rumors, my thane," the housecarl spoke slowly.
Ellyn huffed as though she were carrying the baggage. "Yes, I did support the Stormcloaks while I was fucking His Majesty. But I only suggested, advised – and I believe he would have considered my advice had Ulfric not murdered him. The bastard did it in cold blood, and I don't care what anyone else says. He laughed at me, mocked me – and never once did he apologize for taking my son's father from him. I thought he, of all the men in the world, would understand."
Iona looked regretful. "My apologies, I didn't know. . ."
"No, you wouldn't have. No one remembers me as Torygg's wench, mistress, what have you. No one remembers that they took my son from me. All they remember is that I am Dragonborn,. . . and I suppose that's alright with me. They say it's an honorable title, but I don't even know what 'honorable' means."
The women approached gates heavier than the largest ship in Tamriel and stepped between them when the guards allowed it. "What has become of your son?" Iona asked so quietly Ellyn had to strain her ears.
"I don't know," she admitted, throat constricting. "When they arrested me at the border for treason along with that old, fat bastard, Tullius threatened to murder him – but he hadn't the heart. Said he'd give him to an orphanage, but I don't know which country he was sent to. I've been trying to find him for eight years, but none of my men can find any records. I don't even know what he looks like or what name he's been given!"
They walked through the broken streets in silence.
"I have this dream. One day, I'll be walking along as you and I are, and I'll look up and see Torygg's face with my eyes. And I'll know."
"What would you say to him?"
"Nothing. No bastard wants to hear about how much his mother loved his father, but how his father loved another woman, no matter how complicated the circumstances," Ellyn reasoned. Glossy-eyed and half-heartbroken, she was eager to change the subject. "So you don't get paid at all, then?"
"No, my thane," Iona chuckled. "I swore an oath to the Jarl to be your sword and shield, amongst other things."
"So what do you do it for?"
"Honor," she replied simply.
"Looks like you got the shit end of the stick – isn't that how that phrase goes? – oh my, what a handsome lad!"
As they approached the eroding monument, a man with skin as pale as Oblivion but with hair as black as the Sea of Ghosts advanced toward them. He wore a Stormcloak uniform, straight shoulders, and a swollen chest. "Dovahkiin, we have been expecting you," his voice boomed. "I trust your journey was not too difficult? Our men have been making an effort to maintain safety on the roads."
"And your efforts have not been in vain," Ellyn practically sang as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I only wish the journey was much shorter. My company is quite boring, you see, but with a fine lad like yourself. . ."
"You flatter me," the man laughed, lifting his thick brows in surprise.
"And what is your name, lad?" she asked.
"Sir Letholdus, milady. I have been asked to escort you inside the palace."
"Does your service include escorting me to my bed?"
The boy, or man – he looked somewhere in-between, perhaps in his mid-twenties – did not blush, which surprised Ellyn to a short degree. His grin only widened, narrowing those ebony optics that seemed to glint through long lashes. "I would be honored, but my wife would have my head on a platter."
"Ah, a wife? What a shame," Ellyn clucked her tongue and linked her elbow around his to step beyond the palace's walls. With steps so uneven, she thought, a woman could fall straight forward and break her pretty little nose! A gleeful laugh of delight parted from her pink lips and was lost beyond the main hall where, beyond a narrow stretch, sat the king himself.
"Such a busy king you are!" Ellyn's voice echoed, "You must be so exhausted that you can't even sit appropriately on that throne of yours. It's unfortunate that society deems visiting the king in his bed improper. A pillow would be mighty more comfortable than a fist – wouldn't you agree, Your Highness?"
The man at her side stiffened and unlocked his elbow from hers, as to proclaim no familiarity with her. How the Northerners loved their king so! And there Ulfric sat, his steward and housecarl at his side, with no other but the crumbling bricks that once gleamed so proudly in the company of Ysgramor. She despised the exhaustion pressed into the deep lines of his face, the way he leaned into that chair as though he were entitled to it and everyone should lick the shit from his boots because he was godsdamned Ulfric Stormcloak. Her skirts collected dust before she lifted either side of them to curtsey.
"That is no way to address the High King!" A man growled; his voice was so characteristically feral that she dared not think it to belong to no other man besides Galmar himself.
"Was something wrong with my curtsey? I could try again," Ellyn suggested.
Ulfric sighed and pushed his weight back onto his feet.
"The king stands! The curtsey must really have been quite awful."
"I'll chop you into pieces, little girl. . ."
"You will do no such thing," Iona clambered to Ellyn's side, sword unsheathed.
"There will be no more fighting in this hall," Ulfric regained control. He stepped down from his throne and beyond them, reaching for a lidded bottle of Nord mead. "Dovahkiin, I am pleased to see you've arrived unharmed. I understand long journeys can bring out the worst of us all."
"Only journeys to see you," she nodded sweetly, lacing her fingers at her hips.
The Nord ignored her comment. "We were preparing to feast if you would like to join us. Or Sifnar has prepared a room for you and your housecarl upstairs if you'd prefer to rest."
"How very kind of you, Your Highness –" Ellyn's throat suddenly felt parched. The last time she had addressed a man of royalty had been Torygg and she could not ignore that she now addressed his murderer with the same title, the same expected respect. It made her want to spit. "– but I would prefer we discuss whatever it is you asked me here for so I can spend as little time in the same room with you as possible."
Ulfric's golden-blonde brows rose and so did the bottle of mead – and it didn't settle back onto the table until it was emptied. Galmar laughed.
"What are you laughing at?" the redhead barked.
"Have a drink. You'll need one," Ulfric gestured his hand at the drinks that seemed more like wood carvings than usable substances.
Ellyn reclined into the seat nearest to the throne. "There isn't enough wine in Sanguine's realm."
"I couldn't agree more," he spoke through his teeth. His hands, like the paws of bears, clamped the head of the chair facing Ellyn before addressing the four remaining persons in the room. "Would you excuse us? I would like to speak with her alone."
Ellyn was touched by Iona's unwillingness to abandon her side. She nodded at her housecarl as she helped herself to a pitcher of wine. "It's alright. If he tries anything, I'll open his stomach open like a pig's."
She found this very amusing and nearly choked as she tried to laugh and spill wine down her throat all at once. Face flushed and teary-eyed, Ellyn rested the pitcher on her lap, dismissing manners even a stable boy was expected to uphold with a feast of horses and heifers.
"So, what is it –" she belched, "oh, excuse me! What is so very important that I've been dragged to this glorious city for?"
Ulfric sat before her and eyed another bottle of mead. The stern expression he wore seemed to Ellyn that he was urging himself to resist the temptation, but as he removed the lid, she knew even he did not believe in the words that motivated thousands of others. Rube.
"Have you found a suitor to wed?" he asked, nursing the bottle to his lips.
Ellyn craned her neck to the side. "Are you asking if I'm eligible, lad?"
". . .yes."
"I s'ppose I am," she frowned, sinking into her seat. With a roll of skin parting her chin from her collar bones, she asked, "wha's that got to do with anything?"
The charismatic leader furrowed his brows and she wondered if he'd forgotten where he was supposed to have directed the conversation. He seemed to muse though his memories as he finished another bottle.
"People of Skyrim, more often than not, marry for love," he began, still seeming very uncertain. "Life is too short, too harsh. Everyone needs another to lean onto, to share memories with. Children need to be born to carry the family legacy. Many are fortunate to find that certain someone who shares their interests, whom they are willing to give their lives for. . ."
He stopped to smooth the hair growing from his chin.
"That sounded better when I rehearsed with Galmor."
Ellyn's breasts swelled. "It's you and me. You can't swoon me with your damned speeches, Ulfric, so get to the point. Are you proposin' I wed someone? Is that what all this kissin' arse is about?"
"The war has taken a toll on us both, Ellyn. We've both done things we rather wouldn't have –"
"– I don't regret anythin' –"
"And you know I have the utmost respect for you. I'm not kissing your blasted ass for anything."
"Oh, fuck off," Ellyn whispered, raising her fingers to rub her temples. Her gaze leveled above him, to the high-rise ceiling and blue banners. "It wasn't but a few years ago when you would've taken a shit on my head and not batted an eye. Remember that?"
"I was foolish."
"I don't care."
"It was politics," the level of his voice began to ascend; "it wasn't personal. Torygg was my friend but I had to prove my strength to the rest of Skyrim lest our forces be considered a joke. He was not a suitable king."
"Hah," Ellyn breathed; "but he would have been a great father."
"To an illegitimate child?" Ulfric's tone descended several octaves.
The Dragonborn tore at her nails. "So you've asked me here to torment me?"
"No. I've asked you here to marry me."
With eyes wider than moons and lips parted, she looked to him with horror.
"There is another war coming and I have a country that needs to be restored. I could think of no one more suitable at my side than the Dovahkiin, than you."
The pitcher of wine sowed through the cracks of the stones at her feet as she rose. "I'm done here."
"Ellyn, sit. Listen to me."
"I don't need to. Tell me, Ulfric, does it make you hard when you imagine me sucking your cock? Or does it make you hard when you sit on that fucking throne and lick the blood on your hands? I cannot give you my hand because I am the only thing you have not taken from him," she cried. "You are not a man of honor. You are swine and you are tearing this country to shreds. I am done."
Trembling from the raw anger surging from her bones, she left the palace with Iona at her side and she couldn't decide whether she felt so very dead or so very alive.
A/N: Introductions have always been difficult for me to write, but I couldn't think of a better way to truly introduce Ellyn without all the fun drama in the first chapter. Ha! Anyway, please spare thirty seconds and review. I get about as excited as a dog with three brain cells when I receive one, I'm not going to lie. I'll try to update this fic as frequently as possible, though with wildland season coming up, it's really hard to say; I can't fathom an excuse to bring my laptop to a forest fire. (;
- I. N.