If you're enjoying the story so far, I would really appreciate it if you would follow/favorite the story and give a little review, the feedback really helps me out and encourages me to write more! The next chapter should be out in the next few days.


Chapter 1: The Fateful Decision

29th of Second Seed, 4E 173

Ulfric woke up sharply from his sleep and immediately threw off his bed's thick fur blankets, only to realize that he wasn't in any danger at all.

"That damned dream again," the young Nord mumbled as he got up and lumbered into the main hall, if it could even be called a hall; High Hrothgar was a centuries-old castle with haphazard planning and narrow corridors, and the least narrow corridor happened to be where the hearth fire was lit. Considering that the temperature was eternally below freezing on the Throat of the World, the warm fireplace was one of Ulfric's few comforts on the harsh mountaintop.

He reached the hearth, and began to stare into the flames, hoping he could find an answer to his troubles in the crackles and sparks. His father had once said that fire was just one of the many gifts that Kyne gave to Man, and that, if one believed hard enough, one could see visions from the goddess herself, scenes from the past, even premonitions of the future. But Ulfric did not really believe in such fables, and so he saw nothing.

"Looking at the fire again?" Arngeir asked, seeming to have materialized out of thin air right beside Ulfric.

"Master?!" The young Nord exclaimed, evidently startled by the Greybeard's silent footsteps. Even though Arngeir was the only one of the four monks that regularly spoke, he still had remarkable control over his bodily sounds, to the point that he could completely suppress his snoring while asleep.

"My apologies, master. I know you have told me to not think of the Divines in this space, but I was thinking about my father and…."

"Please, please, my apprentice, there's no reason to be sorry," the monk said in a grandfatherly tone, even though he could not be older than fifty. "There is nothing wrong with thinking about Them, it is only that trying to ask for their blessings will distract you from learning the Way of the Voice. Now, let me guess, you're having a bad dream again."

"Aye," the pupil said with a sigh. "It's….nightmarish. I feel like Vaermina herself has consumed my thoughts."

"Describe it to me. Perhaps the Voice can figure out the root of this occurrence."

"I saw….bodies," Ulfric began to narrate with his eyes staring into space, clearly visualizing the horrible image. "Dead bodies, all across a field. The field was burning, scorching, desecrated. Men were fighting, all kinds of Men, but they just kept dying and dying. It felt eternal, never-ending."

Arngeir tried to put on a calm face, but in the back of his mind, he was deeply disturbed by his dear pupil's dreams. Perhaps the Daedra really had possessed Ulfric's thoughts, but the monk wasn't ready to jump to conclusions so easily.

"Well, this image of yours could perhaps be a glimpse of the future, which would be a good sign indeed!"

"What do you mean, master?" Ulfric asked, confused as to why Arngeir was trying to twist his nightmare into a good omen.

"To begin to be able to peer through time is to begin to show mastery over the Voice. You see, the dragons, the originators of our power, are the children of Akatosh, Time Himself. The most powerful of dovah could peer into innumerable futures. So this vision of yours, Ulfric, it means you have come very far in your training."

"But what makes you so sure it is a vision? At what point in the future could such bloodshed become reality?"

"To tell you the truth," Arngeir began hesitantly, "such bloodshed is already happening, right now."

"What? Where?"

"In Cyrodiil, Ulfric. The Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion are at war with each other. The Aldmeri troops have reached all the way to Bravil, and the coastal cities of Hammerfell."

"How….how could you know this?"

"You assume too little of me," the monk said with a chuckle. "I have had to make many early morning trips down to Ivarstead to obtain my herbology supplies from the generous farmers. While you were meditating with Masters Bersi and Wulfharth, the innkeeper down there was informing me of all the news."

"I know you really went down to get alcohol, master," Ulfric mumbled sardonically, seeming to have recovered from his trauma of reliving the dream. "But how could you keep this information from me?! Is Skyrim safe? Has it been attacked?"

"No, no, not at all. In fact, the Emperor hasn't even called for troops from Skyrim since the war started two years ago."

"Two years?" Ulfric thought, incredulous on how much time had passed in Hrothgar, while he was completely unaware of what was going on down below. Over the months, the young Nord had gradually become used to the isolation and peace that the Greybeards provided him, but now, the full feeling of loss hit him straight in the heart. His city. His father. His friends. They had all been living out their lives, while he had been frozen in time.

"Does that surprise you?" Arngeir asked, aware of the bewildered expression on Ulfric's face. "I suppose time really does feel static on this mountain."

"But master, I don't understand, if the Empire is being directly invaded, why would the Emperor not call for Skyrim's aid?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps he is concerned of the loyalty of the Nords to the Crown."

"Loyalty? The Imperials question our loyalty?" Ulfric thought, deeply offended that such an assertion could even be made. He had seen himself as a citizen of the Empire ever since he was a child; Ulfric was always the one most eager to learn the Cyrodilic language, and was the first to argue against any insurrectionist talk that his friends would stir up. If there was one thing Ulfric knew better than being proud his Nord heritage, it was understanding that the unity of Men was in the best interest of Man.

With these revelations of war, a kind of patriotic fervor awoke within the young Nord, as he was now determined to prove himself to both Titus Mede and the world.

"But anyway, my apprentice, we should not dwell on such otherworldly things. Since you're up earlier than usual, why don't we practice Whirlwind in the courtyard? Your control was improving, but you must focus on specifying direction as well."

"Yes, of course, master," Ulfric said with a smile. Deep down, however, the recent news would bother him for the rest of the day.


Ulfric was not entirely sure why he was even chosen to be a Greybeard. He certainly did not seem to have any personality traits that would make him predisposed for a life of solitude and meditation: he was hot-headed and impulsive, always the first to jump into the fray. Perhaps he had become more reflective and passive during his stays at High Hrothgar, but he doubted his father would let Arngeir keep the prince of Windhelm at a monastery for the rest of his life. When Hoag Stormcloak agreed to let his son study with the Greybeards, he assumed it would not be a permanent endeavor: Ulfric would live at Hrothgar for a few months and then come and stay back in Windhelm for a few more months. But now, the young Nord was worried that Arngeir and the other monks did not intend on letting him go.

Ulfric had now been on the mountain for two years, the longest he had ever stayed in a single period. Even though he had mastered multiple Shouts, the mystical powers of the dragon tongue, he still never felt like he could live the life of a Greybeard forever. Ulfric was restless, searching for a true purpose in his life, one that was fulfilling and exciting. Hrothgar offered neither of these things.

Such were the things Ulfric was ruminating upon in his bedroom, when he decided that the first step was to go down the Throat, just down to Ivarstead, and interact with other human beings again.

"Master, it will only be for an hour or so. I shall be back before sundown!" Ulfric said desperately, running up to Arngeir at the monastery's meeting table.

"Hm, it seems that it was a mistake to tell you about my adventures, since I seem to have inspired you to leave Hrothgar as well," Arngeir thought out loud. "Very well, you may go, but remember: you may not use the Voice for any purpose. It is not a power to be used in the mortal world."

With these ominous words, Ulfric went out into the snow and began the trek down the Seven Thousand Steps. Since it was the beginning of summer, the winds were quiet, and the chill was barely a breeze, but it was still no easy feat to go down the slippery and decrepit steps. Ulfric could have sworn that he was about to be ambushed by a frost troll, but instead he just saw scores of pilgrims. Some were silently praying at the stone monuments interspersed along the mountain trail. Others were solemnly meditating, breathing in the alpine air. But none of them seemed interested in the red-haired Nord that was coming straight from High Hrothgar; considering that no one was allowed to enter the it, Ulfric thought that at least someone would notice that he came out of the building, but the pilgrims were too preoccupied with their own journeys of self-discovery to take heed. And so the trek went by uneventfully.

As Ulfric descended into the sleepy village of Ivarstead, he noticed that he was getting strange looks from the townspeople. The girls working in the potato fields seemed fixated on the young Nord, but they quickly turned away as they noticed Ulfric staring straight at them. He imagined that this interest in him stemmed from his semi-celebrity status: a Jarl's son, studying with the Graybeards themselves. Unlike the pilgrims, the people of Ivarstead remembered him from his visits in the past.

His bright red hair also made him stand out from the crowd; the Stormcloaks were one of the few families in the entire province to hold the unique trait, which could also be a danger in areas that still held the belief that red hair was a sign of Daedra worship. But Ulfric largely ignored the curious gazes, and waltzed into the Heimskr Inn; He hadn't had alcohol in two years, so he was prepared to indulge, if only a little.

"And so, Ulfric Stormcloak has come down the mountain!" The ancient innkeeper, Bjorn, exclaimed as Ulfric walked towards the bar area, with the eyes of onlookers still following him.

"I'm surprised you remember my name!" The young Nord said with a smile as he sat down on a stool next to the bar, a little disturbed about how the innkeeper actually did remember Ulfric's name.

"Well, I'm sure most of the townspeople at least remember your face, though you having a beard now doesn't help with recognition."

Ulfric nodded along, only just then realizing how thick and unkempt his mass of facial hair had become, and how greasy and dirty his old navy robes must seem to passerby.

"But the townsfolk, they talk about you, you know, to the pilgrims that come around, especially those from Eastmarch. They're always amazed when they find out that their Jarl's son is studying at such an….advanced institution."

"You mean to imply that you believe that all I've been doing up there is meditating for two years, don't you?" Ulfric stated, half-accusingly and half-jokingly.

"No, of course not!" Bjorn exclaimed, almost sounding offended. "We all know what the Voice is, you know. It is a great honor to even be able to meet the Greybeards, much less learn from their vast knowledge."

"Aye, of course. Now, what's been going on in Skyrim for the past two years?"

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows, startled that someone would ask such a naïve question. "Well, do you want the short story or the long?"

"I'm in a rush. Give me the summary."

"Well, we've been in the War since maybe right after you went up that mountain, but the Emperor hadn't called in troops from here until just a few weeks ago. Some bullshit about our loyalty stopped old Titus from doing it until now."

"Wait, troops have been called from Skyrim?!" Ulfric exclaimed, incredulous at both this revelation and Arngeir's misinformation.

"Well, didn't you notice how the fields are all being worked by the girls? More than half the men left, they're probably at Bruma by now."

It was here that Ulfric had to make his fateful decision, one that would decide the course of his entire life. Would he stay with the Greybeards, and lead a solemn life of study and meditation about the meaning of life? Or would he join the armies of Cyrodiil, fight back the foreign threat, and return to Skyrim and claim his birthright as Jarl of Eastmarch?

For a young man like Ulfric, the path of duty, and glory, was the obvious choice.

"How can I sign up?" He asked enthusiastically, getting up from his stool.

"Well, most of the boys went to catch the Legion carts at Riften, but I'm sure you could go to any of the cities and find recruiters….but hey, you think the monks would let ya go off to war?"

"Oh, never mind that, I'll talk with them, they're sure to understand," Ulfric said rapidly as he began to walk towards the door, wanting to discuss with Arngeir immediately. "Many thanks for the information, Bjorn."

"Hey, you just got here! You know you want a drink…." the innkeeper trailed off as Ulfric ran out of the store. "Gods, why are young men so eager to go off and get themselves killed?"


"I must fight in this war!" Ulfric pleaded to a focused Arngeir, reading in his study. It had been a day since Ulfric's journey down to Ivarstead, and by now, the young Nord had already packed up what few possessions he still had and was ready to descend once again.

"It seems the prophecy was true," the monk said with a sigh. "Though I admit I may have hastened its arrival."

"Prophecy? What do you mean?"

"You remember Paarthurnax, yes?"

"Well, I remember you saying that I would eventually meet this 'Lord of the Greybeards' when I became advanced enough."

"I went up to see him a few months ago, right on the very peak of the Throat. You see, he receives visions, clearer than any man I've seen that has claimed to be a prophet. He had a vision of you many years ago, Ulfric, that you would train under us, that you might become one of us. But last I visited him, he told me that you would diverge from the path of a Greybeard, and go seeking a life in the mortal world."

The young Nord marveled at the accuracy of the predictions of this Paarthurnax, as well as wondering how any sentient being, man or mer, could survive at the peak of the Throat of the World. Perhaps he truly was the strongest magician in the world.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say, Ulfric, is that I will not stop you from leaving because I cannot. Fate has foretold it, and there is no way of changing it," Arngeir said with a smile, but one of sadness and regret.

"Thank you, Master, for all you have taught me," Ulfric said with a pang of regret as well, bowing deeply in an almost bashful way.

"Oh please, Ulfric, what have I done in my life? I was a drunkard, a beggar, a complete mess before Master Wulfharth found me. And even though I have lived here for so long, I have never truly immersed myself in my work as my colleagues have. Like you, I was never able to give up on the world below. That's why I still talk in the mortal tongue while the other Greybeards dedicate themselves to the dovahzul.

"I'd say you've done a damn good job of convincing people that you're a serious monk," Ulfric said with a smile.

"Ha, I suppose that's all that matters, isn't it? Very well then, don't let me keep you! You have a carriage to catch, and Windhelm is quite the day's journey away. Make sure to tell Einhart to give you some of the spare food. Oh, and make sure to say goodbye to Wulfharth and Bersi and old Jorgen, you know how sad they will be about your departure. And, oh, of course, make sure you buy some sturdier clothes, those robes will not suit you for your journey ahead."

"Yes, yes," Ulfric said, waving off the monk's fretting. "You worry too much, Master."

"One final thing. As you are no longer our apprentice, there is no reason for you to call us 'master.' You are your own man now."

"Very well, Arngeir."


In a way, Ulfric saw himself reflected in Arngeir, as if a single life decision separated their distant paths. Like the young Nord, the old monk was dedicated to his philosophy, but not so much so that he had to completely give up the mortal ways; he still spoke regular words, after all.

But the Greybeards were in the past, and now, Ulfric had set off on what was perhaps the most dangerous journey of his life. It would be one of camaraderie, of success, of defeat, of peril, and of triumph. Coming out of the experience, the young Nord would be forever changed, hardened and traumatized by the chaos of war.

But in 4E 173, Ulfric could not possibly imagine what was in store.