Ulfric does not expect to see the lad again after his overtly unwelcoming attitude, but he does and it is with mixed feelings that he watches him set a torch into one of the iron holders. Unlike the last time the blond warrior is wearing a skilfully wrought armour well above what a common guard can afford and he has a bag slung over one broad shoulder that he sets on the ground carefully before straightening and turning to the prisoner.

"How are you?" There is only the faintest trace of wariness staining his otherwise friendly tone.

"Enjoying myself." Ulfric can hear the other man's heavy exhale at his cutting response and is not sure whether it is not quite a laugh or just plain exasperation.

"You don't look like it."

Ulfric sits up, not comfortable with the warrior's presence, but he does not want to give up on his hopefully convincing appearance of indifference. "Well, that's because I can't let anybody know that I secretly like to slum it in prisons all over Tamriel."

"Huh." The lad only grunts in answer and Ulfric wonders if he might be weak of mind to miss such evident sarcasm – until he catches a glimpse of the faintest of smirks. "Which one's your favourite, so far?"

A silent glare is the only reply the other man gets as the Jarl builds up his courage to enquire "What happened to my men?"

He remembers asking her a similar question. He regretted it soon enough.

But his companion is a Nord, not an Altmer and that was then, not now, and though he still against all reason expects to convulse with pain any second, no bolt of white-hot electricity follows. Markarth. He is in Markarth, he has to remember.

Ulfric cannot tell whether the blond warrior notices the chill that seems to have gotten hold of him and if so, whether he cares at all. His demeanour remains unchanged as he explains that "Most were imprisoned. They have been set free by now."

"They will come for me", the Jarl's son speaks with conviction. He did not notice getting up, but suddenly he finds himself in front of the other man, his further way cut off by bars.

The lad looks at him with a mixture of pity and sympathy and declares that, "No they won't. They leave for Windhelm ere the month is over."

Traitors, all of them! Ulfric cannot believe that he is being abandoned here, not by Igmund but by his own trusted allies. "What could have cowed my father's liegemen?", he asks, voice low and dangerous.

The answer, when it comes, is worse than an actual physical blow could ever be. "Igmund has threatened to hand you over to the Thalmor if they didn't comply."

Ulfric comes back to himself to find the wall at his back. "Will you?" If it comes to that, he will force them to kill him, he decides and takes comfort in the resolution.

"Not me, no", the warrior replies equally softly and his eyes come to rest briefly on the other man's hand before returning to Ulfric's own. "I cannot speak for Jarl Igmund."

No, Ulfric realizes and clenches his fist, conscious that the action comes too late. His frantic, stuttering heartbeat slows down with comprehension. Igmund will not deliver him to anybody. He is going to need him to blackmail his father or he will find all of Eastmarch at his doorstep before the leaves turn golden with autumn's first chill.

His father is yet another thing Ulfric has not dared to let himself think about. By now his first, triumphant letter should have arrived. He winces with the thought and sinks back down on the cot, worn out by this brief exchange more than he was by the battle. He watches the lad watch him and his eyes follow the sound of a pebble as it is kicked to disappear forever in the dark beyond their cone of flickering light.

"The other guards treat you alright?", the soldier at long last asks, visibly uncomfortable after the turn their talk has taken.

"They don't treat me at all", Ulfric replies civilly enough. The only ones to come down here are the jailor, and only to bring him food and water and to empty his pot. And, once, that Imperial to read a verdict as false as Igmund's promise. From the other side of the room. Bloody coward.

He remembers all too well the way the doors have closed after the man's hurried departure, the sound one of finality.

"They're probably afraid you'll shout them to pieces", the lad remarks cheerfully.

"And I could." If not the bars, then at least those behind them. The remark does not provoke any response from Ulfric's companion and so he asks further "Where exactly am I, anyway?"

"In the dungeon beneath Markarth." As if it wasn't obvious. "And before you ask, you are better guarded than the Understone Keep and Cidhna Mine combined. And that's something."

It could be the truth, or, for all Ulfric knows, a blatant lie. He needs to find out more. Before he can do so, however, the soldier remembers the bag at his feet with a slight start.

"Oh. I brought you a few things." He looks up at Ulfric with apology, but there is no arguing with his directions. "I'll need you to face the wall, hands behind your head."

Ulfric gets up slowly. It takes him longer than usual. He despises it, having his back to another, but he wants to eat and so he complies. The other man must see or sense his reluctance.

"Don't try anything", he warns. "There's enough soldiers up there to make you regret it, trust me."

Trust. Ulfric almost begins to laugh, but decides not to because really there is nothing amusing about it at all. He knew a time when a Nord's word could be trusted. He also knows how little promises are worth, but he does as he is told. Whatever the lad has brought him, he is probably better off with it.

"That's not your head", the warrior says when the prisoner only stretches out his right arm.

A fact the jailor has pointed out several times already. Ulfric's reply is always the same. "I cannot lift my arm like that." He can, though it hurts, but the position allows him to watch the other man from the very corners of his eyes if he turns his head ever so slightly. Ulfric hears the jingle of keys, the scrape of the lock turning and a rustle as the bag is moved. The procedure is quickly over and the door closes again.

One chance wasted, and he wonders if there will be another. If there really is a guard waiting up there, ready to come running at the first sign of trouble, if he could get that Shout off in time.

Not if his visitor knows how to throw that small axe he carries at his hip. Not in his current state, anyway. But maybe next time. He only has to make sure there will be one and leaves the question of 'what then?' for another time to contemplate.

Ulfric lets his arms fall back to his sides and turns to open the bag and within he finds a bundle of furs, a thick blanket wrapped around a pitcher filled with water and a flat wooden basin. There is a piece of soap, food, and chew sticks and it is more than he has dared to hope for.

"You deserve this much at last", the lad mutters and it is too dark to tell if his face flushes with redness. From his tone Ulfric thinks it might. Maybe...an idea begins to form in the back of his mind.

"Will you come again?", the Jarl's son asks, abandoning the gift for the time being.

An eyebrow is raised in response to his terse question. "I thought you wanted to be left alone."

"I have changed my mind."

The lad nods after reflecting on the prisoner's plea for a brief while. "I'll be back tomorrow when my shift ends", he says.

Not that when matters to Ulfric; down here time has lost all meaning. Yet he feels strangely grateful not to have been entirely forgotten and left on his own and hates himself for that sentiment.


AN: There's nothing to make one want to write about the Reach like a two week trek through the Dolomites *longing sigh*

BtS should update this week.