He is not sure what wakes him. Perhaps it is the dry, cracking sound of breaking bones. Or maybe it is the light that flickers across his face and makes the insides of his eyelids glow a fiery orange-red. The air is stiflingly hot and he raises one hand to protect himself from it and when he succeeds he lies still again. His temples throb painfully. The feeling intensifies and abates while tiredness threatens to overwhelm him and like the receding tide it wants to suck him back into the endless oblivion of sleep.
His father has always warned him against coming too close to the eastern coast. He can see it before him, jagged black cliffs and teal sea, white plumes of foam dancing atop the churning waves that break upon the rocks below with a thunder like the voice of Kyne herself.
He can hear it; the roar of water and a rolling boom in the distance.
Ulfric manages to crack open one eye and blinks rapidly. His eyes burn and the tears gathering in them do nothing to ease the sting. He lets them fall freely into the furs, rough and scratching against his cheek.
When his vision clears he beholds...a fire. It is such an ordinary sight for one moment he does not understand why he cannot take his eyes off it, why he should be so enthralled by the dancing of the flames. By a small fireplace. A log splits loudly then and he flinches back as a shower of sparks goes up.
Ulfric rolls over. A bed stands in one corner with a rug spread out before it and a nightstand to hand. A desk and a chair are crammed in the space between the wall and a wardrobe. The walls are lined with shelves though most of them are empty.
He may not know where he is, but he remembers what brought him here.
Ulfric gathers his bedding and moves to sit leaning against the side of the fireplace. He has to crawl but the effort is well worth it. The stone burns against his back so hotly he has to use the fur as a protective layer in between. For the first time in months he is warm again, and it is so intense a feeling his body begin to shake, wracked with chills.
The next time Ulfric wakes, he is not alone. He knows immediately, by the watchful closeness that is accompanied by a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He is still sitting in the nook he had wedged himself in. The Nord does not remember falling asleep, but he can hear the soothing rumble of storm he had nodded off to. It explains the confused shred of the sea that had haunted his dreams; he does not feel rested at all. Behind him, the fireplace still radiates a faint warmth, he could not have been asleep too long then.
It is time to confront his silent watcher.
Ulfric climbs to his feet laboriously and steps from behind the alcove that had hidden him from view. He is not surprised to see the lad sitting in front of his cell. The soldier is cleaning his nails with a knife, but he looks up when he hears the Jarl's son move and holds out a bottle. "Here."
Ulfric scowls at it like it was an offering from Clavicus Vile himself. He will never again touch another one of those gifts; it is far better to go without than to ever again suffer the cold stab of deceit.
"It's just water this time", the lad says with a wry quirk of his lips. When Ulfric shows no signs of moving he heaves a sigh and puts the bottle down again, then, "Suit yourself."
The soldier taps his heels against the floor and for a long while Ulfric just glowers back at him, without any intention to actually begin a conversation. "So we're back to not talking to each other?"
"You drugged me." Ulfric's tone is accusatory, and he wonders why betrayal still can take him by surprise. Does his naiveté truly know no bounds? Only he had wanted to believe that – what? That the other man was a friend? The notion is as absurd as it is pathetic.
The blond soldier grunts and does not contradict him, or apologize. "Yeah. Had to."
As if he had every right to do it. The utter lack of remorse strikes Ulfric speechless for a moment and the lad uses the opportunity to point at the room.
"Do you like it?"
"Do I like being a prisoner?", Ulfric retorts resentfully. A fancy cell does nothing to the fact that he still is a captive. "Did I enjoy having my friend's brains splattered in my face when Igmund butchered them? Do I have a fondness for rotting in his dungeon?"
"A simple 'Thank You' would suffice", the lad mumbles.
"You want me to thank you!? Thank you for the knife in my back!? I don't owe you a thing!" Ulfric did not realize he had been shouting until the last echoes of words fade away.
The other Nord stares at him for a while, taken aback, but Ulfric's feeling of victory is short-lived.
"That. Is where you are wrong." The soldier sounds irked himself as he gets to his feet.
"Where are you going?" People do not just walk out on the Jarl's son during an argument.
"Out."
"Tell Igmund on your way he can take his false kindness and may his ancestors spit down upon him in shame and the gates of Sovngarde close in his face!" Trying to buy himself back into Ulfric's good graces after he had violated the guest-right! The hubris of the man!
"Jarl Igmund had nothing to do with it", the soldier states. He sounds more tired than angry now.
He is lying, Ulfric thinks. "Then who-"
"Just the only person who has bothered to put up with you so far." And when Ulfric's face looks as blank as his mind is at the moment, the lad cries, "Me, you dimwit!" A string of words in a melodic language that the Jarl's son does not understand follows the insult.
But..., "-you poisoned me."
"Don't be dramatic", the lad snaps back. "It was a sleeping draught."
"That's not the point!"
But the other man rounds on him before he can add anything. "Then what is your gods-damned problem!? You'd rather go back?"
The problem was that- And at that point his thoughts falter, and Ulfric shakes his head.
The blond warrior runs his hand over his face in exasperation, but he takes a deep breath and appears to calm down somewhat. He appears to have felled some decision. "Can you trust me?"
Ulfric bowls over, the air rushing out of his lungs. The Nord is astonished by his own reaction; he is laughing. He is laughing so hard he has to brace his hands on his knees, that his stomach cramps and tears stream down his cheeks. It is not a joyful sound and a feeling of wrongness overcomes him. He cannot pinpoint it down.
"I have put my trust in people before." Ulfric spreads his arms when he can straighten again. "Look where it got me."
The soldier looks disgusted. "The wrong people."
That much is indisputable, so Ulfric does not bother with an answer. He is weary of this exchange already. The Nord rubs the bridge of his nose and reaches up to brush back his hair and freezes in alarm. How could he not have noticed before!? "What happened to my hair?"
"I cut it", the soldier admits freely. "There was more life in it than in the rest of you. And not the good kind." He must have seen Ulfric's look of shock and ads, "It's just hair, it'll grow back."
Maybe. In consideration of all that has happened it is just a pinprick. But one that stings nonetheless. Ulfric touches his face hesitantly to assess the damage done. He finds out that his beard had been cut and his hair is short enough that it stands up.
"Actually", the lad continues and his intonation catches Ulfric's attention despite the numb resignation that spreads through the other Nord. "I wanted to tell you that we'll draw you a bath if you want to. Thought you might like that." He sounds defensive.
He would. Divines, he cannot even express how much he wants to. Ulfric's skin itches at the very though.
"Well? You want to get cleaned up or stand here and hurl insults at me?"
Another trick? Or is this for real? If they had wanted to harm him, he had been unconscious long enough. He knows that. Knowing changes nothing about how he feels. The blond soldier waits for his answer, face unreadable. He has asked for Ulfric's trust. But the Jarl's son is the wrong man and has less to give in that regard than any other. Ulfric dry-swallows, takes the plunge. Just one last time. "Please."
The lad must have seen something more and his own expression softens in response. "Alright. I'll tell the others."
He is kept under close watch, but not constrained as he is lead out and through several corridors to another room, still underground.
Ulfric still hates tubs, but when he sees the steaming one he cannot get in fast enough. His shaved head and chin feel wrong in every way, though he cannot deny a certain gladness that the felted, filthy mess of hair is gone. The Nord tries not to dwell on how it can be seen as a symbol of his defeat. Thralls of old had their heads shorn. But then so did many soldiers in the Legion. He will regrow his warrior's braids when he gets out of here; Ulfric avows, and then he will never allow for himself to be captured alive again.
He goes through two bars of soap and three refills of the tub before the water running from his body is mostly clear. By then his guards have relaxed sufficiently. Two of them are talking to each other, something about morning drills. The third brings him clothes when he climbs out of the bath; grey woollen trousers and a white linen shirt. It smells of lavender and mountain pine and is too wide in the shoulders though the length is about right.
The lad gives Ulfric a wide smile. "Better?"
It is. Ulfric nods the other Nord turns to his comrades, satisfied.
Ulfric has his axe out of its hoop in an instant. The soldier behind Ulfric lunges forward with a shouted warning and Ulfric sidesteps and elbows him in the face. The redheaded Nord runs into the wooden brim and falls over and into the tub with a splash and a gurgle. His friends draw their blades.
- HAAL VIIK
Three swords are sent flying across the room, and the only one with a weapon still in his hands is Ulfric.
"Shit!" One of the men dives after his sword, even as the last soldier scrambles out of the water, spluttering and soaked to the skin.
FUS
Ulfric will need his breath for more, but he feels a savage satisfaction as he watches the Nords fly and crash into the wall nonetheless.
One of them remains down, the other is visibly dazed; and this is his chance.
His heart is pounding, the wild abandon of battle burns in his veins. Take them out before anybody notices and he might yet fight his way out – or die in the process. Victory or Sovngarde. Defeat is not an option.
Ulfric can feel the Thu'um build up in his throat, the power more ferocious than that of the lightning storm raging outside, but just as deadly. The Nord draws breath.
And then the farmboy steps into the way of his killing blow, unarmed save for a fool's courage and a look of determination.
