Thanks to 16DarkMidnight80 for going over this!
-L-
Windhelm was a cold city, very icy and very—as the name suggests—windy. I slid about on the ice if I wasn't careful and wished I had boots with nails in the bottoms so as to latch onto the ice more effectively.
The air wasn't the only cold thing in Windhelm. "—come where you're not wanted, you eat your food, you pollute our city with your stink—"
I reached the altercation in time to put out a hand to catch the dark elf the drunk—once I got close enough I could smell the alcohol on him—shoved back. We both slipped a little, she and I, though my stable footing proved enough to keep us both steady.
"—and you don't support the Stormcloaks," he sneered.
The look he gave me with his watery, mean little eyes was fairly indicative: we don't want your kind here, either.
The Dunmer shook loose of me and looked, from her posture, like she'd like to slit the drunk's throat. "We haven't taken a side because it isn't our fight," she answered dryly.
I wish the lummox could have understood the real insult. I smirked at it, though: 'if this is a private fight for true Nords we'll just stay out of it, per your insistence.' She's a clever one.
"Hey," the mammoth on the drunk's left said, nudging his friend. "Maybe the reason these grey-skins don't join the war is because they're Imperial spies. And maybe they ain't the only ones."
"Imperial sp—" the Dunmer sputtered before looking over her shoulder at me. She snorted and shook her head, giving a venomous, disbelieving look at the drunks. "You can't be serious."
Her tone was like a hot knife through butter. To anyone less stupid and less drunk it might have had an effect.
"Mother was a hagraven, was she?" I asked sardonically, indicating the drunks. My heart fluttered in my chest as I resisted the urge to reach for my dagger when the louder of the two bristled. "You can always tell," I added to the Dunmer, "the father couldn't have been that smart and it passes on."
She gave a soft 'hmph' that I took to mean agreement.
"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy," the more vocal of the two drunks said, moving offensively close to both the Dunmer and myself. She backed up a step, swallowing hard. "We have ways of finding out what you really are." This second remark he hissed at me.
I didn't move. I simply looked up into his red-rimmed eyes, considering my own reflection in their glassiness. Beneath my cloak, my hand slipped delicately towards my dagger.
The silence unnerved him, but not enough to back off; the silence unnerved his friend, too, who had more sense. I could see myself bringing my dagger out from beneath my cloak and sliding it across his belly, spilling his innards. I wouldn't start anything, but I wouldn't indulge anything more than insults.
It wasn't the same murderous rage that bubbled up especially for the Thalmor, it was colder and more logical. It was still dispassionate though, and made me sure that something was wrong with me. There was only one answer to this observation: do something constructive with it.
"Hey, Rolff, c'mon."
I continued my silent glower until Rolff allowed his friend to pull him away. My hand slipped away from the hilt of my dagger.
"I think you may be in the wrong city, friend," the Dunmer announced. "Windhelm is nothing more than a haven for prejudice and narrow thinking. A true cesspool of civilization."
This accorded with everything I'd ever heard about the Stormcloak movement.
"Will he try anything?" I asked. I swear, the sheer amount of fumes coming off that man could make one lightheaded. The air seemed so strangely clean in the wake of his leaving.
"He hasn't yet," the Dunmer answered darkly, crossing her arms more to ward off the chill than out of fear. "Most Nords in Windhelm don't care much for us, but Rolff is the worst of them by far."
"How so?"
"Hmph. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Grey Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning. A real charmer, that one."
Inwardly, my lip curled. Outwardly, my cheeks burned with cold.
"You should know, it isn't only Dunmer they hate. Just about anyone who isn't a Nord is fair game for their bullying. Be careful," she advised.
"Thank you. I appreciate the warning…" I regarded her expectantly.
The elf looked surprised at the opening for her to supply a name. "Suvaris."
"Leandra." We shook hands, partly because that was what any well-bred person would do and Suvaris was both well-spoken and well-mannered.
"No lollygaggin' ladies," a sharp voice belted out. "Off about your business."
"That, at least, is for good reason," Suvaris said, touching my arm. "It's getting late and it's not safe after dark. Candlehearth is just that way. Elda may have an empty bed, yet."
I took this to mean there was more going on than Rolff the Witless, so I headed up to Candlehearth. I'd stayed there before, and the only difference between then and now were the number of Stormcloaks packed into the place. With Fralia's letters to her boys—which I knew she'd spent all night composing and had re-written several times—in my backpack I was sure to look at the row of backs of heads in hope of spotting a profile I recognized as I moved on.
"Hey—what's your business, Imperial?" an uncouth voice asked.
I was just fast enough to keep my arm out of a ham-handed grip.
"If it were any of yours, you'd know. As you don't…" I answered in the archest of arch tones, the one designed to needle and nettle.
Several people laughed at this, but the drunk started turning red. I turned my back on him, trying to still the adrenaline shakes that began to assail me. I succeeded and was well pleased by the fact. Mind over matter.
I heard the man move, my hand slipping nonchalantly towards my dagger. I don't have to kill him but I'll be damned if I let anyone get the idea I'm a victim.
To my surprise, a voice spoke up in my defense. Or, rather, a familiar voice spoke up in my defense. "Watch it, fella. She's a Thalmor-hunter, that one. What do you think she'd make of you?" Avulstein's voice demanded sharply.
"Mincemeat," Thorold's voice declared in answer, his tone not devoid of menace. "Assuming anyone ever found his body."
I said nothing, letting Avulstein and Thorold who had come to tower over my shoulders diffuse the situation. The altercation ended with the handsy one vacating his place, while I was wedged into a spot at the bar between Avulstein and—when I glanced over—a very shocked Ralof.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his eyes and mouth almost comically wide.
I wanted to chuckle at his expression. I'm not sure what it was meant to convey, but it was certainly in the vein of being glad to see me. I won't say he didn't look a little hopeful. The Stormcloaks must be shorthanded.
"Appreciating a very timely intervention. Four here, please, and a room for the night if you have one," I waved to the woman behind the counter before slipping my backpack off and pulling Fralia's notes out of the outer pocket. I handed them wordlessly to Avulstein, who read the address and passed Thorold's along.
The old woman behind the bar brought four flagons and took the coin I put out. "There's a room. Ten septims a night."
I fished them out and handed them over. She handed over the key, which I put in the purse at my hip.
"How long are you here?" Ralof asked, recovering himself. Or, rather, hiding behind his mug to do so.
"That depends on whoever is running this army," I answered.
Ralof was not the only one to spit back into his mug or give me shocked looks.
It was almost funny. "I'm here to kill Thalmor. I'm not in it for the cause and I'm not in it for some ideal. I'm just here to kill Thalmor." Let me be very clear on that point. "If the recruiter or whoever can't handle that… then I'll do it on my own. It just seemed better to do it as part of an established movement," I explained calmly, sipping my drink and approving the flavor. It certainly put a bit of warmth back into me.
Silence followed as I took another sip of my drink. It wasn't Black-Briar Reserve, but I rather think a couple kegs of it would suit the Companions down the ground: it burned a bit once it had been swallowed down.
"So, tell me about Windhelm," I declared robustly, finishing my drink and putting the flagon on the bar. "It's been some time since I was here last."
-L-
(Candlehearth, Windhelm)
2 Evening Star
Dear Mother:
You don't need to worry about Thorold and I. We stay together and don't try anything too crazy. Little surprised to see Leandra here—sounds like she's planning to stay. We'll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't get blown away. Lightweight like her should put rocks in her pockets.
Love,
Avulstein
-L-
(Barracks, Windhelm)
2 Evening Star
Mother:
I'm fine. Still fine. Really. We've been rotated back to Windhelm pending a new assignment. It was good to hear from you and hear that you're alright. I don't know what Leandra's thinking coming all the way up here on her own like she did, but she's dead-set on something. We'll look after her best we can, try to talk some sense into her. I don't know how this is going to get back to you otherwise.
Love,
Thorold
-L-
The Palace of the Kings was a cold, grey, dreary abode. Bare-bones and utilitarian, it spoke of someone who was not much of a diplomat. My first thought was that Eastmarch must be in an economic downturn: why else would the place be so sparse and bare, unless the Hold couldn't afford to furnish it properly?
Or maybe it was simply the lack of a woman's touch. Ulfric has neither wife nor mother nor sisters to worry about such things—and I don't think his cadre of thanes, housecarl, and steward do, either. Else the steward, at the very least, would bother himself about the poor impression guests have. Austerity doesn't inspire confidence.
Not that I said any of this out loud. I'd expected my 'escort'—Avulstein, Thorold, and Ralof, augmented by Vidrald and Geirlund—to take me down to the recruiter, whoever that might be. That was certainly the impression they'd given, and Avulstein had hinted heavily that there was a very open, very eager-to-have-me-back spot on their team if they could get it approved.
If I had to work with Stormcloaks, I'd rather work with people I knew. Thus, I was grateful for the offer and made that quite clear. It mollified Geirlund somewhat; remembering what I'd been told about his sister, it didn't surprise me that he was glad to see me for about two minutes before he took the stance that this was no place for me. I accepted it as the kindness he intended it to be, however chagrined I felt.
Rather than to a recruiter though, they took me to the Palace of the Kings and refused to say a word as we kicked our heels, waiting for some indeterminate occurrence. Hence why I got a good look at the dreary main chamber, with its massive dining table and Ulfric's throne at the far end of the room. The throne was backed and flanked by windows that let in snow-filtered light—a good trick for dazzling eyes that had to look in the Jarl's direction when he was holding court. A clever bit of theatricality, that.
The occurrence turned out to be the appearance of a hairy Nord—and I mean this by a Nord's standards—who looked more like a bear than a man, a were-bear, even. He wore a bear pelt like a hood and cloak, and had claws affixed into the knuckles of his gauntlets. And there was something about him that jiggled something in my memory that made me immediately hold him in some… distaste.
I corrected myself immediately: the occurrence was the arrival of the Bear of Eastmarch himself, not the were-bear—Galmar I suppose, since that's the name of Ulfric's housecarl and one expects a housecarl to stick close to his or her Jarl.
My stomach squelched in my guts as Avulstein and Thorold started forward. Ralof took my arm when I didn't move. "Don't worry. It'll be fine," he whispered in my ear, giving my arm a squeeze for good measure before releasing me.
I felt very small all of a sudden, hemmed-in by all these burly lads.
The last time I saw Jarl Ulfric, he was gagged, bound, and headed for the block. He was a bit cleaner-shaven than the was the last time I saw him, but the frown lines between his brows had grown more pronounced and his cheeks looked a bit thinner.
I half-listened as Avulstein addressed the were-bear—confirmed to be Galmar Stone-Fist—explaining that he had a recruit who had already proven herself with meritorious service, the sort of thing one would expect someone appealing to an old soldier with the clout to say 'you want this new recruit? Take her,' to say.
Ulfric was listening while giving the impression he wasn't. I thought I saw something of politics in here—he can overrule Galmar if Galmar says 'no'—and if the lads have a way to grab his ear.
At the moment Ulfric's gaze caught mine—his amber eyes narrowed with shrewd consideration which indicated he remembered me quite clearly—Geirlund and Ralof both moved so Galmar could see me clearly.
Galmar looked me up and down slowly, taking in my still Imperial-style clothes. "What's a foreigner want to be fighting the Legion for?" he asked bluntly.
The mercantile business gives one a thick skin when it comes to insults. Even if I take them all seriously, I don't take them to heart. After all, what's Galmar to me, personally?
When I spoke, I spoke to Ulfric though I was looking at Galmar. "I'm not a foreigner; the blood of Men mingles as much in the veins as upon the ground." A little impolitic, but I had everyone's attention. "My family has been in Skyrim for five generation on the short side," I answered darkly. "I'm here, first and last, to fight the Thalmor, and your cause points me in that direction. If the Legion is in my way, so much the better for you. So much the worse for them." I inclined my head, aware of the others shifting as if wishing I hadn't been quite so up-front.
"If you're not for the cause—" Galmar began in the tone of someone ready to brush me off.
"It's an odd tone to take at all," Ulfric noted tolerantly.
I turned to him and curtsied as a well-bred girl ought to do to a Jarl—any Jarl. But I watched him from beneath my lashes. "I would rather there be no lies or false assumptions where I am concerned, my lord. Pardon my directness or my honesty in motive if they have offended."
Ulfric considered me. "I think I know you." And I'm sure he knows from where and under what circumstances we met.
"That is very likely, my lord. I was at Helgen. Permit me to thank you for your many courtesies, as I was unable to do at the time."
"And what could have changed your tune, I wonder? I seem to remember that you were a partisan of the Imperial Legion and their Thalmor masters."
"That is true. And a fervent partisan I was."
"You are no longer?" Ulfric arched his eyebrows.
"Forgive my being forward, my lord, if I misunderstand your question. I no longer think in terms of Stormcloak and Imperial Legion. I see Thalmor, those who get in my way by protecting them, and those who are my allies against them." Then, suspecting I knew what the silence meant. "My cause is revenge, my lord. The Thalmor owe me a life. They owe many people many lives, I imagine." And I have a book recording a good number of them—something I can make use of if I can find the right channels. "I intend to collect. You have my bow, my dagger, and any other skill I possess as long as your road leads to their hubs and bolt-holes."
Silence descended.
"Normally, I would tell you to take your vendetta and leave," Ulftic announced.
"You would be right to do so, of course. I merely wished to offer you the first opportunity to benefit from my skills," I answered.
Another thoughtful silence. By the time Ulfric nodded and broke it, I was the only one not squirming to some degree. "And I owe you something, I think, for the lives of my men. Galmar, get her blooded. We'll continue the discussion at a later date."
"Thank you, my lord, for your generosity." I bowed my head, then got to my feet and gave my attention to a disgruntled Galmar.
Avulstein and the others didn't seem to quite know what to think—on the one hand, I should have kept my personal politics personal until I was in with them. On the other hand, I was an Imperial looking to join up—that needed some explanation. And, perhaps, recognition that Ulfric had zealots and true believers aplenty, but perhaps fewer with my more mercenary mindset.
"His lordship requires a task of me," I said imply, regarding Galmar coolly. "I am eager to prove my worth."
His expression crinkled and wrinkled, but he twitched his massive shoulders. "You're heading for Serpentstone Island," Galmar said, crossing his arms. "Strange rock formation, built by the ancients north of Winterhold. Men have tested their mettle there for ages. Something about the place attracts the Ice Wraiths. Kill one. Bring back its teeth, and we'll have all the proof we need about you."
"Lads. Stay a moment," Ulfric commanded, holding up a forestalling finger.
I bobbed him a slight curtsy, then another to the Jarl, then withdrew the requisite fifteen paces before turning my back to leave.
-L-
I did not go find the lads at the barracks. Rather, I went straight to the Palace of the Kings, the Ice Wraith teeth clutched in my hand.
Well, some of them: they're a useful reagent to have in one's stockpile. I was met by the steward, Jorleif, who motioned me to follow him, then stopped me at the door to a small antechamber of the throne room.
"—intercepted couriers from Solitude," Galmar's voice rasped, "The Empire's putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun."
"And what would you have me do?" Ulfric asked shortly.
"If he's not with us, he's against us," Galmar grunted.
How very in keeping with his were-bear presentation.
"He knows that," Ulfric answered patiently. "They all know that." Then, as if glad of a distraction, "What is it, Jorleif?"
"My lord, there's a young lady saying she's completed Galmar's errand. She's asking for him," Jorleif declared.
"Send her in," Ulfric declared.
I was past Jorleif just in time to see him wipe a smug look directed at Galmar off his face. "My lord," I curtsied politely, as I ought to. "You sent me for Ice Wraith teeth. I have them."
"We don't abuse our knees as Imperial courts would have," Ulfric noted sourly.
"Pardon my upbringing, my lord," I answered, rising.
Galmar lumbered over and I tipped the teeth into his outstretched paw. He frowned at them then looked over at Ulfric. "Looks like I owe you a drink."
"I have the rest," I declared, seeing the doubt that maybe I just bought them off an alchemist. I dug in the pouch on my belt and withdrew the little reagent bag, which I held out. "I am something of an alchemist—but if you require them all, take them."
"Your friends paint a colorful picture of you," Ulfric said, taking the teeth from Galmar and turning them over in his hand.
"What picture do they paint, my lord?"
He watched me sideling as he spoke, "They say you're a murderer. Or murderess, as you prefer."
I don't think they said it like that. He's poking for reactions; there goes the myth that he's not the sharpest tool in the shed. "It was manslaughter, but yes. I did kill someone in Solitude. Her lies killed someone dear to me. Murder would have been killing the sister, so that the accuser might share my pain." I'm not a lunatic, after all.
Ulfric's mouth twitched as if to smile grimly, though Galmar grimaced at the splitting of hairs.
That's all the practice of law is, at the end of the day: splitting hairs and haggling over definitions.
"And I've been told repeatedly that you were responsible for the success of the attack on Northwatch Keep." He looked away from the teeth to study me closely, as if he could read me like an open book.
I met his gaze easily, my expression carefully blank. "I helped in the planning and in the execution. The young men sharing these fine stories with you are equally responsible."
"And these Thalmor in Whiterun?"
He could only have gotten that from the lad I sent back here, whatever else he implies. I certainly hadn't mentioned specifics to the lads, just that I'd run afoul of them and felt it prudent to decamp. "Goodness, these lads are quite the fishwives when it comes to gossip. The incident in Whiterun was nothing special, my lord. I killed three Thalmor I came upon. They were there and I was there—and, if the lad with them had any sense, he should be rejoining your armies at some point," I answered.
The joke about gossipy fishwives did not fail to amuse. If one believes Marcus, then soldiers are some of the biggest gossips in the world. "Which lad?"
"Names can be dangerous, my lord. I didn't ask for his just as I did not give him mine. Thus I could say 'I don't know about whom you speak' if asked and there will be no lie to be read upon me."
Ulfric studied me for a long moment, his whiskey-colored eyes gradually narrowing. "What if I told you I know your kind?"
"I would ask what kind you meant. Womankind? A citizen of Solitude? Or of Whiterun? Or do you have something more specific in mind?"
"One with whom Death walks," Ulfric clarified grimly. His tone asked 'what do you say to that?'
I considered this in my turn, as it was a fair question and an even fairer observation. Finally, with all the pragmatism I could muster, "Better with me than with someone in the Legion."
This earned me a crooked grin. "Find your lads. They can have you, if they're willing to deal with your… plus one, shall we say?"
I curtsied, shallow but polite, remembering his former admonishment about excesses of the Imperial brand of courtesy. "Thank you, my lord."
"Mm-hmm." He nodded to Galmar, then to me.
"Are you ready to take the Oath?" Galmar asked.
"Oath?" I didn't look at Ulfric, as he walked around the strategy table, but I knew he was watching me. He's studying me, seeing what makes me tick. I decided I approved of him as one who understands people, an astute observer, someone who knows how to place people to their maximum usefulness.
At the moment, I think he was trying to decide how I would explode, as the revenge-driven so often do. But mine is the cold, calculating kind of revenge, the one that only ever damages the one pursuing it—if damage is taken.
"You can stick a sword through an Imperial or a Thalmor any day you want. But that doesn't make you a Stormcloak," Galmar declared expansively—though I think he didn't like me much or like the idea of accepting me into the ranks of his 'brothers.' "We're not just fighting Imperials. We're fighting to restore Skyrim and give her the king she deserves."
Ah. That kind of oath. How original.
"Before you're considered one of us, you must swear fealty to Jarl Ulfric Stormloak, future High King of Skyrim. You must also pledge unswerving loyalty to your fellow Stormcloaks, to Skyrim and to her people." He glared at me as he finished his assertion.
Reading between the lines, one of those statements is Galmar's wish—the first part, since he's a man with a simple mind and simpler views. The other is closer to the Stormcloak manifesto—the words being Ulfric's. There's too much room for argument between the statements—it's one thing to swear to a lord, it's another to swear to the people, the Province, and/or one's brothers in arms. One might not be so good for the others, after all.
I looked way from Galmar to Ulfric who was not watching the table, but the exchange. "Forgive my boldness, but do you insist on this, my lord?"
"It's considered usual," he answered.
It's nice not dealing with a fool.
"Very well. What is it you wish to hear?" I asked Galmar, giving him my full attention.
The content of the remark was not lost on Ulfric, but it was lost on his housecarl.
"That's the spirit," Galmar nodded. "By swearing this oath, you become one of us."
Imagine my enthusiasm.
"A heroine of the people."
Of some people.
"A true daughter of Skyrim."
I already was.
"A Stormcloak."
I winced inwardly, but didn't let it show. It still sounded distasteful… but I'd better get used to hearing it.
"Now, repeat after me: I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim."
"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim," I repeated. The words were empty for me. It doesn't matter. And Ulfric already knew it. It was why he said 'it was usual' rather than 'yes.'
"As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond. Even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms."
Oh, that is classically Stormcloak. "As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond. Even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms."
"All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim."
"All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim." Hooray, hoorah.
I looked over at Ulfric, who nodded once. It's only a false oath if I violate it; it's what Galmar needs to hear to sleep at night. Better if he'd had me swear on my need for revenge.
"Your new unit will be at the barracks. Talk to the quartermaster. You can't go out looking like that," Ulfric declared absently.
I bowed my head respectfully, mumbled my thanks, and withdrew.
"You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message?" Ulfric asked.
"If by 'message' you mean 'a sword through his gullet'—"
Ugh. The man has no subtly. He wouldn't know subtlety if he scraped it off his boot.
-L-
I frowned at my new regalia. Gone were the traveling clothes of the well-bred Imperial and there was the uniform of the Stormcloak rebels. The chain mail hung heavily from a frame not used to supporting it; the leather long jerkin reduced my range of motion; the boots were heavy and the gloves not yet broken in; worst of all, I felt ready to drown in the long wrap of Stormcloak blue. I was glad there weren't any mirrors in the quartermaster's hall.
"There you go, all suited up," Ralof said bracingly before hesitantly picking at the wrap at my shoulder to settle it more comfortably. Clearly he was ready for me to shake him off and do it myself. "Takes little getting used to, but it's like that for everyone."
I forced a smile. His attempts to cheer me up as I traded my previous identity for this new one had not been particularly subtle. Still, he was no Galmar, and his kindness was clearly genuinely meant. "I appreciate you coming with me."
I'd intended to do it alone, but Ralof argued that unless one knew a thing or two the quartermaster was prone to fobbing off any old weapon that came to hand on a person whether that person could handle it comfortably or not.
They didn't need my sword ending up too heavy for me to use—especially since they were returning to the field the day after tomorrow. Although the war had stalled because of the winter months—both Solitude and Windhelm being snowbound with regards to armies and the like—there was still plenty to do.
Winter is the season for spies and assassins… and I'd already begun to wonder if the Stormcloaks had anyone handling that sort of thing—someone dedicated to it. Because it seemed to me that the movement would benefit from not treating every situation like a nail in need of a hammer.
Under Ralof's watchful eye, we found a bow and a short sword that I could swing easily—with the promise that I would learn how to use it properly.
To my surprise, when we went to the mess for lunch, I didn't stand out. It wasn't that different from the mess in the Imperial Legion—the conversations were all more or less the same. "So what does your unit do?" I asked, picking at my beans and ham.
"Depends. We've done border security, a couple of skirmishes between the Pale and Haafingar, sometimes escort missions. Recruitment. That sort of thing," Ralof shrugged. "Whatever's needed—and there's never a shortage of bandits when work gets slow."
I nodded my understanding and continued to pick at my soup, drenching bread in the broth so it looked like I was doing something constructive with the meal.
Ralof fell silent. So silent that I realized just how morose I must seem. "I'm sorry," I apologized, "I'm just… "
He didn't say it was alright. He merely patted my back, gently and apparently uncertain whether I would appreciate the touch or not. "You'll get used to it. And faster once you've got something to do. We missed your bow plenty of times."
"Did you indeed?" It took effort to force myself to be part of the conversation, but Ralof's encouraging smile helped. It was a sweet smile.
It made me feel cold and… I don't know. It was a good reminder of what a wretched creature I'm allowing myself to become. Good people shouldn't waste their sweet smiles on such as I.