I edited the former chapter, there were too many small things I was unhappy with.
The determination is born of the discovery that there is a flame burning in him still, unquenched by the trials of the past months. It may be weak, like that of a bonfire slowly suffocating under the pile of ash that has been allowed to accumulate around it for too long, but by its light Ulfric catches the first glint of something he almost does not recognize as belonging to himself: strength. He isn't quite prepared to accept the find for what it is, but at the same time he cannot but soar with the knowledge that it is undeniably real; oh-so-tantalizingly out of reach, albeit indisputably there.
Maybe it always has been. Maybe he was too afraid to look into his own heart for fear of what he might find there. It is a strange feeling, weighing himself against his conscience to find himself... not adequate, no. But not quite the opposite, either.
He had good reasons for coming to free the Reach, and he has never obtained the level of cowardice necessary to let hindsight change his motives. Ulfric had never been a courtier, or an opportunist, and the hard path is something to be weathered, not evaded, and obstacles overcome, not skirted.
As the hours stretch into days, he refuses to give in. Against insurmountable odds he will fight, to his last breath. Nothing less is acceptable.
If the Jarl of Markarth thinks he can subdue him, then Ulfric will teach him a lesson on what it means to be a true Nord.
Contrary to what he has been told, he does not take the lad up on his offer of help. He has been dependent on others for too long, has let their actions shape his fate whilst he stood by, an impotent onlooker. No more. He had enough education in tactics and has a rudimentary understanding of court politics to know that this game is being played on somebody else's terms. But while he cannot set his own board, he can anticipate and plan ahead for when the time for his own turn comes.
First though he will need a clear head.
Ulfric recalls his training, and the failed attempt at finding inner peace from a few days ago. This time, when his breath deepens, becomes rhythmic, it is as if a veil has been lifted from in front of his eyes. He sees his mistakes clearly as he settles one the bare stone floor, forsaking any comfort. This time, when he meditates, he does it right.
With his thoughts free to roam even the bars of his prison lose meaning. It is not only his predicament that Ulfric contemplates. He reflects on the loss of his Voice, and on words with – not necessarily of – power, even some that he had never used or known to be part of a Shout before. Some, he believes, he is on the verge of understanding.
The newfound wisdom comes at a price, the knowledge of himself cold and merciless.
Instead of pursuing it further, of torturing himself by picking at that scarcely scabbed wound he once more tries to console with the Nine. With Talos first, whom he apologizes to for his earlier doubt, and next with Kyne, the wild goddess whose presence he can barely feel here, in this manmade prison of stone.
Like before, no heavenly voice rises in answer to his prayers, but in their silence Ulfric reads not the gods' indifference, but senses that it comes from anticipation, imagines he can see the stillness of one waiting with baited breath.
The Nord knows he will need to prove himself worthy of their blessings once more.
He would like to blame his previous fits of rage on his fever, on the illness, but true to his newfound course, he does not. Instead, the warrior strives to do better.
He begins by petitioning a man, with a formal invitation this time, written and sealed, though the latter is done with the print of his bare finger and not with a signet ring.
The soldier, who Ulfric would like to believe had needed no other incentive but his own sense of right and wrong to stand by a wronged prisoner, appears to waver between confusion and amusement at he writ.
The Jarl's son courteously offers him a seat, as if his little cell were his father's own court. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The other man's lips quirk, but he grants Ulfric this little piece of dignity and if he seems surprised to be treated civilly for a change, he does not comment, allows the Jarl's son to keep up appearances, and thanks him for the offered seat.
For that alone Ulfric is almost willing to call him friend.
"I don't think you've finished telling me about yourself," the soldier hesitatingly starts their conversation, the way he had back in the days when he had been Ulfric's only company, his anchor to sanity, barely more than a voice in the dark.
"I told you nearly all about High Hrothgar," Ulfric replies truthfully.
"Yes, I know more about a mountain than I ever thought I would," the other man snorts, yet his body language betrays him as he leans forward, eager for the tale he knows is coming. Had Ulfric truly grown that predictable in his isolation?
"So what came after?"
"The Great War." The topic weights heavily on his mind still. "I couldn't stand missing it," Ulfric admits, and because they are still talking about his apprentice days, he continues, "I often think about High Hrothgar. It's very disconnected from the troubles down here. But that's why I couldn't stay, and why I couldn't go back. I suppose the Greybeards care about Skyrim's troubles, in their way, but I needed to do something about them. I'm sure Arngeir would call it one of my many failings."
"I don't think I like him," the lad replies easily. "How's the hand?"
"Better," Ulfric responds absent-mindedly, his hand curling into a fist and relaxing with the rhythm of a newfound habit. He is not sure what to make of the other man's remark, has spent many an hour trying to disentangle the complicated knot that are his own feelings on the matter.
Arngeir, the man he had known since his sixth nameday, who had smiled like the grandfather he had never known the first time Ulfric had mastered the barest whisper of his first Shout. Arngeir, who had been his teacher and mentor for a decade, and for whom he would have done nearly anything if only it meant a rare word of praise. Arngeir, whose strict upbringing had vexed his adolescent self into tears sometimes, and a nod from whom could conjure a feeling of pride and accomplishment beyond any other in the boy Ulfric had been.
Arngeir, who had told him that if he ever set foot outside of the monastery he would never be welcomed back again.
Ulfric does not know whether to feel regret for leaving, anger at being judged for only doing what over years of teaching had been ingrained into him as right, or sadness at the old man's near-sightedness.
In the end, the anger prevails. He has spent more time cultivating it.
"I did not know you had a medic's education," Ulfric steers the topic back to safer waters, away from himself.
"I got to study field medicine and a lot of stuff on healing," the soldier says easily. "It's part of the housecarl training."
"Congratulations." It does not come easily, but once said, the word hangs between them, demands attention.
"I got you to thank for it, to be honest," the other man confesses quietly.
A debt surely can be used to his advantage. But the events of the past have shown Ulfric that he is not the one holding the cards. His fate is in the hands of the gods and a man he is sure has his own agenda. This is the Reach, after all and here trust is often repaid with a knife in the back. Point in case being the situation that brought him here.
And yet... there were no repercussions for his breakout attempt.
Could he be wrong? He has always been the worst judge of character. Ulfric wishes Galmar was here.
What if this was all some plot? The gifts, the new cell, the lad's patience in the face of his obstinacy, the questions after his wellbeing. Was he spying for Igmund? Or Thonar?
'Talos,' Ulfric prayed, 'What should he do?' A sign, he needed... something. Anything.
"Oh, I forgot last time." The soldier pulls a small object out of a pouch that hangs at his belt. "Here, you lost this."
Ulfric looks at the glimmer of what first seems to be gold, but then turns out to be only cheap bronze hanging from a leather cord, stomach churning. Lost, the lad had said. There is no way the other man truly believes it, but again he is willing to pretend – for Ulfric's sake.
And had he not just asked for a sign? Was this one? Or was it simply a coincidence?
Ulfric cannot stop himself from reaching out anymore than he can stop himself from drawing breath. Smooth metal touches the tips of his scarred fingers, warm where it should have been cool.
Calculations of risk versus reward; he had learned those in the Legion. Besides, what does he have to lose?
Ulfric closes his palm over the amulet, its edges worn smooth and not at all painful, despite the force with which he clenches the axe-shaped pendant. He avows not to lose it again.
"I don't think we were ever introduced properly," Ulfric says, licks his chapped lips and forces himself not to look away.
He receives a half-hearted shrug before the answer. "I'm Argis. But you already know that."
Yes, he did know that. But he is also set on doing this the proper way and thus he replies, "It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance." I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances and not with me rotting in a cell.
If this man should turn out to be a friend, the only one in this pit of vipers, then upon his return to Windhelm Ulfric will make him a lord in his own right.
Argis snorts as if amused with the unvoiced thought and elbows him in the side.
Ulfric rubs the spot and frowns. "What?"
"It's your turn."
"Oh." The lapse brings a hot flush to his face. "Ulfric– ," he falters for a brief moment, winces inwardly at what usually follows, –Jorgnir, firstborn son to Jarl Hænir, Thegn of Windhelm and heir to the Hold of Eastmarch.
The formal titles ring of falsehood, bestowed upon him at a time when none of them held meaning anymore. They do not reflect who he is, neither do they tell of anything but the duties he will one day perform; not of his ideals, not of his love for the land of his birth and its people, nor his pride in the power of his Voice.
"Stormcloak," Ulfric decides, for the man he now has become both in his and in the eyes of the world.
They shake hands. The angle is wrong and the contact feels awkward, but the soldier grins.
"Nice to meet you, Ulfric. Wish it weren't in this shithole."