CHAPTER 11
'Feels good to be back,' was Vilkas' initial thought the moment he spotted the Dragonsreach tower from the distance. The night's temperate climate welcomed him as the gentle cool breeze brushed against his skin. This was the kind of night where it felt good to let the beast out and just roam the vast plain — not that he would, as tempting as it was.
Along the way, they encountered two patrolling guards. Lydia ordered one of them to inform the Jarl of their return. Hearing this, relief washed over Vilkas' body. Job done, despite the absence of their employer. Part of him regretted that they left the Dragonborn for the Stormcloaks; then again, she made a fair point — they wanted her more than the supply of enchanted armors.
While the Stormcloak captain had men stationed in The Pale, only few had patrolled the roads. They hadn't even engaged any when their carriage had traversed the main road. They were definitely close by, I could practically smell them lurking behind the trees.
He scoffed. Had they been planning an ambush while their party camped for the night, then their plan was futile. Marcurio had already suggested they rest near the Dwemer ruin — Alftand if he recalled the name correctly — before their journey to Wayward Pass.
By the time their carriage reached the gates, several guards were already waiting, including — to everyone's surprise — the Jarl of Whiterun, along with his steward and housecarl. Lydia's horse halted just as the three approached. "My Jarl." She slid off from her saddle and bowed lightly before her eyes scanned the vicinity. "This is... unexpected."
"So is your arrival." Jarl Balgruuf shifted his attention from her to the carriage behind. "As well as the Dragonborn's absence."
"There was..." Lydia paused and averted her gaze. "An incident."
Other than the small frown forming on his lips, the Jarl remained stoic. "I see... Proventus."
Said man approached the two Companions with two heavy pouches on his hands. "For the services you rendered. I'm certain you'll find them more than adequate."
"Lydia, come," Jarl Balgruuf ordered and said housecarl followed without question, though not before sparing a glance past the two Companions. When Vilkas turned around, he caught the Imperial mage's small nod before the latter gave him a small grin.
"Job well done, wouldn't you say?" Marcurio patted the twins' backs. "Well, except for losing our employer but the important thing is we brought everything back here safely."
"Uh... yeah, sure..." Farkas glanced over to his brother who regarded the Imperial with a blank stare.
"I think this calls for a celebration." Marcurio's lips stretched but his smile never reached his eyes. "There's a crate of Black-Briar Mead just for this occasion back at Breezehome—Valere's, not mine— but I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
Vilkas scrutinized the mage. Forced smile, racing heartbeat, tensed shoulders, something's up. In the corner of his eye, the guards passed while carrying the crates from the carriage to the gates. At first look, they seemed focused on the task at hand, but he caught a glimpse of a few glancing their way.
"So...?" Marcurio raised an eyebrow.
Jerking his head to the side, Vilkas responded, "lead the way."
Marcurio grinned. "Excellent."
Farkas lightly nudged his twin's side, but said nothing. He just furrowed his brows and tilted his head slightly to the side.
Vilkas knew that look — one his brother gave when the latter knew something was up but didn't have a clue what it was. "You go ahead. Tell everyone we're back."
"And you?"
Vilkas picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. "Getting a drink." He then walked ahead and followed the mage.
Stepping inside Breezehome, Vilkas instinctively studied the furnishings and decors of the Dragonborn's cozy little house; nothing there indicated that the owner absorbed dragon souls for a living, killed bandits on the side, nor dabbled in advanced mystic arts as a hobby. Even the books he spotted on the shelves were nothing one couldn't buy from Belethor's. The normalcy of it all was just too surreal for him. Briefly, he wondered if this was all some sort of illusion.
"Shocked me too the first time." Marcurio's statement brought the warrior out from his musings. "Thought I walked in the wrong house." His hand gestured at one of the chairs near the fire pit. "Have a seat."
Reluctantly, Vilkas did so whilst still inspecting the interior.
"Where's your brother?"
"Busy,"
Marcurio sighed. "Right. Let me just get—"
"Cut to the chase."
The Imperial halted from going to the room at the back then turned around, his brow arched up. Vilkas added, "you wouldn't invite me here unless you want something. What is it?"
"Can't I just invite a friend for a drink or two?"
Vilkas scoffed. "Friends? Since when?"
Marcurio smiled slowly. "Smarter than you look. Good." Ignoring the Companion's glare, he entered the back room then emerged with two bottles in one hand and a slim sheathed sword in the other.
Vilkas examined the scabbard, then shifted his gaze to the Imperial as the latter lay the weapon on his lap. Dumbfounded, he reluctantly reached for the hilt and slowly pulled out the single-edged slim blade. His eyes widened. "I don't understand..."
Marcurio began, "it's an Akaviri sword—"
"I know what it is," Vilkas shot back. "What I mean is, why?" An exotic blade like this wasn't something people just give away so easily. Even if the owner wasn't a warrior, certainly they would still consider it as a valuable artifact.
Marcurio shrugged. "A question you should ask Valere when you two meet again."
Vilkas' brow arched. "When we meet again?"
"That's the other reason why I wanted to talk to you." Marcurio sat down on the chair beside the Companion's. "We hoped you can render your services again."
"We?"
"Lydia and I."
Vilkas' eyes narrowed. "Just you two? No manipulative elf pulling the strings?"
"Let me ask..." Marcurio leaned back against his chair but his arm stretched forward as he offered the bottle of mead. "Knowing the Dragonborn for more than two weeks, do you think she's the sort who'd let someone— anyone— risk their life to save hers?"
Vilkas chose not to answer, and instead, took the offered alcohol, uncorked it and chugged down half of its contents. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, "What exactly do you want me to do?"
"So you'll take the job?"
"No."
"But you're interested?"
Vilkas paused. He could just flat-out refuse this job and walk away. Let them find someone else. He was done with her and whatever mess she would get herself into. But a part of him wanted to get involved. Was it his sense of honor? Sense of adventure? Both?
"Just want to know everything first before I make a decision," he replied. "And I mean everything. No more hidden agendas."
Marcurio took his time in sipping the mead, but his eyes never left the Nord. "I can't give you all the details right now. It may not even come to that point if the meeting goes well. But if it doesn't, I want to make sure that your services will be available."
"Why me?"
"Because you can hit things and lie."
Vilkas' hand clenched tightly on the bottle. "You dare insult my honor!?"
Yet Marcurio remained calm as he took another sip from the bottle. "No, I'm complimenting your skill and determination to get a job done." Not receiving any response aside from a glare, he drank the rest of his mead then stood up. "Another one?" The other man still remained silent whilst fixing him a deep scowl, hence, he added, "consider it a... peace offering for unintentionally offending your honor."
Vilkas twitched but forced himself to calm down. Getting pissed wasn't worth it. Taking a deep breath, he replied, "fine."
As the mage rummaged in the back room, Vilkas contemplated on his options. Infiltration wasn't his forte; stalking perhaps but then, it wasn't like he would be tracking a deer in the woods; although the idea of hunting down the Dragonborn as some kind of prey tickled his beast's interest. Just imagine pinning her down from behind and leaning down at the back of her neck. The scent of fear from that powerful mortal makes her all the more enticing to ravage—
"Vilkas?"
The Companion snapped out of his thoughts and looked up from the fire pit to the Imperial who held two bottles of Black Briar Mead. "What?"
"Everything all right? You look..."
Vilkas heard the loud thumping of the other man's heart as the latter stood stiffly. He must've looked murderous. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
"Right..." Marcurio nodded and, after handing the mead to the other man, he settled back down to his chair.
Vilkas could still hear the Imperial's heartbeat racing despite the casualness of the latter's posture while slowly sipping his drink. Hence, he awkwardly cleared his throat and began, "assuming I'll take the job, who am I going with?"
Marcurio blinked then he shook his head. "Just you, I'm afraid. Most likely, Lydia and I had been marked by the Stormcloaks and there are spies even here in Whiterun. If we make any suspicious move, it'll reach Ulfric's ears even before we can leave the gates."
"I might've been marked as one by now. They did try to use me and Farkas as bargaining tools."
"You were a means to an end to them. Besides, you're a mercenary. Doubt anyone expects loyalty from you after finishing a job."
"Aren't you the same?"
"Not since Valere hired me. My services after that had been... strictly exclusive." Marcurio took a long swig from the bottle. "I suggest taking random jobs for the time being. Any job — fetch-me-this, punch-that-prick, shovel-these-cowpat — doesn't matter which; so long as they think you're no longer involved."
"Assuming that we fool the spies here, I can't just stroll in Windhelm," Vilkas pointed out. "There'll be soldiers there who'd still recognize me."
"Then I suggest you lose that..." Marcurio pointed at the Companion armor and then the warrior's face. "And the beard."
Vilkas' hand reached up his jaw, his fingers brushing against his facial hair. Normally, he had already trimmed it — if not shaved it off — but then it helped in keeping him warm during their stay in Winterhold that it seemed impractical to get rid of it.
"Also, wash off the war paint."
Vilkas nodded absent-mindedly and drank some more mead. Makes sense... He rarely left Jorvaskr without it. He had to wonder though, what if Valere wouldn't recognize him? What did she think about his war paint anyway? Intimidating? Probably not; she fought dragons every what— fortnight? A glaring six-foot warrior would be unimpressive compared to giantic lizards.
"Anything else?"
Marcurio mused. "Maybe trim your hair—"
Vilkas slashed his hand through the air, silencing the mage. "Okay, that's where I draw the line." He had been forced to cut his hair short once; it was after some sticky sap stuck on his long hair while he and his fellow new-bloods were dealing with some smugglers in a cave. It was five months of non-stop insults from the rest of the Companions.
Marcurio rolled his eyes. "It's just hair. It'll grow back."
"Not the point." The very idea of Valere seeing that ridiculous hair irked Vilkas to no end. He could practically hear every form of mockery coming out of her lips.
"Oh come on!"
"No." No mission or any amount of septim would convince him otherwise — especially...
"Would you just do it for—"
"Not cutting it for Valere."
Silence fell as it dawned on both men what Vilkas had just said. Then, a small grin slowly formed on Marcurio's lips. "'Valere'? I was going to say 'for your own safety'. "
Blood rushed up Vilkas' face. Damn the mead! "I-it's not— that is—" When the mage started chuckling, his eyes narrowed. "Shut it."
Yet, the glare did nothing to intimidate Marcurio who continued to laugh. "Apologies. I've never considered..."
"It's not like that."
"Of course."
Vilkas breathed slowly and deeply then, after setting the bottle down on the floor, he stood up. "If there's nothing else, I'm going home."
"Already drunk?"
"Tired." Vilkas picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. When he turned to face the mage, the latter had his brow arched. "What?"
"Nothing." Marcurio stood up. "Lydia will update you with the plan. Give her a few days then she'll contact you."
"And you?"
"Leaving for Markarth on the morrow."
Vilkas' brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Research." Marcurio opened the door and smiled. "Sure you won't change your mind? Travelling back to Riften is dangerous. I am willing to pay any amount."
For a moment, Vilkas just blinked, wondering what the mage was babbling about. Then the sound of clanking armor caught his attention. Side-glancing, he spotted two guards as they slowed their pace when passing by Breezehome. Despite the full helmets hiding their faces, he could sniff their uneasiness from where he stood. His gut told him they were watching — or it could be his paranoia. Either way, he wasn't taking any chances. "Not interested. Find someone else."
Marcurio sighed. "Shame. Well, have a pleasant evening. It was a pleasure doing business with the Companions." And with that, he shut the door. The guards had then sped their pace up the stairs leading to the residential district.
Vilkas had half a mind to stalk them but reminded himself to play an uninvolved disinterested third party until further instruction. Turning the other way towards the market district, he headed back to Jorvaskr.
~oOo~
The main gate of Windhelm opened as the Stormcloaks marched across the bridge over the White River. Valere, while flanked by tall burly soldiers, glanced up and examined the old yet well-fortified stone walls. In all of her years in Skyrim, she never had the opportunity to visit the famed City of Kings — as what Vilkas had called it once while regaling her with the Companions' history. Nor had she been inclined to visit simply out of sheer curiosity; even before this gods-cursed war, there were stories of its residents'... inhospitable disposition towards just about anyone who wasn't a Nord. Shame really, despite its dreary, unwelcoming atmosphere, it would've been a great source of information about Skyrim's history.
Maybe 'His Highness' will let me at least explore for a few hours... she thought. After all, the only exit from the city would be the properly patrolled long bridge. Assuming she decided to escape, an invisibility spell wouldn't last long enough for her to cross Imperial territory — not to mention that she barely knew the landscape of Eastmarch and would most likely be found by Ulfric's men while lost in the woods.
"Move it elf."
Valere stumbled as a hand roughly pushed her forward. Looking over shoulders, she glared at the captain who sneered as he walked past her and the soldiers guarding her. Yet, she chose to hold her tongue; as much as she wanted to send the man flying straight to the nearest stone wall, she wasn't stupid enough to antagonize him further while still inside the bear's den.
At the far end of the city loomed the Palace of the Kings. It was difficult not to admire the impressive castle. More than four eras had passed and still, it stood so mightily even as countless blizzards, among others, battered its walls. It reminded her of every Nords' unyielding determination.
Or stubbornness...
Vilkas briefly crossed Valere's mind when she thought of that, and from there, recalled what Nelacar had told her just before she left the College. However, any further musings were put on hold as the large metal doors creaked open, revealing to her to the palace's interior.
Out of all the things currently present in the main hall, what caught Valere's attention was the most uncomfortable seat on top of a plinth at the end of the room. Probably next to Jarl Igmund's, but then again, at least it's not freezing in Markarth. Even the braziers on both sides of the throne certainly couldn't keep it warm. Either way, she noted to give Ulfric some sort of self-warming enchanted throw pillows as a victory gift should he win the war.
Speaking of the man, where is he? Valere looked around for anyone matching the description of an egotistic arse. The soldiers on her flank had left her side as they spoke to the two guards stationed by the door. The captain, meanwhile, had approached a mustached Nord in fine clothing. The two discussed something she couldn't pick up but judging by their hand movements, she would guess that it wasn't pleasant. In the end, the captain huffed before he stomped away to the room on the east side of the main hall.
Said well-dressed man then approached her with a warm smile she had not expected from anyone in this surly city. "Ah, Dragonborn. It's good you've accepted the Jarl's invitation."
Time for diplomacy. Valere returned the smile with the same warmth. "It is an honor. In all honesty, I've also been meaning to speak to Jarl Ulfric regarding the dragons, but I wasn't certain who to approach." Her smile turned sheepish. "I'm afraid my political connections are very limited."
"Yes, the Jarl also wished to discuss with you that matter," the Nord replied. " Your arrival, however, is unexpected. We assumed that you'd be arriving tomorrow noon, not tonight."
"Your captain ordered a forced march to Windhelm. He seemed adamant about it; I presumed the meeting is urgent, so I chose to comply." Or more like I had no choice but to do so. It was either walk freely or be dragged in chains.
The man frowned then inclined his head forward. "I must apologize for his behavior."
"It quite all right, er..."
"Jorleif, my lady. I am the Jarl's steward."
"A pleasure, Jorleif."
The steward called over two servants who then carried her pack and staff. "Your quarters' this way. If you'll follow me please."
Valere joined him as they ascended the southwestern stairs of the main hall, all while she listened to him informing her of the castle's layout. The man seemed amiable to her surprise. Part of her thought that she would need to cast an illusion spell on everyone in the city just to get along with them. Then again, maybe he was just an exception.
"Unfortunately, the Jarl's still in a meeting with his housecarl," Jorleif explained. "But it will be over soon."
They stopped, and the steward opened the door. Valere examined the well-lit room's furnishings — a double bed at the center, asome dressers, a table with two wooden chairs, and shelves filled with books and figurines. The two servants entered and set her things down beside the dresser, then four mre female servants arrived — two carrying the tub filled with hot water, one carrying the dressing screen, and another an emerald lambswool dress lined with vair.
Her brow arched up as she faced the servants. "... Thank you?" Is this some form of bribery? Ulfric's buttering me up, isn't he?
"Is there anything else you need Dragonborn?" Jorleif said.
Valere smiled. "This is more than enough. Thank you Jorleif."
"A pleasant evening then my lady."
The steward and four servants bowed lightly and left. With a flick her of hand, the door's lock clicked shut. Sighing, she eyed the tub behind the screen. If this was his plan to persuade her to join, he needed a better offer.
Still, she saw nothing wrong with indulging a bit; the hot bath looked inviting. So she stripped off her robes, loosened the tie of her ponytail, and slowly submerged her body into the water. The tub was meant for a Nord so there was more room for her legs to stretch.
Leaning her head back against the edge, she stared at the ceiling whilst letting her mind wander off. The others probably crossed The Pale border by now. Holding her breath, she sank her head under the water and washed the grime off her hair. Knowing Lydia, she'll try mounting a rescue, probably petition the Jarl for soldiers to accompany her. She hoped Balgruuf would deny it; but then Lydia's rarely discouraged should the first plan fail, especially if it involved her duties, such as protecting her Thane.
Valere stepped out of the tub and quickly grabbed the lcloth hanging on top of the screen. "She isn't reckless at least," she said whilst hurriedly drying her skin as goosebumps dotted every inch of it. Hopefully I escape before whatever plan she has comes into fruition.
Her gaze darted over to the dress on her bed. For a moment, she considered sticking to her robes out of defiance— let Ulfric know that no matter what luxurious items he showered her, she wasn't interested in joining this stupid war. But offending a Jarl — an arrogant one at that — was just asking for the headman's axe, and her title as Dragonborn might not save her this time. Nobles generally tended to be irrational when they felt their honor had been slighted.
So she donned her smallclothes, followed by a linen shift, and over the warm dress. As she pulled up the two pairs of hose for her legs, someone knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" Valere said whilst lacing her boots that reached up to her knees.
"Supper, my lady," a woman's voice replied.
Flicking her hand, the door opened as a servant entered while holding a tray with both hands. The smell of hot mouth-watering venison stew wafted through her nostrils. Her stomach then grumbled, reminding her that her last meal had been this morning which consisted of just a loaf of bread with goat cheese. The servant set the tray down on the table and that was when Valere noticed there were two bowls and two bottles of mead.
"Dragonborn."
Turning towards the door, Valere found a blonde Nord standing so regal and upright in his chainmail and fur-trimmed surcoat. He definitely fits the description.
She bowed her head and responded, "Jarl Ulfric."
The man entered casually as his eyes surveyed the room. For a moment, he remained silent, which gave Valere this urge to fidget or speak just to fill the awkward gap. But she restrained herself. This is what he wanted — for her to open up first. So she just watched him quietly as he strolled the fairly large room whilst examining the furnishings.
"W-will this be all my jarl?" The servant's hesitant voice broke the silence. Her body stiffened as two pairs of eyes focused on her. "I-if there's anything else..."
Then the jarl's gaze shifted, his blue eyes met green. "I trust everything suits your needs?"
"Yes, this is more than adequate." Valere stretched her lips but the smile never reached her eyes. If he wanted to intimidate me, the throne room would be the best place. So what's he doing here?
"You may go," Ulfric told the servant who, after bowing, scurried off and closed the door behind her. He then gestured a hand towards the table, a small smirk on his lips. "Join me."
Shouldn't that be my line? Valere thought while staring at his hand. After all, this was her meal... Or is it? The food, the silverware, the room, everything in this castle, they were and always would be his; and he could feed her full or starve her to death, depending on his whim.
Her nose flared at the sheer audacity of this man. But more than that, it infuriated her that she could do nothing but play his game, because right now, she lacked enough information to form a solid strategy against him. So, she forced a smile and replied, "thank you, your grace."
They sat across each other and ate. The stew was delicious, Valere would admit to that, but her focus was entirely on Ulfric's next move that she cared little if the meal was worse than what she would cook.
The 'would-be-king' ate quietly, so calm and composed that she wondered if he even noticed the palpable tension in the room. The very sight irked her that she decided to make a move. "How goes the war, your grace?"
Ulfric took his time in drinking his mead before he replied, "Well enough. How goes the dragon menace?"
"Proceeding well." Evasive, aren't we? I can use this. Valere took a slow sip of her mead. Either the stalemate bothers him or he's losing more than I realized. Maybe that was why he needed her to join them — an elf, among other things. "Now that you've mentioned it, I just remembered. I've stumbled upon an Imperial camp along the Rift while taking down a dragon." She held back a grin as the jarl stopped midway from bringing his spoon to his mouth.
Ulfric lowered the spoon back to the bowl. "Interesting." He leaned forward, his lower arms now resting on the table. "Tell me more."
Valere grinned and leaned back. "Oh? I thought your war's doing well."
Ulfric's lips curled into a deep scowl. "It wasn't a request."
"Every information has its price."
"Yes, your head for that location."
"My head?" Valere threw her head back and laughed. "Pray tell, oh future High King, do you have a spare Dragonborn tucked away somewhere?"
Silence enveloped the room once more, but this time, she reveled in every second of it.
Shoulders tensed, the jarl narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"
Now we're getting somewhere. "Simple." She leaned forward. "Freedom. I'll tell you the location, and in exchange, you will leave me and my associates alone."
"No."
"Ulfirc, don't be unrea—"
"It's Jarl Ulfric." He stood up suddenly, his large frame casting a shadow over her. "Remember that the next time you flaunt your insolence."
Valere met his gaze and glared back, matching the same intensity as his. "Tell me the reason then. Why bring me here? Why threaten the College?" He did not answer so she stood up and despite how short she was compared to him, she did not falter as she continued, "is it for the rebellion? If that's the case, let me tell you this: I have no interest in your petty war."
She expected another threat, maybe an attempt to bribe her with lands and titles. What she didn't expect was the blank stare he gave before he burst out laughing.
Blinking, all she could say was, "w-what...?"
The man continued laughing for a few more seconds, and when it died down, he smirked. "That's presumptuous of you, elf. What makes you think I want you in my army?"
Blood rushed up to her cheeks; all she wanted to do then was bury herself under a hole. Was Enthir wrong? No, that can't be. He had always been accurate with his information. Could he have lied? No, she knew Enthir well enough that his loyalty had and always would be with the College and he owed her enough favors not to double-cross her.
Ulfric sat down again, this time with a smug grin plastered on his face. "But if you truly want to serve in my army, perhaps I can find you something to do. We're still in need of serving girls or bed-warmers—"
"YOL!"
Poised as though she was a sabrecat ready to lunge, Valere panted as the burst of fire passed over the jarl's shoulder and struck the wall behind, leaving burnt marks on it once the flames had died down. "One more insult, Ulfric..." She hissed, "and I swear, I will not miss."
Despite the threat, the jarl still remained unfazed. "Has Master Arngeir failed to teach you not to use the Thu'um so irresponsibly?"
"Like what you did with Torygg? Killing a young man with your Shout?"
"My blade killed him, making him an even more incompetent ruler."
For a moment, she thought her accusation broke through him; his jaws clenching tightly at the mention of his crime. However, guards suddenly burst in the room led by an old burly Nord wearing a bear helmet. "Ulfric, the whole palace just shook. What—" The scorch marks caught his attention. "What in Oblivion—" Drawing his sword, he charged towards the Dragonborn. "You bitc—"
"Galmar. Stay your hand," Ulfric ordered.
"But, she—"
"—Merely honored me with her Voice." He stood up. "And I was about to return the favor." Closing his eyes, he shouted, "YOL!"
The fire passed over Valere's shoulder as well, the flames almost caressing her cheek. That bastard! She wanted to strangle him— burn him— especially with the haughty look on his face. But she couldn't — not with Galmar and his men in the room, not when his soldiers still occupy Winterhold, not when spies still hide in Whiterun.
And this just brought her back to square one— where she had no choice but to play by his rules. Through gritted teeth, she begrudgingly asked, "so, your grace, what is it you ask from me?" The man looked so pleased with himself that it was hard not to slap him then and there.
"There is something that requires your skill," Ulfric explained, "a dragon guards an old Nordic ruin in The Pale. It has attacked anyone that comes near the area."
Must be guarding a Shout, Valere mused. "And which ruin is this?"
"Korvanjund."
END OF CHAPTER
A/N: Hi guys. Sorry if this took a while. Law school kept me busy again and during Christmas break, a really strong typhoon hit my hometown, so I couldn't upload this. Plus, I think I rewritten this chapter thrice because I couldn't decide whether to put Valere's scene here or not. Hence, this chapter is longer than usual. And, oh god, this is the first time I've written Ulfric and I'm not sure if I got him right. Let me know if he's out of character.
