Ulfric sat astride his horse; snow and ash were swept about by the rush of air from its nostrils. He saw Solitude in the distance, he saw columns of smoke rising from the parapets of the Blue Palace. Some of his men had already rushed the hold, but he knew that; he had given the orders from his own Palace shortly before he rode out.
Galmar was waiting for him at the camp. He had ridden from Windhelm alone. Everyone in Skyrim probably knew of the battle to come, but he wasn't keen on advertising it. At least, not until he'd won.
He shook those thoughts from his head. He hated to admit it, but his strength was not his own; the Gods had been gracious enough to send him the Dragonborn. If that wasn't a divine command to win this bloody war, Ulfric didn't know what was.
He urged his horse through Dragon Bridge and up the path towards their camp. He wasn't really sure of it's location, for he'd only made it to Haafinger a handful of times. He wasn't exactly loved by Elisif. He was sure that the assassination of the Emperor had been blamed on him by someone, and those Empire-loving Imperials in Solitude would probably lose their damned heads if they had a chance to get their hands on Ulfric Stormcloak.
He had put almost a decade of his life into the cause. He would see it through, even if it ended in his death.
As he rode into the camp, he nearly jumped off of his horse and tore into Cairn-Breaker's tent. Istar was suiting himself up. Ulfric watched him clasp the pelt of the bear over his leather armor. He shivered. While Windhelm was bitter cold and almost always ravaged by blizzards, the crisp air of Solitude was just as chilling.
"Jarl Ulfric," Istar grumbled, turning around and placing a fist over his heart, followed by a curt nod. That was the Stormcloak greeting. Ulfric had first started using it to tell his men apart from impostors an infiltrators from the Legion, and it had quickly been adopted as their official greeting.
"Istar," Ulfric said, quickly returning the greeting. "Where is Galmar? Where is the rest of our host?"
"We've sent a small group of men into the city to distract the guards while we wait for Galmar. He's said to be leading at least two-thousand men."
"What do you mean?" Ulfric asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Istar Cairn-Breaker's uneasy tone. "Is it not certain that he's bringing two-thousand men?"
"He gave word that he met Snow-Blood on his way here," Istar said. Ulfric felt a wave of nausea, followed by excitement. He knew that the Dragonborn would keep her word. She always had. "But he wasn't sure exactly how many soldiers they had… And he mentioned that they aren't all Nords."
Ulfric should've known. He never should've let those Khajiit join his ranks… But she had been right. If he turned them away, they probably would've gone straight to Solitude, and to Tullius. Not only that, but they would've spread word of Ulfric's prejudice. That would've definitely strengthened the Legion.
Ulfric was a racist. His father had raised him as one. When he was a child, the previous Jarl had lead him through Windhelm, through the Gray Quarters, out to the docks. The Jarl had told him what kind of dark things those Elves had been planning, and what treasons they would commit against the people of Skyrim, if they were ever given the chance. He had told young Ulfric about the filthy Argonians. He had said that they didn't belong in this land, and Ulfric had believed him.
When Ulfric fought for the Empire, he was taken prisoner by the High Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion. The torture he had endured to protect the secrets of his homeland was unspeakable. And his fellow soldiers never came for him! After all he had sacrificed while retaking the Reach in the name of the Emperor, the Empire had deserted him. That Thalmor bitch Elenwen had taken so much delight in interrogating Ulfric… He wished he could erase his memories of it.
Despite the way that he was raised, and the evils he had faced at the hands of the Elves, he found himself wanting to listen to Snow-Blood. He was sure that it was the effects of her Voice that made him so compliant, but part of him wanted to believe that it was his own will, too.
She was more than the lifeless husk that Ulfric thought she was. She proved it the day that she spoke against him. If he won this war, and ultimately the Moot, he vowed to protect the people of Skyrim. And she was right. As long as Skyrim was home to the Elves, the Orcs, the Argonians, and the Khajiit, they were his people too.
Ulfric raised his proud head to face Istar. "It is of no consequence. Their hands are as good as any Nord's." He turned to face the camp, where the resident soldiers were layering themselves with leathers and armor. These were his men and women, his sons and daughters. These were his fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. These were his people. They had fought for him for almost a decade, and they had died for his cause and his promises. He felt a surge of pride in his heart.
"Brothers and sisters," he shouted as he stepped out of Istar Cairn-Breaker's tent. Most of them looked up. "Prepare yourselves." He looked around and tried to make eye contact with every single face that he saw. There were more men than women, but the few women he saw looked fiercely proud. All of them looked fiercely proud. "When Galmar and his men arrive, we lay siege to the city."
There was a hearty cheer of agreement among his people and they began to work once again, twice as hard as they were working before. Ulfric turned back to Istar.
"When did you receive word from Galmar?" he asked. The commander looked dumbfounded. He took a moment to answer Ulfric's question.
"He should be here within the hour, my lord." At that, Ulfric gave a brisk nod and ducked out of the tent. It was then that he heard the first sounding of the horn.
His people stopped in their tracks; they all looked at one another in confusion. Ulfric, too, was confused. Where had the sound come from? But he knew the answer before anyone else. That war horn belonged to-
"It's Galmar!"
Istar had come out from the tent when the horn sounded again, cutting through the air and causing a flock of black birds to take wing from the trees in a skyward flurry. Ulfric noticed that he was fully prepared for battle, wearing the armor of the Great Bear with pride. It made his heart swell with happiness.
The two of them rushed forward to the end of the ledge on which the camp was settled; it hung precariously over the northern channel that separated Haafinger from the rest of Skyrim and made it so difficult to occupy. When his eyes adjusted to the harsh, direct sunlight, Ulfric couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Thousands of soldiers were marching through the river.
Some had horses, some were trudging through the muck up to their chins while holding their sword over their heads. Others had taken to carrying their less-capable brothers and sisters through the more treacherous parts of the water. Ulfric immediately spotted Galmar and raised a hand to him. Galmar responded by sounding his war horn for a third time.
Istar was wrong; there were more men here than Ulfric could count. He made an estimate of at least four-thousand, if not more. They were flooding the river and marching up the side of the ledge, as if they were all part of one single body. Ulfric felt as if he would swell up with so much pride, he would burst. He heard the sounds of grinding armor and stamping boots, he heard the wet sloshing of a thousand bodies through the rapids. The smell of sweat and fresh mud assaulted his nostrils, but he raised his head to welcome the pungent scent. These were his people. Dark Elves, Argonians, Nords… They were all part of the same body, and they would all be a part of the arm whose sword would sever General Tullius' head.
Galmar was shepherding the men and women towards the ledge where Ulfric was standing. It was too steep to climb, but Ulfric was sure that Galmar was leading them there to hear Ulfric speak before joining him in the siege. They were here to bleed for Skyrim and die for his cause; the least he could do was provide them with a few words of encouragement. They didn't look like they needed it, however. From what Ulfric could see, the many pairs of eyes that fixed on him were burning with passion and bloodlust. Those were two things that Ulfric knew best.
Galmar shouted down to the men and women as loud as he possibly could, but his voice could barely reach the ones that were standing on Haafinger's banks, let alone the ones that were still trudging through the muck and crossing the lower field. He tried again to shout, Ulfric tried as well, but it was simply too loud for either of them to be heard over the commotion.
"Stormcloaks," came the Shout, as clear as day. It seemed to resonate through the air and project into the sky. It was then that he looked to Galmar's side and saw her. Snow-Blood. Only the Dragonborn could've flawlessly incorporated the Thu'um into her speech as Sif had done. Everyone on land had stopped, even the soldiers crossing the river made conscious efforts to deaden their loud sloshing.
She was dressed in what looked like ebony armor; Ulfric had only seen it a handful of times in his life. She also had a set of light furs pinned around her shoulders. She had probably made quick work of some bear or Sabre cat in the northern wilds. Even though she was standing at a distance, Ulfric could clearly see that she had changed. Her face was flushed and the pale glow of her eyes had dimmed. She looked more… Human. It was strange to be able to distinguish such subtle features from so far away.
Her eyes were fixed on him, as were Galmar's, as were the rest of the men and women that stood before him.
"Stormcloaks!" Ulfric shouted, echoing Sif as well as he could. "This is it! It is time to make this city ours!" There was a wave of shouts from the soldiers standing below him. "We come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and the courage of our fellows, those who have fallen, and those still bearing the shields to our right!"
He nodded to Galmar, who gestured for the men and women to begin their march up the hill. Ulfric continued to shout over the noise, as loud as he could. "On this day, brothers and sisters, out enemy will witness the fullness of our determination, the true depth of our anger, and the exalted righteousness of our cause! The gods are watching! The spirits of our ancestors are stirring, and the men under suns yet to dawn will be transformed by what we do here today! Fear neither pain, nor darkness!"
Thousands of voices rose to echo his last phrase. "Fear neither pain, nor darkness!" It was the most magnificent thing Ulfric had ever heard. His soldiers were storming up the hillsides, now, and Ulfric could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet. If Tullius knew what was coming for him, he would've surrendered long ago.
"Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands, and courage in their hearts! We fight out way to Castle Dour, Stormcloaks, to cut the head off the Legion itself, and in that moment, the gods will look down and see Skyrim as she was meant to be! Full of Nords- no, full of free people who are mighty and powerful!" He turned around and waved to the soldiers in waiting behind him. They had their weapons drawn, causing him to immediately brandish his. There was fiery blood coursing through his veins. "Ready, now, everyone with me! For all the sons and daughters of Skyrim!"
There was one collective yell of bloodlust as his soldiers charged up the hillside towards the gate. Ulfric himself ran with them and watched as they began to scale the walls and take down the archers that stood in the towers. He could smell the acrid smoke as he got closer to the interior of the city; from the outside, it looked as if the Blue Palace was on fire, but it seemed to be coming from the center of the city.
Ulfric faintly heard his name being called from somewhere far behind. He turned to see Galmar in the distance, axe raised above his head, with Snow-Blood in tow.
"Galmar!" he clasped his friend on the shoulder, briefly, and stepped aside with him as his people flooded the city. "There are so many people, where did you-"
"It was Snow-Blood, here," he said, gesturing to Sif. She had her blade of ice drawn. Was Ulfric's mind playing tricks on him, or had her eyes changed, too?
"It is no matter," Ulfric said, looking at them. "I am grateful to you both. Come, we have a city to take."
And so they began to cut their way toward the castle. Ulfric was sure to stay near Galmar and Sif as they moved through the crowds of clashing swords. As they went through the marketplace, Ulfric could see a crowd of Imperials rushing in their direction. It was the perfect opportunity.
"Fus roh DAH!" Ulfric Shouted, letting the burst of pure energy come straight from his diaphragm. The Imperials rushing him were sent flying skyward. Wherever they landed, would be where they died. He let the bloodlust fill him up again, to set all his senses on overdrive. He would need all of his energy if he was going to shout again.
"Yol toor SHUL!" he heard, behind him. He whirled around just in time to see a score of soldiers screaming as their skin boiled alive beneath their scalding hot armor. He looked to Snow-Blood; her face was flushed and the furs around her shoulders were speckled with blood.
She had used her voice. Ulfric hadn't seen it, but he still felt it in his chest. Her eyes met his. As wild as she looked in that moment, her eyes were as calm as the clear sky. He nodded to her and held his axe aloft. He heard Galmar shouting from some distance up ahead and realized that they were nearly in the castle's courtyard; they had only to follow the path northward.
"With me!" he shouted to the throng of Stormcloaks lingering nearby. Some of them looked terrified, but most of them had the savage aura of battle about them. He watched Snow-Blood out of the corner of his eye as the lot of them charged up the hill, into the courtyard.
"The archers," Sif said quietly, barely above a whisper. Ulfric was surprised he could hear her over the noise of battle. Sure enough, as he looked along the upper walkways and parapets of the towers lining the courtyard, there were Imperial archers surrounding them. He spotted Galmar doing battle with three foot soldiers; he also saw the archer on the west wall, notching an arrow.
"Galmar, move!" Ulfric managed to yell, before he charged forward. He heard a wooden clank as the arrow landed on the ground at their feet; it looked as if it had been was frozen. He looked back at Sif, wondering if she had used her Voice. There was a Dunmer man standing beside her. The Dunmer had intercepted the arrow with an ice spike from his hand. As he and Galmar continued to fend off the swarming Imperials, he noticed more elves flooding the courtyard. They were all using magic, taking down the archers along the wall and striking down the soldiers that rushed them.
He watched his men and women fighting against the Imperials as closely as he could. As much as he tried to pay attention to all of them, he couldn't help but train his focus on Sif. She moved as swiftly as he had ever seen. It wasn't a stylish movement, that was certain, but it certainly was quick and precise. He now had no doubt that she was trained by thieves, and the Dark Brotherhood.
A good amount of his soldiers had flooded the courtyard area, taken down the archers, and were now doing battle with the Imperials that seemed to keep relentlessly coming from the castle one after the other. He began to smell the metallic combination of blood, burnt hair, and stinking sweat. The noises of battle drowned out all other sounds and made any communication among the men very difficult. Ulfric could barely hear Galmar's grunts as he swung his heavy axe, even though the man was right next to him.
"If we're going into the castle, we need to do it now," he heard Sif say when she somehow joined their party of two, making it three. "Tullius and Rikke are not out here." He watched her deflect an incoming blow with her ice blade, only to retaliate with a fatal slash to her opponent's throat. Warm blood sprayed over the two of them; Ulfric could've sworn that he tasted one of the wayward drops in his mouth.
"Ulfric! We need to go!" he heard Galmar yell. He and Sif turned and ran for the door while Galmar fought off the few Imperials that noticed them running for the entrance to Castle Dour. Ulfric threw a glance over his shoulder as he and Sif slid through the door; Galmar came in after them and pushed it shut.
"Secure the door, make sure no one gets it," Ulfric said quietly to Galmar. He felt his adrenaline rush begin to subside. They were out of the heat and the noise, and Ulfric was relieved to have a break from the tension. The fighting could still be heard outside, though, even through the castle's thick stone walls. He looked at Sif, standing at his side, looking in the direction of the room ahead of them. Rikke stood in the doorway.
She hasn't changed, Ulfric thought to himself. It's such a shame. She would've made an outstanding Stormcloak.
"It's already done, Ulfric," Galmar said, coming up behind them as they walked towards the doorway. Rikke disappeared; Ulfric saw her walk to Tullius' side when he entered the large room.
"Ulfric, stop," Rikke said, holding up her hands and stepping in front of Tullius. He was seated in the corner with his head down. He had given up, as any man would've done, if they too saw the size of Ulfric's army.
"Stop what?" Ulfric felt the fire return to his veins. "Taking Skyrim back from those who would leave her to rot?"
Rikke shook her head. "You're wrong, Ulfric. We need the Empire! Without it, Skyrim will assuredly fall to the Dominion."
"You were there with us, Rikke," Galmar growled at Ulfric's side. "You saw it! The day the Empire signed that damn treaty was the day the Empire died!" Ulfric had almost forgotten that Galmar was with him, even in his days with the Legion.
As Rikke and Galmar traded insults, Ulfric looked out of the corner of his eye. Sif had drawn a dagger from her belt, quietly.
"Tullius has given up," Rikke said, capturing Ulfric's attention once more. "But I have not."
Ulfric didn't want to fight his old comrade. They had fought together, once, as brothers and sisters in combat. And she would choose to die for the Empire? "Rikke, please go. You're free to leave." He wanted her to accept his mercy, so he could be spared from the dark deed of ending her life.
"I'm also free to stay, and fight for what I believe in." Ulfric's heart sank. He would have to kill her after all.
"You're also free to die for it." His heart was heavy as he reached for the pommel of his blade; he would have to kill her. She shook her head and took an aggressive stance, causing Galmar to flinch in alarm.
"Is this what you wanted, Ulfric? Shield brothers and sisters killing each other?" she asked, gesturing to the both of them. "Families torn apart? This is the Skyrim you want?" She drew her sword from her side, and Ulfric saw a familiar shine in her eyes. It would've been passionate, once, but now it was fringed with defeat. "That's not the Skyrim I want to live in."
Galmar took his axe in his hands and prepared for battle, but Ulfric wasn't yet convinced. He prayed to Talos that there were remnants of the Rikke he once knew. "You don't have to do this," he said, remaining calm and searching her eyes once more. She shook her head in despair.
"You've left me no choice," she said, quietly. Her eyes shifted to Sif, who quietly stood at Ulfric's side. "I would rather go down fighting than give up. I think it's fitting that we die by each other's hands, don't you?"
Ulfric looked to Sif. She was staring at Rikke with nothing but pure hatred and deadly intent. Knowing her nature, Ulfric guessed that she had been planning a silent strike with her dagger, yet she still held it in her hand. She said nothing. She only looked to Ulfric and Galmar.
Ulfric drew his sword as the tension broke and Rikke came charging forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest and knocking the wind out of him. He could say what he wanted about the Imperials, but they made some damn fine armor.
He stumbled backward, but quickly regained his footing with a leveled strike at Rikke's left side, which she avoided by quickly darting to the right. Galmar swung his axe broad-side to knock her forward, right toward Ulfric. He took advantage of the opportunity by taking a downward vertical swing. If he timed it right, it could split her skull in two.
There was a sharp metallic clang as the steel of his sword met hers. He growled with frustration and heard her do the same. They were always equals in the Legion, unfortunately she had continued her training while Ulfric had disregarded his. He swung at her like a madman while Galmar did everything in his power to knock her to her knees, yet she fought with the same ferocity that had always driven her to triumph over her enemies.
Ulfric felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He swore he had heard whispering, just grazing his ear. It was like the sensation of someone breathing next to it; yet he was in the heat of a difficult battle! He could feel the sweat running down his back in droplets, but he suddenly felt like he was freezing.
In the midst of all the pointed strikes and efforts to bring her down, he noticed that Sif was nowhere to be found. Yet, the chill in the air that always accompanied her presence had somehow gotten… Stronger?
Rikke's sword was suddenly flung from her hand and she cried out in horror and wonder. Galmar, too, was shoved backward by some unseen force. He looked at Ulfric, bewildered. Rikke barely had time to look up at Ulfric before her arms were pinned to her sides, and she was forced onto her knees.
"Rikke… By the Gods, what are you doing? Do you surrender?" Ulfric asked, gripping his sword tightly and tossing a glance in Galmar's direction. Rikke suddenly screamed as her body lurched toward the floor, her face stopping inches from the stone. Her arms jutted out behind her, twisting unnaturally as they moved straight upward. Her screams were unnatural. Ulfric heard two distinct popping noises, followed by a grotesque crunch.
Something had twisted her arms behind her and broken them. Then it had broken her back.
Ulfric stepped back in alarm as her arms dropped back to her sides and her body seemed to be lifted back into a kneeling position. Her eyes trained on him; he saw nothing but misery in them, now. Her fire had been completely extinguished.
"Using magic… Ulfric, that's… Low," she let out a feeble cough, and her face was lifted skyward. She started to scream again, but all that came out was a disgusting gargle. Out of her neck spurted a jet of black blood, and her body fell to the floor. Whatever was left of her was gone.
Sif appeared, as if from thin air. In her hand was the same dagger she had before, but it was covered in blood. Blood was spattered on her once white furs, and a few flecks were scattered across her pale face. She looked up at Ulfric with flaming eyes, panting.
"How… What was that?" Ulfric said quietly, looking at her with confusion. Ulfric suddenly saw that there was life in her features; that's what was changing. As she fought with them, she became more alive than she was before.
"You killed her! Damn you!" Galmar shouted, brandishing his axe once more. "You used magic, didn't you? She was ours to fight, that had nothing to do with you!"
"I didn't use magic," she said quietly, in that same level voice that Ulfric had begun to hear around every corner.
"That was the power of the Thu'um, wasn't it, Dragonborn?"
The three of them turned to look at Tullius, who stood in the corner. He was looking at Rikke's broken body with a sorrowful expression.
"That's what you did to my host, isn't it? When I sent you to Korvanjund for the Crown with a group of my men, and no one returned," he looked up at Sif with nothing but pure hatred. "You massacred my soldiers and took the Crown to Ulfric."
"Yes," Sif said, and simply nodded. Ulfric saw Tullius clench his fists at his side.
"You know this is what they wanted," he said, turning to face Ulfric. "The Thalmor stirred up trouble here in Skyrim, and weakened it by having us divert needed resources and throw away good soldiers quelling your rebellion."
"It's a bit more than a rebellion, don't you think?" Ulfric responded, switching his sword to the other hand and raising an eyebrow at Tullius. He seemed so placid, for someone who was about to meet Oblivion. Galmar scoffed in agreement.
He looked at Rikke once more before looking up at the three of them. "We aren't the bad guys, you know."
"Maybe not. But you certainly aren't the good guys," Ulfric said, earning another scoff from Galmar.
"Perhaps you're right. But then what does that make you?"
"You said it yourself," Ulfric replied, looking to Galmar.
"It makes us right," Galmar growled, obviously ready to spill more Imperial blood.
There was another pause as Tullius stared at Rikke, contemplating his death. Ulfric knew that Sif's power was enough to put a chill in the blood of even the most seasoned war leader; the Gods knew that Ulfric felt it himself.
"And if I surrender?" Tullius said quietly, not bothering to look up. Ulfric shook his head.
"The Empire I remember never surrendered."
"That Empire is dead, and so are you!" Galmar said, gripping his axe and narrowing his eyes in disgust.
Tullius nodded placidly and sighed. "So be it."
Galmar growled and looked at Ulfric, then briefly to Sif.
"Come on then, just kill him and let's be done with it already! I've had enough of this bloody battle!" he said, when Ulfric made no move forward. He was still looking between Tullius and Rikke, still registering the enormity of the scene before him. He had witnessed his former comrade being slaughtered right before him, and now his greatest adversary was surrendering without protest. It all seemed too easy.
"Come, Galmar," Ulfric said, looking at his friend. "Where's your sense of the dramatic moment?"
Galmar rolled his eyes. "By the gods!" he growled, strapping his axe to his back once again. "If it's a good ending to some damn story you're after, perhaps the Dragonborn should be the one to do it. She already killed Rikke, why not bloody kill Tullius too?"
Ulfric heard the plain sarcasm and frustration in Galmar's voice as he angrily gestured to Sif with a sweep of his arm. Ulfric chuckled to himself and turned to her. He noticed again the new life in her face, almost like a fleshy glow had spread over her cheeks and seeped into her eyes. Even her hair looked like it was filled with life. What was inky black and the darkness incarnate before was now fanned out upon the blood-flecked furs around her shoulders. Her armor was quite magnificent as well… Ulfric snapped back to reality when he found his mind wandering. Now was not the time to worry about Snow-Blood's fancy armor.
"Well, Dragonborn," he cleared his throat and dashed any odd thoughts from his mind. "What do you say? Do you want the honor?"
Her yellow-gold eyes flicked to the sword in Ulfric's hand, then to Tullius, who was kneeling next to Rikke's body quietly. Ulfric remembered the very reason she had joined him, and the very reason she had betrayed the Imperials. She wanted revenge for what happened in Helgen. She wanted to destroy Tullius and the Empire. He remembered that she wanted to pay them back for imprisoning her and almost taking her head off.
But she looked back to Ulfric, and shook her head.
"Like Galmar said, I killed the Legate. I think the honor belongs to you," she said, stepping back and nodding to Tullius. Her eyes followed Ulfric as he approached the General and gripped his sword with both hands. With one swing, and a fleshy thump, Tullius' head fell onto the pile of bones that was once his Legate. When he looked back up at Sif, he thought he would see bloodlust in her eyes. There was only placid calm.
"They'll sing of this day for centuries, Ulfric!" Galmar said, coming around the table and clapping him on the back. "Your army will be waiting to greet you. Good on you, Dragonborn. You saved some of the killing for us."
Ulfric ignored him as he ambled toward the door. He approached Sif and sheathed his sword. She smelled of blood.
"The men will expect a speech," Ulfric said, absentmindedly brushing dirt from his furs as he spoke. "Will you stand by my side? I wish to honor you, Dragonborn, and the truest of Stormcloaks."
She hesitated for a moment before giving a curt nod in response. As she brushed past him, he couldn't help himself.
"When you used your Thu'um… Did you feel that?" he found himself asking her, quietly. She stopped walking for a moment and turned to him.
"It's called the Thread. All who have the Voice can feel it."
So much of his life was explained in that simple sentence… His connection with Arngeir and the Greybeards, his reluctance to seek out and destroy the dragons, even the feeling he felt when Sif entered a room. She turned to leave again, and he cursed himself for speaking once more.
"Wait outside with Galmar, Red-Shadow," he said, turning to the bodies behind him. He couldn't look at her any longer. His thoughts always became so muddled when she was nearby, and he needed to focus on the tasks at hand.
"I thought I was Snow-Blood," he heard her slightly bemused tone from the hallway. He didn't respond. He waited until he heard the heavy door shut behind her, before he turned to face the world once more.
"No," he whispered out loud, more to himself than anything else. "Your veins are no longer frozen. You move like a shadow, and you leave a red trail behind wherever you tread."
He swallowed his pride, and his fear, and everything he had felt that day. He mopped the sweat from his face and took a swig of stale wine from one of the abandoned tankards on the near table. It was time to face the new world that he had given rise to. It was time to face Skyrim. More importantly, it was time to face Red-Shadow.
He had some serious questions for her this time, and he was certain that she would not leave his sight until they were answered.
