This shithole, as Argis had so aptly named it, becomes Ulfric's little kingdom. He presides over his court of one, ruling over no subjects - instead of such he has an ally, even if their allegiance stands on the shaky legs of a newborn colt.
Over the following two years it grows in strength, and with it Ulfric also witnesses his friend change. From the country boy who had first visited him out of a bewildering mix of curiosity and the inane drive to speak to the man he back then held responsible for his brother's death, the blond Nord matures into a warrior Ulfric himself would be proud to see in the looking-glass. Instead there is a pale ghost staring back at him, with too-gaunt cheeks and burning eyes he never dares to meet.
While he is stuck in his prison, his wings cropped, Argis rises through the ranks in the same manner an eagle soars towards the highest peaks; seemingly without effort, and faster than Ulfric can keep track of. His friend now wields the kind of authority he had first witnessed in the Legion. A nod from the soldier is enough to send the prison ward running, caught somewhere mid-way between a salute and the need to obey.
The two remaining men share a chuckle over the jailor's comic retreat.
Argis gifts Ulfric with a childlike grin that tells the Jarl's son that he thoroughly enjoys every second of his command. He uses his own set of keys to let himself into the cell.
Once, a long-enough time ago that he probably does not think about it anymore, he had caught Ulfric looking, hunger for the freedom denied to him burning in the blond's eyes.
"Don't," he had said, "I can take you." Almost like he wished Ulfric would give him reason to prove it.
He didn't back then, lest he find it to be true.
He doesn't now, because he has learned to heed the counsel of a man who has never slighted him with falsehood.
Ulfric offers his guest a seat at the table, and the jar with the remaining oatmeal cookies, although he is secretly glad when his friend waves them off.
"There's more where that came from, you know?" the soldier tells him, eyes crinkling with merriment.
Ulfric mutters something that was fully meant to be incomprehensible, and ignores the boom of laughter as they settle for their daily game. The routine has become comfortable, like an overstuffed chair beside the fireplace one sinks into at the end of a long, stormy day to enjoy a good book and a cup of mulled wine.
He wins the roll for first move.
Argis grumbles about cheating, though it is in good mature.
If he were to rig the game in his favour, Ulfric would make sure that he won. He twists the white stone between his fingers, taking his time to come up with a strategy, and then sets it down in down on the middle field.
xxxx
The board is painted in circles, one inside the other, four in total. Two crossing lines link them together. Ulfric knows the game as Miller's Maze, Argis insists on calling it Hens and Foxes.
The rules are the same.
Two months to the day they last saw each other, there comes an evening when Ulfric does not recognize the footsteps that announce the coming of a visitor. And he has become good at that - or rather there were never many people willing to come pay him a visit in first place, so he has learned to distinguish between those already limited choices.
When he steps into the light, Ulfric immediately detects that there is something wrong with the way his friend holds himself. Gone is the energy from his step, the predatory lightness that has always been present despite the man's considerable bulk. Gone is also his armour. Only a shirt fails to hide the blood-stained bandages underneath.
Argis has apparently decided to grow a beard as well. Ulfric thinks that it suits him.
"What happened?" is what he asks.
The other Nord collapses on his bed rather than sits down. "Nearly got myself gutted." He raises the bottle of mead that Ulfric has not noticed before to his lips and chugs down half its contents in one go, offering Ulfric what's left.
He declines. "You seem to need it more than I do."
Argis does not challenge the truth of the words, but finishes off the drink and shifts to make his position easier on his injured side. "Good news is you're about to have a lot more company," he says, and it would have been a touching statement, had he not followed it up by, "I can't fucking fight like this."
With anybody else the confession of a disability like this would indicate weakness.
Argis radiates all the vulnerability of an irked boar.
Ulfric decides to poke the beast some more. "Consider doing something else then with your time," he voices his unwanted opinion, "You might find the benefits of a little education appealing."
Argis has never insulted Ulfric's heritage, but in that moment he must have come close. Instead, all he offers as response is a grunt and a rude gesture.
"Do not exert yourself on my behalf," Ulfric cannot resist throwing in, but he tempers his words with a nod towards the shelf. "Fancy a game?" he asks.
Argis grunts again, a more agreeable sound this time. "Sure."
Ulfric has to blow the dust from the board, but then it is as if no time had passed between this match and the last. He watches his friend's black stones eat away at his, until the outcome of the game is decided.
"Again?" Winning the first round seems to have taken some of the edge off. Argis appears to be enjoying himself.
Ulfric answers by setting the board, spinning it around to change colours. "Until I beat you."
His friend takes the comment in stride. "You won't," he assures the Jarl's son.
"We shall see." This has become a game cantered around the other game they are playing. One in which Ulfric pretends that each time he loses he does so out of a greater design; every defeat foreseen and merely another step in the ulterior plan that shall eventually lead him to victory.
"Want to bet on it?" Most days Argis is happy to keep up the illusion. Today is not one of them.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." There is little he can bet, and fewer he is willing to. The right to refuse is more like a privilege for a man in his position. He wishes not to exercise it until absolutely necessary.
His friend makes the decision easier. "I'll bet you twenty pull-ups."
"What kind of a bet is that?" They both know Ulfric is in no physical condition for any kind of work-out. Neither it seems is the other man, so at least the odds are even.
"One you're going to lose," Argis replies flatly and moves his piece to cut off Ulfric's. "Your turn."
Ulfric studies the pattern of black and white stones, and decides to go for a less fought-over corner.
"You are still reporting to Igmund?" he asks, despite the fact that these little talks do more to distract him than they do the other Nord.
Argis hums in affirmation, moves his stone to intercept Ulfric's next move. "Would be suspicious if I didn't." He is pleased with the turn, smiling as he pockets another of his opponent's stones.
How can a man this easy to read be as hard to outmanoeuvre?
"Now, is there anything in particular you wish me to include?"
"M-hmm. I'll write you down a list." If they have to feed the Jarl reports to keep him satisfied, Ulfric would rather it be information sanctioned by him.
"You do that." Argis sets down another piece. He grins and states, "You lose."
Ulfric scowls at board. He still has half his stones and he holds two key positions; the game is most certainly not over yet.
They are interrupted when a guardswoman comes running, a rare enough occurrence that Ulfric flat-out forgets it is his turn.
Argis looks up from his study of the board with a stoic, "What is it, Hertha?"
She snaps into a crisp salute, takes a deep breath, and announces, "There is an Imperial Legate here to see you."
"Me?"
"No." She shakes her head, auburn air flying, eyes wide, and points directly at Ulfric. "Him."