Felwinter never actually escaped Helgen with Hadvar. Ralof hasn't appeared but he will.
Chapter Twenty Six
With a heave, General Tullius pulled his blade from the Stormcloak's abdomen and let her body fall limp to the ground. Windhelm was cold; not in the windy but sunny, tolerable way Solitude or Markarth were but biting and bone deep. And yet, even in this cold, the heat of battle had him drenched beneath his armor. Forget the injuries or the aches or strains, it was this bitter, frigid air that would make changing his clothes an ordeal.
But he would reach that point, he knew it. Because they were here, at the end of it all. The Palace of the Kings before him, the last vestiges of Ulfric's army slain behind him. To his sides, his most trusted Legate and his least trusted but undeniably, most effective Legate. Above…
"Drakon, I ask again. Were the dragons really necessary?"
As if on cue, one roared as it flew overhead, shaking the ground beneath their feet even from its height. A green, sickly looking thing, as if it had been brought back from the dead. Felwinter laughed off the question, just as he did the last three times he had been asked. This would simply make for a better story for the Dragonborn and the other Legionnaires to tell when the battle was over. Of course, a dragon was not necessary. But two? Two were just overkill and according to Drakon, what better type of kill?
"The battle is over, Legate Felwinter," Rikke muttered, her eyes locked on the Palace. "You can call them off. Please."
Tullius could see the humor slowly drain from Drakon's face. He knew something of her past with the men behind these doors. Some modicum of respect had developed between them throughout the campaign and if it meant Felwinter actually listened to at least one of them, Tullius couldn't care less. The Dragonborn drew in a big, chest swelling breath and Shouted, "OH-DA-VIING! DUR-NEH-VIIR!"
The undead dragon tipped in the air and nose dived. At the same time, a red blur shot over the far west wall. Both landed on opposite sides of the three, perched on the walls above them. "Alright, you two have had your fun. Now make yourselves scarce, you're done here."
The giant beasts roared again and kicked off into the air. Tullius couldn't decide what was more of a shock, the fact that this man was giving orders to dragons or the fact that both just listened and obeyed. He shook his head. None of it mattered. It was time to end this.
Shifting the rebel's body out of his way, General Tullius pulled open the door and was immediately greeted with a blast of marginally warmer air. He felt the tension leave his shoulders, but only slightly. No time to bask or warm his numb fingers by the fire. He has struggled and sacrificed for years to get here; time, resources, lives. Now he was facing down the man he had struggled to reach for so long was just a short walk away. "Lock the doors," he ordered, "This won't take long."
"Already done, sir."
"Ulfric Stormcloak!" His voice resounded across the palace walls. "You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against your Empire. It's over."
Ulfric said nothing. His eyes tracked the three Legionnaires as they crossed the threshold, betraying no rage, no grief, betraying nothing. They lingered on Felwinter. The Dragonborn of legend, the last son of Akatosh, the successor to the god his people fought, bled and died for and his brother student. It seemed so long ago that they stood side by side, prepared to die at the hands of their own puppet of an Empire.
But it wasn't. Instead, it was so frighteningly recent. How the world can change with so little time.
At his feet, Galmar's broad frame trembled. He shrugged off the fur cloak on his shoulders and rose to his full height, a head taller than even Felwinter and nearly twice as wide. Heaving up a battleaxe as tall as he was, he growled, "Not while I'm still breathing, it's not."
"Step aside, Galmar. We're here for Ulfric's surrender." Rikke was managing to keep her tone neutral and professional. As much as one could while facing down their own former brothers in arms with their weapons drawn. Felwinter managed within himself a small prick of sympathy. Anymore would be asking too much of him. He had grown bored of this entire war a long time ago.
"Did our years of fighting mean nothing, Rikke?" Ulfric asked her, "Do you truly respect me so little as to demand I just stand down?"
"Helgen comes to mind, Stormcloak." Even Felwinter found the sneer on Tullius' face and the mockery in his voice astoundingly irritating.
No more than Ulfric, who shot to his feet. "I expected a trial! I expected so called Imperial fairness and diplomacy! Instead, me and my men get that mess at Helgen." He started down the steps from his throne, "Imperial dogs. The Thalmor said jump and you couldn't wait to dance for your scraps, could you?"
Ulfric turned his attention back to Felwinter, who was busying himself with counting the bricks on his ceiling and scowled. "Why are you here, Dragonborn?"
Felwinter started slightly when he realized he was being spoken to. "What? Oh! Because you attacked Whiterun."
"...Because I attacked Whiterun? You kill my men, set two dragons on my city, terrorize my people and ruin everything we sacrificed for all because I attacked...Whiterun?"
"Yes. Exactly," he answered without hesitation, "When a Dark Brotherhood assassin threatened my family, I didn't just kill her. I wiped her entire organization off the face of Skyrim. For what reason should I treat you any differently, Stormcloak? You and your rebellion are just another target to cross off my list."
Galmar's grip on his weapon tightened. The veins on his hand stood high like mountain ranges. "You dare compare us to gutless, honorless-"
"Why not, Galmar?" Felwinter turned on him. "Look at the state of your Hold before I ever got here. The Gray Quarter in shambles, the Dunmer and Argonians suffering regularly at the hands of your Nordic citizens, a murderer stalking the streets, preying on innocent women while your so-called leader did what? Murder their king, plot to take over Skyrim and then promptly kick them all out for not being 'your people'." Felwinter paused for a few seconds, running his hand through his beard, one of the two there not wearing a helmet. "I have no interest in seeing me and my family suffer mistreatment for not being Nords. At the same time, I have no interest in fighting for you and becoming one of your 'special provincials'; not like all the other non-Nords. But at the end of the day, that is neither here nor there. You can imagine that I fight against you due to fundamental disagreement rather than petty revenge if it makes you feel better. I do not care."
To his credit, Ulfric's eyes and voice never wavered in the face of Felwinter's vitriol. "And to think Ralof spoke so highly of you."
That got his attention. Felwinter's face darkened and the pupils of his eyes started to grow smaller. "Where is he?"
"None of your concern."
"Is he alive?"
He truly had the gall to make demands. After all he's done. "I said, none of your concern, Imperial dog!"
"Enough!" Tullius had finally run out of patience. "You are traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face public execution or advance and face summary execution by my hands."
Ulfric's eyes suddenly blew open; Felwinter's only warning. Just because he managed to see something coming never meant he would be able to react in time. Still, with what little time he had, he managed to magically shove both Tullius and Rikke to the sides and in doing so, put himself in the face of the oncoming blast.
"FUS RO DAH!" Thunder roared off the walls as if the sky had been split. Felwinter felt as if the hand of Kynareth herself had come down and struck him for his many, many instances of blasphemy. His entire body lifted off the ground and he went flying clear across the palace's great hall, from standing before the throne to landing in a great heap in front of the doors.
Galmar let out a ferocious war cry that Felwinter could hear from across the hall, even through the ringing in his ears. The Nord general charged Tullius while he was still on the ground. Rikke righted herself almost immediately and ran in to back up her general, leaving Ulfric to face the Dragonborn alone.
Axe drawn, Ulfric left the other two to Galmar while advancing on Felwinter, who was still untangling his limbs from his other limbs. His target had his back turned to him, rubbing his head. "Is that what that feels like? Gods...I'm starting to feel bad."
"Dragonborn!"
"Eh? What?!" He turned only slightly, giving Ulfric a slightly better view of his face. He hadn't seen it in Helgen but got a glimpse from the truce meeting, various reports that found their way onto his desk. The man was out of it. Not obviously but in a way one could feel. As if something was just always...off around him.
He wasn't fully human. If his recognition from the Greybeards or his defeat of the World Eater didn't burn that in one's mind, fighting him would.
"That was cheap move, Stormcloak," he crowed, rising to his full height, "Thought you true Nords were above all that. I'm almost proud."
"This is all one big game for you." Ulfric reached around himself and hooked the shield on his back onto his arm.
"No game. But I'll admit I'm having fun." On Felwinter's gauntlet, on the arm not clutching brutal looking bone-like sword with it's edges sealed in refined ebony, a dark violet curved disk of magical hard light manifested out of nothing.
Ulfric couldn't care less. He ran at the Dragonborn, raising his shield when Felwinter's sword disappeared and charging through the gout of flame that sprayed from his now free palm. His axe hand came up and over Felwinter's head, stopping short of cleaving his skull by his magical light shield, humming with the impact. Without hesitation, Ulfric pulled his weapon back and swiped across at Felwinter's neck.
Felwinter ducked under and bashed his shield into Ulfric's chest, sending him stumbling backwards. The sword reappeared and Ulfric barely managed to block what would have been a fatal blow to his exposed middle.
The Dragonborn gave him no time to recover or respond. Any time Ulfric managed to block one of Felwinter's strikes, the sword was already taken back and swinging towards another body part. The relentlessness, the energy of Drakon's strikes; he was enjoying this. Enjoying the pressure he put on him, enjoying the way Ulfric struggled to keep up. Enjoying how, despite all efforts, signs of exhaustion began to creep into Ulfric's features. With every strike, Ulfric's movements became more and more desperate and the Dragonborn reveled in it.
All the stories he had been told as a child about the Dragonborn. All the legends and songs he heard. Not once did he imagine he'd meet him, much less fight him.
Much less die by his hand.
He needed air. Ulfric pulled in another chest filling breath. If Felwinter saw it coming before, he'd see it again and even if he managed to avoid the blast, it would put some distance between the two. Ulfric formed the words. He felt his chest burn and strain with the force of the blast and the world shifting in response to his command.
The Dragonborn Shouted first, his body practically lifting up and darting to the side at blinding speed, outside of Ulfric's vision, just narrowly managing to avoid the Unrelenting Force. Ulfric twisted around immediately to find him. He heard the Dragonborn Shout again. The same word that moved Felwinter out of the way with the speed of the wind brought him back and Ulfric only managed to lay eyes on him for a mere moment before an armor clad fist collided with the side of his face.
It was Ulfric's turn to be sent flying. He landed hard on the banquet table, ignoring the blinding pain and the feel of bones snapping in his chest and kept rolling until he was on the floor again. It was only through a miracle that he managed to keep hold of his weapon. He staggered to his feet again to see Felwinter leaping off the table with his sword coming down.
All Ulfric had suffered, all Ulfric had sacrificed and this was how it ended. He had hoped, at the very least he would go down in a fight. One worth dying for and maybe, hopefully, even singing about for years to come.
This was none of that. Maybe he was the Dragonborn's equal in martial skill but when it came to magic or the Thu'um, Drakon was unparalleled by anyone in the city, let alone in this throne room. No one would sing of this. Or maybe they would, in the years to come because this wasn't a fight; this was a beating.
But still, something drove him. Drove him to raise his shield, block the blow and shove Felwinter back. Drove him to strike out with his own weapon, catching on Felwinter's magical shield. Drove him to keep fighting the inevitable. Maybe it for his men, rotting in the snow outside. Or Galmar, whose battle cries could be heard even over the blood roaring in Ulfric's ears. Maybe it was hope that despite it's one sidedness, this would fight make him worthy to enter Sovngarde.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was out of spite.
Galmar''s ferocious yells, punctuating every swing of his weapon suddenly rang out, sharp and filled with agony. Ulfric looked over at his friend just in time to see him grab Tullius by his armored shoulders and drive his forehead into his face, spraying both of them with the blood of a shattered nose. When Tullius staggered back, Ulfric saw it. Tullius' blade lodged deep in Galmar's belly.
"Galmar!" Ulfric roared. His general drove a fist into Rikke's face, sending her sprawling. He grabbed Tullius' sword by the hilt and ripped it from his stomach. Then he staggered back, his shoulders going slack and his legs trembling. He dropped to one knee, propped up on his axe for support.
Ulfric shoved Felwinter back, his sudden burst of strength throwing the Dragonborn off balance. Ulfric didn't care to press his advantage. Within seconds, he crossed the hall back to his throne and put himself between his shield brother and the Legionnaires, a Shout already on his lips for if they even so much as appeared to consider moving closer.
"My Jarl," Galmar moaned, grunting when his second knee hit the ground.
"Get up, Galmar. The fight's not done." Tullius and Rikke kept their distance while Felwinter took his time rejoining the group, strolling his way back to the throne, none of the strain or exhaustion Ulfric felt from their battle.
"Ulfric. Brother." This was the quietest he had ever heard the man. "I'm sorry."
"Shut up."
"I've failed you. For the last time, it seems." A pained, weak chuckle.
"I said shut up, Galmar!"
Armor clinked against the sculpted rock of his chair. The sound of Galmar's axe hitting the ground with a loud clang pierced him like a spike through the head.
"I have no regrets, Ulfric," Galmar whispered, his breath rasping. "None. None at all. None..."
"Galmar?" No answer. The silence stretched horrifically long. Ulfric tore his eyes from his enemies to look behind him. Galmar remained limp against the throne, his hand on laid across his abdomen and his lidded, empty eyes staring off into the distance. "Galmar?!" Ulfric's deep, resonant voice was panicked, shrill.
No, no, no...
His hand tightened on his weapon to the point of trembling. He was going to kill them all. Ulfric no longer cared if it costed him his life, as long as they came with him and spent the rest of eternity rotting in the darkest pits of Oblivion. He swung back around, a Shout already leaving his lips, pushing enough force and focus into the words to blow them to pieces. To blow this entire building to pieces.
A fist connected with the side of Ulfric's face, knocking the wind and power from his lungs and dropping him against his throne. He coughed and spit up blood.
"Apologies. You were taking too long." Felwinter stood over the Jarl, prepared to strike him down again if need be. "If you're done with the the theatrics, it's time we finished this."
"It's over, Stormcloak." Felwinter stifled a laugh at the nasal sound of a broken nosed Tullius attempting to sound threatening, "Any last requests?"
Ulfric coughed again, pushing himself up on trembling arms. He was tired. So very tired. To the point where he didn't feel gut rending fear for the impending or an abject sense of shame for his failure.
He was just tired. He wanted this to be over. He wanted to sleep.
"Let the Dragonborn do it. It will make for a better song."
Ulfric couldn't deny taking slight enjoyment out of the way Tullius' face twisted. "Why?" He demanded.
Ulfric didn't want to give a reason. Did Tullius have so little integrity as to deny him even this? Helgen told him yes. But still he said, "You never would have won this without him. Our men would have just kept railing against each other until sooner or later, one of us made our final mistake." He lifted his head to look the general in his eyes, "Let the man who won this war finish the job."
Felwinter. He remembered the day Ralof arrived in Windhelm and informed him, finally learning the name of that poor, innocent sap who had been caught up in this mess. A strange name, he had said. Ralof has said he had been born in the month of Frostfall, a play on words by his mother. Helgen had been in Frostfall; two years ago next week.
For the first time since walking into the city, Felwinter actually seemed serious. His eyes ran over Ulfric's face. He turned to the general, "I take it you were hoping to do the deed?"
"As a matter of fact, Drakon, I was. And I see absolutely no reason to grant this murderer any final request," Tullius sneered at the rebel leader, the hand on his sword tightening.
Ulfric had always prided himself on reading people, discovering the truth from their words in their actions. The Dragonborn sounded so convincingly sincere and innocent when he asked that question that even when Tullius was speaking to him, prepared to deny him his last wish, advance and cut him down, Ulfric never took his eyes off of Felwinter. Not even for a second.
His only warning was a shift in his stance. A twitch in his arm.
Then, pitch black.
Ulfric wasn't in pain as he had expected. The darkness seemed to numb all. But he was confused and as he stood drifting, he felt more than a little lost.
"Drakon? Rikke?" Ulfric's calls echoed out into the nothing. Nothing save an echo was what he got back.
"Galmar? Galmar!" The only answer was the void simply returning his voice.
The confusion drained away. So this was it. This was what awaited them all at the end of all things. Ulfric started to trudge forward, determined to keep putting one foot before the other into a wall of darkness that stretched forever.
But then the darkness began to brighten. Underneath his feet, he could hear the crunch of soft grass. Warm mists rose ups and sapped the exhaustion and fear from his bones until there was none left.
He didn't know this place but...he did. He kept on his slow but strong march, energy and vigor returning to his limbs after months of spending all of his strength just to keep standing. He was still tired, yes, but forward, through the mists he went. Forward, there was somewhere he could rest his head.
A mead hall bigger than the palace he lived and died in with a bridge of bones leading to its doors and two men. One man, larger than life standing at its foot of the bridge and waiting to let him cross and the other, arriving just a bit earlier, refusing to cross into the paradise he spent his life fighting for until Ulfric was at his side.
How they had started this was how they would finish.
The silence was deafening. Even Felwinter, for once, was quiet; no smart quip, no remark on his own boredom. Rikke could almost say that he was as serious about this as she was.
Almost. He hadn't fought at the side of these men. This was just another problem with the world he needed to fix before he moved on to the next.
She...she should say something. She wasn't the inspiring orator the general or even Ulfric himself was but they were her friends and whatever they did, their reasons were just and ultimately well meaning. She could be wrong. Ulfric Stormcloak could have been just as murderous and power hungry as many said and believed but she had never been one of them. They were good men and they deserved better than whatever flippancy Tullius or Felwinter would offer.
But only a few words came to mind.
"Talos be with you both, brothers."
"What was that, Legate?"
She scowled. She should've known he wouldn't let her have this. On some level she did and she had said it anyway. One small act of rebellion after years of dutiful service.
Still she cleared her throat, "Ah, nothing, si-"
"She gave them a final prayer," Felwinter interrupted. "Legionnaires are allowed do that, yes? Because if not, you might want to go ahead and court martial me right now-"
"I have a million other reasons to court martial you, Drakon!" Tullius snarled, "Do not forget, while you are in this Legion, Legate Felwinter, you are under my command." He pointed to the two bodies lying at the seat of Windhelm's throne, "And I want these two prepared for transport back to Cyrodiil by tomorrow."
Felwinter scowled. "What in Oblivion for?"
"Elenwen's orders." Felwinter's scowl deepened. "A victory march through the capital with these two on display."
Felwinter's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Rikke felt she was going to be sick right there on the stone floor. "General…" she sputtered, "You...you can't be serious!"
To her side, she heard Felwinter cover up a sneeze with his hands.
"I very much am, Legate."
"I know how you feel about them but these men have been through enough," she argued, losing her care for propriety, "To do this is just...just cruel and it's wrong and..."
"It is orders, Legate!" Tullius snapped back, matching her volume. "If it was up to me, I'd dump these two traitors in the nearest ditch and be done with them. But it is not!"
Felwinter sneezed again, loud of enough to startle the bickering soldiers. "By the Eight, Drakon! What is wrong with you?"
Felwinter squeezed his nose and shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "Apologies. Something's making me allergies act up all of a sudden."
"Allergies? You don't have al-"
Tullius didn't get a chance to finish. Because Felwinter began to reel back. He spit out a rather violent, forceful sneeze. At the same time, there was a flash of hot light, a resounding boom and suddenly Ulfric's and Galmar's bodies went up in blistering blue flames.
Tullius recovered from his reeling first. "Drakon, what have you done?!" He roared, his face ash yam red with veins protruding along his temples.
"It's my allergies! It happens someti...ti…" He let out another roar of a sneeze and the flames burning Ulfric and Galmar's bodies jumped to touch the ceiling.
Tullius' chest and shoulders were heaving as he watched the bodies burn and char within the hot flames and Rikke braced herself for what was about to come. As much as she...did not agree with his actions, he had taken things too far. This kind of blatant insubordination, especially with someone as high ranked as him could warrant death and the Dragonborn would never come quietly.
But as she watched him, Tullius watched the flames. Slowly, his shoulders fell and his breathing slowed. He tore his eyes from the burning bodies and turned to Felwinter, who looked about as innocent as a confessed thief in chains. Tullius stared at him silently for another few heartbeats before saying quietly, "I fought in the Great War, you know. Went against some of the best Thalmor battlemages on the them was enough to make a name for myself. Beating them was nothing less than divine providence. The one constant; the corpses of their victims were never pretty." He sighed and straightened up, "It seems Elenwen is just going to have to deal with that."
Just like that the flames slowly began to fall and wither. Tullius watched for a few more seconds before turning away. "The men will be expecting some kind of speech, I guess. If you'll both come with me."
He started towards the door. The flames sputtered out the last of their energy before fading entirely with nothing but soot and ash to mark where it had lived. Once again, Rikke was at a loss for words. So she just nodded at him once, hoping he would accept her sincerest gratitude.
He sniffed, rubbed his nose and after a few seconds, nodded back. She watched as he made his way to the door, paused, took out a handkerchief, blew into it loudly and muttered some oath about Windhelm before continuing on his way.
"Yeah, so we're just wrapping up here," Felwinter said, tying his belt on, "But the war's pretty much over."
"About time." Moth's voice buzzed the crystal around Felwinter's neck, warm sitting against his chest. He and the kids had moved themselves to Solitude, where Felwinter would have to return to celebrate the ending of the war.
He hadn't expected yesterday to take the turn that it did. Something about Ulfric's words, his behaviors in his final moments put Felwinter off for the rest of yesterday and troubled him in his sleep all through the night.
Guilt, maybe but the idea made no sense. Why should he feel guilt? Ulfric Stormcloak declared war on Felwinter personally when he made plans to attack Whiterun and Ulfric Stormcloak lost. Feeling sorry for the bastard wouldn't change how Ulfric had started it and how Felwinter had ended it.
Felwinter pulled a shirt on, then a second and resisted the temptation to wrap up in a third before sitting on the bed before the fire to pull on his boots. Except things had changed. Or at least, deviated from the plan Felwinter had set in mind before then.
The killing blow was always going to be quick. Quick and painless had been spur of the moment. And originally, he cared little for what was done to the bodies but after hearing what Elenwen wanted with them….
He really was going to kill that woman. Somehow some way, Elenwen was not going to outlive him.
"Aye! Drakon!"
"What? Yeah, sorry," he said quickly, "Spaced out for a bit. Anyway, I'll be here in this...cold, frigid, miserable plane of Oblivion for a few more days. Then Tullius will march back to Solitude while I take the less scenic route."
Felwinter smiled when the Orc yawned over the transmission. "Sounds like a plan."
"Probably because it was."
"Shut up." Moth yawned again and let out a small growl as he stretched the sleep from his limbs. "So, the Bear of Markarth is dead. I assume you dealt the final blow. How'd he go out?"
"Quickly," he said, suddenly and uncharacteristically quiet, "Made it as painless and immediate as possible." He stood again and started to search for some kind of overcoat or cloak, "Had to char the bodies with sun magic after. Elenwen had ordered Tullius to transport the bodies to Cyrodiil, where they would have been paraded through the streets of the capital."
Moth growled again, angry this time, "In what way would that necessary?"
"Nothing more display of power. A reminder to any potential rebel."
"A cock waving parade."
Felwinter barked out a laugh. "You really are worse than me." The men said their goodbyes and the crystal cooled when the connection was severed. Felwinter pushed open the doors and made his way into the main hall of the palace and out the door, refusing to look even in the general direction of Windhelm's throne.
The city itself hadn't changed since Felwinter had last been here. Over a year ago, after Helgen, after meeting the Greybeards and retrieving their horn from Delphine. He had met Alduin for the first time and realized how grossly outmatched he had been by the old Dovah. So, finally heeding the advice of nearly every court mage, healer and alchemist he came across, Felwinter made his way to the College of Winterhold.
What was supposed to have been just a night's rest stop had suddenly found itself stretching out for well over a week. A week in which Felwinter found a child siccing assassins on the caretaker of his orphanage, helped some elderly alchemist fulfill his lifelong wish just days before he passed, stopped some deranged murderer among other things. And he did this all while ensuring that neither Tullius or Ulfric ever knew he was in the city. When it was finally time for him to leave, he had already decided that only the most exceptional of circumstances would bring him back.
It was for the best that he had returned. Connecting a portal between his homes and the College had proven itself challenging, what with all the ambient, antagonistic residual magic in the air as well as a higher chance of its discovery. Buying a house in Windhelm seemed the next best option and with the city firmly under Empire control, it had become a more feasible one.
The steward would be too busy for him, juggling all the menial but plentiful tasks required for a relatively peaceful transition of power. The more aggressive tasks of keeping order during such a potentially violent period of unrest would fall to the remaining Legion soldiers, the stationed Legate (Felwinter went through great pains to ensure that it was not him) and new Jarl, who he should probably find at some point.
Felwinter barely had time to even decide where to start when a large pair of arms wrapped themselves around his waist and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing, a deep voice booming with greeting. If there was any other reason to return to this glacier of a city, it was this old man. It had been two years since they had last so much as spoken and here Brunwulf Free-Winter was, greeting him like long lost family. When someone jumps alongside you into fist fight against a group of Dunmer harassing Nords, they might as well be.
"By the gods, Felwinter, look at you!" Brunwulf finally put him down and let him turn to embrace him properly, "Two years and you can't even be bothered to announce yourself?"
"Announce? Were the dragons not enough?" Felwinter pulled back and gestured to the sky.
"You didn't have dragons stashed away in your pocket the last time you were here, fool."
Brunwulf hadn't changed in the slightest over the last two years. Same shaved head, same bushy grey beard, same imposing, soldierly stature. Trailing him were two Legionnaires, shields in hands and constantly scanning the area surrounding them for possible threats on his life, part of the aggressive tasks of keeping the peace.
Felwinter wasn't in the mood to be trailed while he was trying to catch up with his friend. "You men can go. I can take over babysitting from here," he ordered, waving them off and just barely avoiding a swipe to the head. He had honestly expected some form of resistance but the two soldiers looked relieved and even a little bit grateful. If they had participated in the battle yesterday, Felwinter couldn't blame them for wanting to actually sit down for a little while.
"So before anything else, I need to hear it from your mouth," Brunwulf started once they were left alone, "Are you the Dragonborn?"
"Yep." Felwinter ordinarily wouldn't have let that information drop so easily before but news spread quickly after the truce meeting.
"The Dragonborn? As in 'Talos'?"
"And Alessia and Reman, yes."
"So all that time ago, when the Greybeards summoned the Dovahkiin to High Hrothgar? They were calling for your you?"
"I almost forgot that every single person in Skyrim heard that," he snorted. It had been at night too. Such a thing to be woken up by.
Felwinter started down the path he had been on earlier and Brunwulf instinctively followed, still lost in his own head, trying to come to terms with the revelation.
Then he shook his head, put his hand out on Felwinter's shoulder and stopped him. "You and I really need to talk, Drakon." He jerked his head in the direction behind them, back towards the Gray Quarter, "It's early but New Gnisis should be open."
"You paying?"
Brunwulf clapped him on the shoulder and guffawed. Felwinter watched him start on his way. "Is that a yes?!" he called to the Nord's retreating back. The only answer he got himself was another hearty, gut busting laugh.
"So in the time since you were last here." He paused to scarf down yet another loaf of stew soaked bread, already on his third before Felwinter could get through his first, "You enrolled in the College, saved the College, got married, didn't invite me…"
"You always seemed the type to cry at weddings, I didn't want there to be a scene."
Brunwulf flicked one of his larger breadcrumbs up into Felwinter's hair. "Adopted children, slayed the World Eater himself, got yourself arrested and put into an inescapable prison mine, broke out of said mine…"
"Met my father."
"Met your father, yes." He drained a cup of water, "How'd that go?"
"Messed up his nose. Probably forever."
"Well done."
New Gnisis was relatively empty, Felwinter and Brunwulf being the only humans there, with a smattering of Dark Elves both at the bar and at the tables. Despite the quiet, the atmosphere was undeniably one of celebration. Ulfric was dead, the Stormcloak rebellion ended and the one person in the city known for going above and beyond simply for their sake was to be made their new ruler.
Years of misfortune turned around in a single day with even better to come and the two men primarily responsible were patrons, tucked away in their own little corner of the club.
"I expected it to be...I don't know, louder," Felwinter said, draining half his tankard, "And I'm surprised you wanted to come here of all places. The owner..." he gestured to the rail thin Dunmer man at the bar.
Brunwulf looked in the direction he was indicating. "Ambarys Rendar," he answered.
"Rendar. His views on Nords aren't much different than they have of him." The normally surly and snappish man was gone, at least for the day. This man's disposition was completely different, wiping a mug with youthful vigor and whistling a tune Felwinter recalled from his time in Cyrodiil. 'Nerevar's Rising', this Dunmer shopkeeper had answered when she asked; the story of a Dunmer hero born of both past and farther past. Felwinter never understood how a song without words could tell such a tale until then and ever since, he would find himself pausing in whatever he was doing just to listen.
"Subjugation and harassment will do that, you know," Brunwulf pointed out.
"I don't like the Thalmor but that doesn't mean I would start treating every Altmer I come across like they're one of them."
Brunwulf shrugged. "Maybe, but I didn't come here to listen to him go on about how much he dislikes my people. I came here to keep the peace."
"What do you mean?"
The old Nord sighed and slid his empty plate to the side, clasping his hands together on the table. "A lot of people are not happy, Felwinter. Many were adamant Stormcloak supporters and Talos worshippers. Your victory yesterday dashed any lingering hopes they had of being free of Imperial and Thalmor influence. They're angry and my main concern is that some will take their anger out on others. The Legion have weapons, numbers and temporary martial law. No one short of masochistic and suicidal would dare make an attempt on your life."
"Thank you!"
"So that leaves the Dunmer and the Argonians." Ambarys suddenly appeared at their table and Brunwulf nodded to the chipper old Mer as he took their dishes. "I already have soldiers at the lodge and I came here myself in the hopes of deterring would be aggressors."
"Galmar had a brother, didn't he?" Felwinter asked him.
"Yes, Rolff. He disappeared sometime before the siege." Brunwulf shook his head, "He's someone I especially wanted an eye kept on."
"Want me to track him down then?"
Brunwulf stood. "Don't bother. Man's harmless." They paid at the bar, even he insistent protest of the owner and Felwinter's subtle agreement and left, out into the cold again. Eager to finally make good on his promises, Brunwulf wanted to tour the Quarter, see where renovations can first be made and where additions can be started, space for the Argonians to eventually move in.
"Hey, Arentino. How is he?" Felwinter asked, remembering he had requested Free-Winter watch out for him, ensure he didn't go summoning assassins on anyone else.
"Ah, that boy." He shook his head, a small bit warm smile hidden under his beard. "Such a free spirit, smarter than smart. Enjoys pestering Sofie way too much."
"Sofie?"
"Yes, she was this little orphan girl. Showed up a month after you left, sold flowers just to make enough money to eat." His eyes turned to the snow covered stone beneath their feet, "Mother died when she was young. Father was a Stormcloak who was deployed and simply never returned." He sighed, "I had been taking care of them, feeding them, clothing them that I decided, around last year, to go ahead and adopt them."
"Adopt? As in 'adopt' adopt?"
"Is there another, my friend?" He asked, "They're over in Dawnstar for the time being. I'm good friends with the new Jarl. When they come back, I'll be adding 'teach Sofie to lead' onto the list of things I have on my plate. As the older of the two and now my daughter, she's slated to take my place as Jarl."
"It's strange, you know," Brunwulf continued wistfully, "I never imagined myself as a parent. It's strange to be called...you know, father."
"But it's nice, right? Pulling them out of a bad situation, making them feel loved like they deserve." Felwinter sighed and an a hand through his hair. He really wanted to return home, see them again. He would speak to Rikke, see if there was anything else he was needed for. From the looks of things, there wasn't. Windhelm was quickly returning to normal repairs had already started, bodies were being removed. "A lot less dead than I thought there would be."
"Hmm? Ah yes. Your dragons, they...I just remembered that dragons had names."
"The red one is Odahviing," Felwinter responded, "Green is Durnehviir."
"Well those two made a lot of rebels surrender. Men, they can fight, even if its a losing battle. Dying to those two monsters, no offense, I guess. Since you're apparently friends with them now."
"They'd both take that as a compliment."
"Dying to those monsters, it was just asking too much." Brunwulf suddenly stopped, glaring behind Felwinter, back at the Palace of Kings.
In a crowd before the palace were a large group of rebels. Around twenty or twenty five, all stripped of weapons and helmets, arms chained behind their backs and ushered inside slowly, one after another by Legion soldiers. "They the ones who surrender?" Felwinter questioned softly but with a definite edge to his tone. The looks on some of their faces. Broken was the only word he could think to describe it. Any other seemed was just useless underestimation. His chest started hurting again and he rubbed at it absentmindedly.
Brunwulf stepped up next to him. "Aye. After the information the General received from that...Thalmor woman." He spat the word like bile. Rebel, loyalist, Elf. Only the Thalmor liked the Thalmor. "Even I wish they had died in that battle. Poor sods."
Felwinter turned on him. "What information, Brunwulf?."
"Every Stormcloak rebel found are to be taken in alive and imprisoned," he told him, "In a few months time, they are all to be transported to Solitude. They will be executed there. Publically."
Felwinter couldn't tell whether it was soul deep revulsion or sheer anger that made his stomach tighten and cramp but it took a serious measure of effort to keep his food from coming back up and browning the snow. He could feel his heartbeat in his skull. He could hear his own breathing loud in the commotion of the city.
Helgen. What was this woman's obsession with Helgen? There must have been some reasoning behind her wanton, malicious obsession with public killings. Politics? A show of power? Or was her head so far up her own organization's onanistic propaganda that this was all just a game to her?
Brunwulf looked over his friend. It was terrifying seeing such an excitable and optimistic man go from cheerful and bright to stinking of unbridled rage in such a short amount of time. "Felwinter, what did you expect?"
"Not this!" He exploded, loud enough through clenched teeth to draw attention. "This...this is monstrous! This-
"Was always the endpoint, sword-brother."
"It's not right."
"No part of this damnable war is. Not what led up to it, not how it started and now how it has been conducted," Brunwulf said. He reached out to squeeze his friend's shoulder again, "Head to Hjerim, Felwinter, just like we discussed. I will retrieve the key to the house and you can pay the steward later. I know you're good for it."
After some time, Felwinter finally turned from the crowd of prisoners and stalked off, leaving Brunwulf without another word. He wrapped his hand around the crystal necklace hanging down the center of his chest but stopped before it could connect to Moth. He'd wait until he was alone in Hjerim, setting up the portal. It seemed he would not be sleeping restfully either. No, it seemed that this war, even over and done, would haunt his dreams tonight.
A line of bound Stormcloaks. One by one to kneel before the headsman's axe. Before, he had stood beside them. Watched his own death creep closer and closer with every head that rolled. Now, he would be forced to stand alongside the likes of Tullius and Elenwen, oversee the execution, watch the terror and hate rise in the rebel faces as they advanced to the block and gloat.
Would those Stormcloak lovers be there? Would Avulstein? Was he prepared to deal with the fact that he put Thorald and Ralof back in chains and under the Imperial axe again.
He ended the war. He kept the Empire from fracturing even more, he removed a future tyrant and still, Felwinter looked back on his behavior the previous day, his flippancy and nonchalance and for the first time felt...wrong. He did the right thing. He knows he did and yet…
Felwinter dropped to the freezing ground and leaned against Hjerim's door. He sighed wearily and ran fingers through this hair. Revenge was no longer worth it.
The fire spit and crackled, ear-splittingly loud in the silence of the dense woods. Made it hard to keep his ears to the edges, to the dark ring of trees surrounding his campsite.
Some things could be heard before. Celebrations off in the distance. Conversations from people passing by. News spread like a blaze.
The rebellion was defeated. Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. Galmar Stone-Fist was dead.
Galmar was dead.
His brother was dead.
The air rushed audibly in and out of Rolff's nose as he struggled to keep tears from falling, to keep from crying out, from raging at the empty air. He failed. A strangled, anguished sob tore itself loose from his throat and he clamped a hand over his mouth to keep quiet.
His brother had known this was coming. He had given him a pack a week before and told him to get to the Falkreath border and leave Skyrim by any means necessary. Rolff refused at first. He should be here fighting and dying by his side, for Windhelm, for Skyrim. But Galmar would hear no argument.
Rolff accused Galmar of thinking him a weakling, a coward. It was born of hurt and denial because he would be right. Rolff wasn't very smart. He was never much of a fighter. All he ever did was harass those ash-skinned freaks and put more complaints on Ulfric's desk. He said that Galmar considered Ulfric more of a brother than he did him.
Such a stoic and harsh man, his older brother had been. Joy, grief, one rarely saw much of anything resembling emotion on his scarred and weathered face. When Rolff said what he said, he expected anger. Maybe even to be struck. Galmar did nothing. He just stared at him, with that haunted, sorrowful look of a man who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was about to die. The eternal peace and merriment of Sovngarde could only bring so much comfort.
After a long time, he said that it is true, he was willing to die by Ulfric's side. He always has been. But he dragged Rolff into this rebellion and even with all his devotion to their cause, Rolff's death was asking too much.
Ulfric could ask for the world and Galmar would give it to him happily. Rolff was simply worth much more than that.
It was a lie. A lie. He was worth nothing. Nothing to nobody. Not anymore.
The Dragonborn was a hero to him as a child. A legend to look up to, to emulate. Now, his "hero" has taken everything from him. The life he knew, the home he knew was gone, maybe forever.
He really was going to kill that man. Somehow some way, Felwinter Drakon was not going to outlive him.
Rolff's fingers dug into the soft dirt beneath him and squeezed, tiny sharp rocks stabbing into him, cutting skin. It would be slow, agonizing, Rolff would do everything in his power to make sure the Dragonborn lived long enough for him to get his fill. He'd make everyone he loved watch, watch him beg for forgiveness, for a non-existent mercy. Reduce him to a husk of a man right before he finally slid the rustiest, bluntest blade he could find deep into his throat and watched the blood drip down the sides of his mouth and the light and hope slowly leave his eyes.
It is dishonorable, his brother would say. Leave those sick, twisted games for the Thalmor. We are Nords, this is not right, this is not our way!
"Our way is dead!" Rolff roared to the moons. He stared up as if expecting them or anyone to answerback. Little by little, the dirt and rocks fell from his loosening grip as his euphoric bout of wishful thinking fell away and reality set back in. "You're dead. You're dead."
Maybe he should be too.
What was there for him outside of Skyrim? High Rock and Cyrodiil were both loyal to the Empire through and through. Hammerfell just was not the place for him. He'd save himself and some starving animal a lot of trouble if he'd just-
Movement. Behind the trees. Too heavy to be an accident. All thoughts of death suddenly left Rolff's head as he bolted upright, drawing the one steel blade his brother had left him with. Legionnaires would be acceptable. Even filthy wild animals would be more acceptable than falling to petty, insignificant cutthroats.
The edge of the trees where the sound came from remained as silent as before. Rolff cautiously stepped closer to the edge, swearing he could see something. Something red.
Something like eyes.
He bolted backwards, losing his balance and falling down. When he scrambled back to his feet again, sword raised and ready, the eyes were gone.
Rolff's head and heart were pounding. He didn't dare relax, twisting around again and again, panickedly trying to keep track of all angles. "Show yourself!" He roared. His rough, strangled voice echoed into the night sky. Far away, a pack of wolves howled in response.
He stood in place for a long time before finally letting his shoulders go limp. He turned back to the fire and tensed up once again. There, at his campfire, sat a man. A lean, dark haired Dunmer with red eyes.
The Dunmer wasn't paying him any attention whatsoever, more preoccupied with opening the large clay bottle in his hands than the man with a sword whose grief he was intruding on. After a long time, the Dunmer looked sideways at him. "Relax, friend. I'm no threat to you."
"I am friend to no Mer," Rolff snapped, almost on instinct. "And you need to leave."
The bottle popped open and the Dunmer let out a quiet victorious sound. He raised it in Rolff's direction. "To enemies, then!" He put it to his lips and drank. When he had been satisfied, he tossed the bottle behind him, where it shattered. "Come on. Take a seat," he insisted in an easy, smooth tone. "Not everyday one gets to share a campfire in peace with their enemy."
To his own surprise, Rolff did sit, keeping the fire between them. The Dunmer smiled, the firelight sharpening the angles of his face, making him appear like something out of a fever dream. "You look down, enemy. Wish to talk about it?"
"No."
"It might make you feel better."
"I don't care about feeling better, gray skin. I just want to be left alone."
The Dunmer chortled. "Ah, it must've been something really bad. See? We're already getting somewhere!"
Rolff's blade was in his hand again. He stood and pointed the tip at the Dunmer. "You need to leave, gray-skin. I won't tell you again."
The Dunmer laughed heartily, not even looking at the blade in his face. "That! That's the fire we're looking for! For a second, you actually made me believe you could actually hurt me. Almost made me regret coming here unarmed."
Rolff readjusted his sweaty grip, suddenly feeling eyes in the dark boring into his back. "'We'? Who in the name of the gods is 'we'?"
"Take a seat, Rolff Stone-Fist." The Dunmer gestured to the ground.
"No. How do you know my name? Who are you?!"
The Dunmer shrugged. "If it'll calm you down." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his bony knees, staring into the flames. "I...represent a very select group of individuals in the service of an extremely powerful and influential lord. And as I said, you're just the sort of man he's been looking for."
"Oh? And what is it that he wants?"
The Dunmer leaned close. "Felwinter Drakon's head."
Rolff's arm began to relax, the sword slowly lowering back to his side. A minute of silence passed, with Rolff searching the Mer's face for even the slightest sign of deceit and the Mer seeming too happy to be searched. Finally, Rolff sat back down, placing the sword at his side.
"You've heard the news, I trust?" The Dunmer affected a more serious and somber tone. "Windhelm has fallen. Ulfric and his second-"
"Are dead," Rolff cut him off harshly. His fingers tightened in the dirt, "I know."
"My comfort for your loss, enemy." Rolff nearly believed him. "You really loved him, didn't you?"
His fingers tightened again to the point of strain. "More than anything."
"It's strange, you know," The Dunmer went on wistfully, "Drakon. He's a man that's seen a lot, been through a lot. Suffered so much loss and heartbreak. And yet he cares so little about the lives he takes. He deludes himself into thinking that it's okay because they do not fit his definition of innocent but every life is a story. Every life taken is a story cut short."
"Even I know some of them deserved whatever they got," Rolff remarked, surprised at himself for defending that man even in the slightest.
"Maybe," the Dunmer admitted, "But who deserves what tends to be a rather...subjective topic. An example; I watched from afar, Whiterun after the death of the previous Harbinger. I focused on the Companions, particularly the Inner Circle, go about their lives in the wake of this...tragedy. And Felwinter?" He put his hand over the crackling fire, "The man was despondent. He didn't leave Whiterun for weeks. He could barely finish a meal or sleep through a night. Kodlak Whitemane's death truly broke the man to pieces and it took a very long time for him to pull himself together. Kodlak. Do you feel he deserved it?"
"No," Rolff answered, "No, I imagine not."
"And yet, if Felwinter and the other members of the Circle hadn't gone after the Silver Hand so often, they never would have been angered enough to assault Whiterun," he rejoined, "If Felwinter hadn't been away, wantonly taking lives elsewhere, he may have been around to save the old Nord's life." The Dunmer straightened up again, leaning back into the partial shadows. "Fault is subjective. Who is ultimately to blame for Kodlak's death? The Silver Hand for trying to clear Hircine's curse from their lands or Felwinter, for bringing attention to the Companions in the first place?"
When Rolff didn't answer, the Dunmer leaned in again. "Who is to blame for your brother's death? Ulfric and your brother himself for defending what they believed in or Felwinter, who knows nothing about what the men and women of the rebellion are fighting for and cares even less. Deaths only matter when it's close to him."
"How do you know so much about him?"
The Dunmer laughed. "Oh, I don't! I just know about Kodlak's death." He sobered up again, frighteningly quick. "Hopes and dreams dashed. He ruined the Reachmen's chances to take back their home, he killed Skyrim's final chance for freedom. That man cuts and blasts his way through people's' lives without a care for who he hurts. His mother was left destitute because of his birth. His father thinks of him and only feels regret for his moment of weakness in bedding his mother. The Harbinger is dead by his actions and it's a wonder his family puts up with the trouble he brings onto their doorstep."
"He's a plague," Rolff seethed, "A man with too much power and not enough sense. He needs to be stopped."
"No, my enemy." The Dunmer countered, "He needs to be taught a lesson."
A lesson. Yes. Yes. A lesson in pain and suffering. All of what he has dealt, he should feel a thousand fold. Rolff felt his heart speeding up in his chest, in his hands, his head. "What does your lord get from me if Drakon dies?" His voice was low, guttural and near unrecognizable.
"Oh, my enemy. What my lord gets is what he hopes you will give him. Drakon's skull on a silver platter." He got to his feet, the shadows of the fire making him appear less real than he already did. "What you will get is power. Retribution. Influence beyond your wildest, most feverish dreams."
He extended one blue skinned hand and let it hang in the air over the flames. "All you have to do, Rolff Stone-Fist is accept. Accept the power my lord offers. Take your vengeance, my enemy. For Skyrim. For Galmar."
Silence overcame them, filled them, nearly overwhelmed. Rolff, after spending the last several hours hearing his own heart thundering in his ears, heard nothing. He was cold. He was numb. He was empty.
But what he was not was lost. Not anymore. He did not find his direction. At his lowest point, it had found him. It was standing before him, hand outstretched, begging him to take it and without hesitation or even the slightest hint of doubt, Rolff Stone-Fist did just that.
Bright light sparked off to the side. Rolff turned his head to see a tiny tongue of sickly green flame sitting in the dirt but leaving the plants around it unharmed. It started to run, curving around the pair, leaving a long trail of bright emerald fire in its wake. It circled around again and again until walls of green fire roared high into the air.
There was still no hesitation. There was still no doubt.
With the same suddenness, the fires fell. The campfire had been choked out. The Man and the Mer were gone.
Total quiet took hold and he sun began to rise in the east, warm, golden rays casting deep shadows from the nearby desolate ruins of Helgen over the forest's trees.
I hope it was worth the wait. This would've been out earlier but I had two essays due on Sunday