Hey yall! I just redid the first chapter, so you might wanna go back and read that lol
Felldir handed Nariilu her lost sword, retrieved after it fell to the ground from Alduin's corpse. He left nothing behind, no bones like other dragons did, save for puddles of red-black blood and scales the warriors had pried off before falling. And fall they did, Gormlaith found no survivors in the immediate aftermath, though she admitted Alduin's Dismay could have easily left even the most battle hardened running for safety.
Hakon knelt down beside her, carrying her helmet perched on the handle of his axe. Her helmet was covered in steaming vile blood. "Is it bad?" she coughed once she found the strength. Her body throbbed and stung and burned despite the overwhelming numbness she felt. One eye was swollen shut, her other stung with her own blood. Nariilu futilely tried to blink it away.
"Wounds are nothing compared to the great deeds you've accomplished on this most glorious day," Felldir announced. His white hair was matted with blood. "For Alduin, the World Eater, threatens us no more!" His two companions cheered in agreement. It felt empty on the vast battlefield. No other voices rose.
Nariilu tried to smile. Instead, she vomited and choked on her own bile. Hakon tilted her head to let black sick fall from her mouth. She choked up more sick, magical fatigue pressing at the back of her eyes. "I have food in my pouch," she forced between gags. Shor's blessed food for the dead, to heal her up or to welcome her as one of his dead souls. She swore to herself she wouldn't die here, but death was looking more and more comfortable with each passing moment.
Hakon wiped her face with his hand, clearing her one good eye to see plainly. It wasn't just her helmet covered in Alduin's blood, it was her whole person. The ebony and malachite of her armor steamed around her underlayers. She could see boiling skin poking through melted leather and cloth. Hakon's own legs, bare under fur armor-she'd never understand why Nords seemed to favor less armor-were in a similar state from whatever splatters of blood he'd caught on his own skin.
Worse, her pouches were gone, along with the food she'd snuck inside. She sighed and leaned back, feeling tired enough to sleep for an entire era.
"Hail, Dragonborn and Time-Bound Companions!" Tsun's booming voice shocked her into opening her eyes again. "'twas a mighty deed preformed on this day, to rid Sovngarde of Alduin's evil snare. His doom shall follow no more!"
Nariilu didn't feel like celebrating, but being praised for what was, by all means, a damn near impossible task still raised her spirits slightly.
"They will sing of this battle in Shor's Hall forever, Dragonborn," Tsun continued, his face growing grim. "And though many of your Shield Brothers and Sisters have not prevailed to sing of their victory, I trust you will spread the tale of your triumph far and wide. Shor has given decree that bids you return to join blessed feasting once the count of your days has finished, should you meet your fate in an agreeable manner. For my lord graciously does not judge one on the deeds of life," Tsun paused and frowned at her, "but by the manner of their death."
"All hail the Dragonborn!" Gormlaith cried. She'd obviously missed when Nariilu slaughtered the other, weaker Dragonborn. Tsun and Shor, it seemed, had not. "Hail her with great praise!"
"Return now to Nirn, with this rich boon from Shor, my lord: a Shout to bring you aid from Sovngarde's blessed fields in your hour of need," Shor said. "I shall tarry you no longer; the land of the dead is no place for mortals to linger and die."
"Wait-" Nariilu started, weakly raising one arm. She wasn't ready to leave yet; she had so much to discuss with Shor, with Ysgramor, Jurgen Windcaller, other legendary heroes she couldn't quite count herself among just yet.
"Nahl, daal vus!" Tsun Shouted, and Nariilu felt her body compress and dissolve out of Sovngarde.
Kodlak Whitemane kept the peace, addressing the shocked crowd gathered in the Winds District with some speech that sounded like nonsense to Ulfric. He was being carried away from the plaza; he couldn't see who with his head still flopped to the side uselessly. Instead, he forced his eyes to blurrily focus on Heimskr's smoldering corpse, still twitching with energy.
And then he was inside somewhere warm and sweet-smelling with windchimes tinkling. "Hello boys! I believe this is a new record since your last incident! Training accident or drinking contest?" A smooth voice sounded distant and garbled.
"Thalmor's back. Ulfric was hit with some spells pretty bad, looks like." That was definitely Athis; his thick Morrowind accent cut through all of Ulfric's focus to understand what was being said. Something firm touched his back, he'd been set down somewhere. Three people looked down at him, one of them turned his head upright and stretched his eye wide.
"What happened, exactly?" The woman closed both of his eyes and picked up his arm. Ulfric would've sighed with relief had he been able; his eyes stung dry.
"I don't know, paralysis, definitely, but look at those marks-" A third voice was cut off. He would've called it Tovar, but there was no drunken slur to his voice.
"Lightning." His sleeve was pushed up. "Jenssen! Garlic, please!"
"By Oblivion, that looks horrible!"
"He can still hear you."
"I mean, horribly badass."
The strong, sharp smell of garlic assaulted Ulfric's nose, and he dully felt a bulb being rubbed along his arm in what he guessed was the path of Elenwen's spell. It burned against his raw skin. "Should I expect any more wounded?"
"Not that I saw. Heimskr didn't make it, and they took Vignar Graymane with them up to Dragonsreach," Athis said. "You may not be kept busy, but Andurs probably will. I didn't see exactly what happened, but they've brought a tavern's worth of Thalmor this time."
"Thank you, Companions. His paralysis will wear off on its own soon enough, and I've more than enough experience with this type of injury. Run on; I don't need you riling up any of my patients."
It was cold wherever Tsun sent her. Cold and bright and windy. The air was thin enough to strain her lungs further. Nariilu rubbed her eyes against the sun, bright sunset hues reflecting off of snow in harsh contrast to the eternal night of Sovngarde, lit not by moons but by aura.
"Alduin is fallen!" A chorus of voices rose from around her, deep and primal and earth shaking.
"The mighty overlord is vanquished!" Paarthurnax's smooth rumble followed. Nariilu's stomach jumped to her throat. She was back on Nirn, and Paarthurnax was here. Safety.
"Alduin is fallen!" Nariilu cracked open her one good eye, squinting against the snow covered peak of the Throat of the World. Dozens of dragons perched on the rocks, all looking to her and Paarthurnax.
He stood on his word wall, wings spread to address the dragons. "The Dragonborn has slain him!"
"Alduin is fallen!" A few dragons rose in flight, circling overhead. Nariilu shivered against the cold, the burning of Alduin's blood, the lingering heat of melted leather was wearing off in the cold, and harsh wind worked its way under her armor.
"His Voice is silenced!"
"Alduin is fallen!"
"We are free from his rule!" Paarthurnax finished, following up with an ear-splitting roar that the other dragons echoed. Nariilu weakly growled along with them. She couldn't collapse in front of the dragons, not after that display. They'd just acknowledged her as the one who slew Alduin, the most powerful of them all. Which, by all her understanding, made her their leader.
And the dragons circled and flew off, roaring as they disappeared into the sunset. No, that was simply her vision blurring. She didn't dare pull herself to stand, noting her swords, her helmet, other weapons and armor that had no reason being at the Throat of the World being strewn around her. Tsun's Shout wasn't very precise, it seemed.
"Dragonborn!"
Nariilu turned and sighed as Arngeir trudged through snow towards her. "I…he's…" Nariilu couldn't bring herself to finish a sentence. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth.
"I can see it in your eyes; you've journeyed to the land of the gods and returned," Arngeir said, dropping to his knees in front of her and looking over her wounds. "Is it…Is it done?"
"Alduin is dead," Paarthurnax said, creeping over his word wall. "The Eldest is no more, he who came before others, and always has been."
"By Kynareth's own breath," Arngeir whispered. "Then it is done at last. Perhaps it was all worth it, in the end." Arngeir took her arm and unbuckled her bracers, letting them fall to the snow as the straps finally disintegrated under his touch. Nariilu frowned at what he revealed; mottled skin of rotting black and burnt pink and a corpses' green-grey coloring rather than her usual grey-blue. Pieces of tattered cloth and leather hung down at random intervals, stuck to drying blood. The sight sickened her, but at the very least, she didn't feel very much pain.
"Alduin's Soul," Nariilu choked out, trying to relax into Arngeir's healing spell. It stung cold rather than fill her with the distinctive warmth of healing. "I didn't..."
Arngeir glanced up to Paarthurnax. "Alduin is unique, even amongst dragons. He may be permitted to return at the end of time to fulfill his destiny as the World Eater, but that is for the gods to decide. You've done your part." He frowned down at her wounds and whispered a prayer.
"She is dying," Paarthurnax mentioned. "Dragonborn, were you to devour more than the sliver of my brother's Soul, your very essence would have been shattered. Even now, your mortal body cannot handle the strain of true timelessness."
Not dying. She had too much left to do. Killing Alduin was only the beginning. Nariilu shivered against the cold, against the pain. She coughed up acid bile, letting it splatter on her lap, collapsing forward. It hurt worse when Arngeir caught her around her shoulders. Blood dripped down over her burns and other cuts in a strangely soothing salve; the warmth was something she craved as the harsh wind on the Throat of the World, Arngeir's spell, everything she'd yet to do threatened to pull every bit of heat from her body.
'True timelessness', old fool Paarthurnax. She'd show him timelessness when she ruled Nirn for all of eternity. She'd be eternal and cast aside her body, yes, that's all this was. Nothing more than a simple metamorphosis, like what Tiber Septim had undergone to become Talos Stormcrown. She'd rise from this among the gods and sit alongside Akatosh as the pinnacle of the Divines. Nariilu smiled as her vision faded to relieving unconsciousness.
Danica Purespring insisted on keeping him in the temple overnight, and after seeing his injuries, he didn't blame her in the slightest. Deep, winding gashes made their way around his skin in frosted patterns where Elenwen's spell had coursed through him. His sword arm was numb for hours after his paralysis wore off, and Ulfric's entire right side tingled with every breath. At the very least, lightning spells cauterized the very wounds they created, so he didn't have to worry about losing enough blood to slip into a deathly faint.
Instead, he laid on his recovery cot smeared with a sweet and spicy smelling glowing salve. Ulfric tried to ignore the constant itching of his wounds to catch a little bit of restless sleep in between one of the priests coming in every hour or so to reapply the balm. He pressed them for information about what the damned Thalmor were doing, what gossip had slipped from Dragonsreach on their meeting with Balgruuf, but the priests either truthfully didn't know or feigned ignorance. Nothing new had been heard for hours, and Ulfric's imagination filled in the gaps.
But they did let him know that a number dragons had been seen gathering around the Throat of the World, so they'd get him out of the temple quickly, just in case they needed the spare cot. "Nothing much out of the usual, though. Dragons like mountains. You should've seen Shearpoint last Frostfall," the priest Jenssen idly mentioned, crushing juniper berries into paste with a mortar and pestle and mixing them with other, much less appetizing-smelling liquids and powders.
"At High Hrothgar?" Ulfric sat up and practiced moving one shaking finger at a time. He was grateful for the frequent middle of the night distractions. What brief dreams he had the misfortune of experiencing were the opposite of restful, and opening his eyes to the faint blue glow of his salve reminded him too much of the blue-purple of Elenwen's lightning spells. The flickering gold light from the roaring fire was another color he didn't want to put too much thought to, either.
Jenssen shrugged. "Didn't see for myself, but it sounds like they were much higher."
"What time is it?"
"Eager to leave?"
Eager for the morning to come, so he could distract himself somehow. But not even Jorrvaskr, for all of the Harbinger's apolitical vying, was free from the latest encroachment of the Thalmor. Vignar was in a cell, and wouldn't be at Jorrvaskr to obviously ignore him from across the way and be the quintessential old man complaining about the younger recruits. And it was his fault, wasn't it? Elenwen had written it herself; they'd planned on leaving Skyrim fairly untouched until the Dominion was back to pre-Great War strength, but Ulfric's rebellion had forced their hand.
No, they had struck first. Killing the Blades, forcing the Empire into such ridiculous terms, and pulling strings for decades to lead to a fractured Empire. And he'd given them exactly what they wanted, if a little ahead of schedule.
But Vignar was in a cell, rather than in Sovngarde. At the very least, his death was postponed. Word of his arrest had chance to spread around Whiterun, around Skyrim, the Empire, and get people riled up and angry. Get them ready to fight back against the Thalmor.
And his heart fell.
Because they'd already been ready to fight back against the Thalmor, and that was exactly what they wanted. The people of Skyrim had killed each other at his own word. And it was all his fault. It came to this because of him.
"Ulfric?"
Ulfric blinked, letting his eyes refocus. Jenssen stood over him, holding a glob of the salve and ready to apply it. "Hmm?"
"Are you alright?"
No. His entire body ached and itched and the salve was sticky and left his intact skin feeling stiff. Even worse was the guilt and regret that the Temple of Kynareth had no easy ointment for simply because it wasn't as simple as healing someone who jumped in front of a lethal spell. No, there was no cure for fault, for leading so many to their deaths, for lingering dreams that he'd been free from for almost a decade until that night. "Yes, actually, I'm beginning to regain feeling in my hand." Ulfric weakly fluttered his fingers for effect.
"And the pain?"
"Much more bearable."
Jenssen paused to take his arm. He rubbed the cold salve in the gashes, working his way up Ulfric's arm to his shoulder, down his chest in the main path of Elenwen's magic. "Men with bearable pain don't often let tears fall."
And Ulfric felt more exposed than he felt with only a blanket to cover him, bearing himself to a healer who was quite literally running his fingers under Ulfric's skin. He'd hidden it well, so well that even he himself had doubted that there was anything to feel. But Elenwen had forced it back to the surface, like she forced him to reveal everything he knew about the defense of the Imperial City. Whispers of 'dear general' came from the crackling fire. Jensen traced the very letters of those cursed words as he applied the salve in Ulfric's wounds.
The room filled with his allies, captains, soldiers, that he'd lead to their deaths. He'd stopped looking at the casualty numbers after the Markarth Incident went so poorly, and the fates of thousands were lost to all but them. Before that, Ulfric had counted every soldier that died and let that number echo in his chest louder and louder as it grew.
They stared him down and asked him why, why he'd done it, and Ulfric couldn't find an answer. Elenwen stepped behind him and whispered in his ear with kind, venomous scolding with the answer. "Because, Dear General, you were always such a good little puppet."
Nariilu didn't wake up in Sovngarde.
Good, because she'd sooner throw herself from the Whalebone Bridge than fight Tsun again.
Instead she let her senses come to her in a drafty stone room, a soft bed keeping her fairly warm. Or, her warmth was from her burning skin. Nariilu flexed her arm gently; her skin had reached a wonderful stage of healing where it was taut and dry, pulling at half-open wounds just barely covered with new scar tissue. She hissed as even the small movement tore the delicate skin, blood and puss dribbling out of the wound.
A bowl touched her lips and tipped back. Nariilu swallowed cold water and let her eyes focus on the man standing over her. One of the Greybeards. She couldn't really tell them apart, save for Arngeir; they weren't much for conversation and all looked about the same. He set the bowl down on a low table beside her and grabbed her hands, casting a strong healing spell that nearly hurt as Nariilu felt her own skin grow back across her body.
The Greybeard released her hands and frowned down at her, perspiration growing on his brow. He held up one finger and hurried from the room. Arngeir returned not much later. "How long was I out?" Nariilu asked, propping herself up on one elbow. She winced against the pain over her skin, in her ribs. Fresh skin pulled against the bed, and she felt her back rip. Her Souls bounced around, forming bruises wherever they hit.
"Only a day," Arngeir answered. He took her gently by the shoulders and pushed her to lay back down. "This time, that is. You've been in and out of consciousness for a week." Nariilu tried to sit up against the old man's deceptive strength to no avail. A week? Just to heal from a few burns and some cuts? Divines, she was losing her youth. She let herself sink into the bed. Arngeir smiled and cast a healing spell.
"I didn't absorb Alduin's Soul."
"You mentioned," Arngeir said. "If the world is meant to end, so be it. Perhaps his Soul has returned to Akatosh, as the ancient scholars believed the two to be one in the same. Perhaps a similar fate awaits all dragons and Dragonborn. I suppose you'll learn eventually, and far off. Your wounds are responding exceptionally well, considering."
Exceptionally well still looked and felt exceptionally horrible to her. "What day is it?"
"The fifth of Second Seed. Year 203, Fourth Era."
Nariilu shivered. Had it truly been nearly a month since her fight with Odahviing? "Where's my armor?"
"You're in no condition to leave High Hrothgar," Arngeir said. She opened her mouth to argue, and he held up a hand. "You've shown yourself mighty, both in Voice and deed. In order to defeat Alduin, you've gained mastery of dreadful weapons. Now it is up to you to decide what to do with your power and skill. Will you be a hero whose name is remembered in song throughout the ages? Or will your name be a curse to future generations?"
Arngeir paused to meet her eyes with the intensity of a man who'd seen too much life. He continued, "Or will you merely fade from history, unremembered? Let the Way of the Voice be your guide, and the path of wisdom will be clear to you. Breath and focus, Dragonborn. Your future lies before you." Arngeir gestured to a pile of metal in a window alcove. Nariilu strained her eyes; the ebony and malachite looked to be intact, but without the connection of leather straps and supports underneath, it was as useless as tying a bowl to one's head. "But, the future can wait."
He helped her sit up. She stifled a groan as the motion pulled on her skin, and he moved around her to inspect her back. Warm hands traced her spine, warmer magic outlined her bones. "The Blades want me to kill Paarthurnax."
The soft motion of Arngeir's hands faltered briefly. "It seems my warnings against them were not out of place, unfortunately. Bloodthirsty barbarians, they."
"Do you think the Blades could be reformed?" Nariilu's breath caught as Arngeir reached her left shoulder. It throbbed with a memory of Alduin's Shouts and Tsun's battleaxe. "You once said they never truly served the Dragonborn. Do you think they-ow!-do you think that reform-Nine's mercy…"
"How many times have you broken your shoulder?" Arngeir asked.
"Two or three, I think."
"If you must break it again, try for the other one." He stepped back and helped her to lie back down. "Wartime healers are hasty with their spells."
"But do you think I could reform the Blades?"
Arngeir stopped to think, sitting down in a chair beside her bed. "Reform to what end?"
To become the great Dragonguard, servants of the Dragonborn. "I can feel it in their Souls, Master Arngeir. Very few dragons are evil, like the Blades claim. Now that Alduin's gone, I think some will join Paarthurnax. The rest, I'm not sure about, but I'm tired of all this death," She said, spinning a half-lie. Odahviing was hers now, and his army would follow. The unaligned dragons would need to choose between Paarthurnax and her, and a peaceful little cabal of dragon monks would be of no concern to her and her dragon legions. Paarthurnax knew far more than he divulged, with the knowledge of Dragonrend and the Elder Scrolls being the mere surface of his wisdom.
"I don't have a particular end goal in mind, but Delphine seems blinded by revenge and violence," Nariilu finished. Delphine's hatred of the Thalmor had its place, but the Blades were formed to serve her, not the other way around. They were useful, but the acceptance of the Greybeards had more far reaching benefits than the all-but-illegal Blades. "I've been considering this for a while, and with their numbers so low-"
"I'd warn against building on the ruins of violence," Arngeir interrupted. "Something new can always be built from ash, but the foundations of the Blades are mindless. I believe Kynareth has placed the Voice of wisdom in you, Dragonborn. You must listen to it, as Jurgen Windcaller did all those years ago. He was a soldier once, as well."
"In other words, follow the Way of the Voice."
"Of course. Your gift of the Thu'um is a gift granted by Akatosh himself. Your destiny required use of your gift, and your destiny has been fulfilled."
No it hasn't.
Arngeir continued, "Do not let your easy mastery of the Voice push you from harmony of your spirit and outward actions. If you remember to use your Voice in service and worship of the gods, you will remain true to the Way."
Nariilu smiled up at Arngeir, her face tensing around swollen muscles. "Thank you for your wisdom."
The Greybeards were smaller than most Nords. All of them looked more like Imperial scholars than the hardened folk of Skyrim, with slight frames and distant eyes. As such, their robes were only slightly too big on Nariilu. She let the soft, warm cloth drag along the ancient stones of High Hrothgar, gathering the metal of her armor into a large sack. Once she replaced half-destroyed buckles and straps, and buffed out the dents and scratches, it'd be like new. And she had exact measurements to work with; scars where her leathers and clothes had burnt into her and had to be pulled out one piece at a time crisscrossed her skin in shiny pink.
Arngeir stood in the doorway as she moved slowly, deliberately, stifling little gasps and squeaks of pain and aches of sore muscles. "I need not remind you that you are always welcome at High Hrothgar, Dragonborn," he said. "Our hospitality especially extends to when you are weary in mind, body, or spirit."
"And I'll take advantage of that should my Voice not clear the way to the Throat of the World," Nariilu replied, latching the sack closed and slinging it over her better shoulder. "But I must be leaving." She buckled her sword sheathes, blessing her past self for leaving the old piece of junk at High Hrothgar. It didn't quite fit her Daedric swords, but they were secure enough for the journey back to Whiterun.
"Go with the gods." Arngeir saw her out to the courtyard along with the rest of the Greybeards, walking slowly to let her limp along with a heavy walking staff.
Nariilu felt glass in her lungs as she inhaled and Shouted, "Lok, vah koor!" The winds on the path to the Throat of the World cleared and she turned to face the Greybeards. "Thank you, all. Nirn owes you a great debt."
The Greybeards spoke in unison. Nariilu leaned heavily on her cane as the mountain shook with their words. "Ysmir balaan, laat dovahsebrom, lingrah aal rek voth rel Strundu'ul su'um kaan." (Worthy Ysmir, Last Dragon of the North, may the Stormcrown long rest on her head, with the power of Kyne.) Nariilu bowed as deeply as she could, feeling each vertebra in her spine pop into place.
"You know I can't just walk in." Lydia crossed her arms and perched on the stairs. She'd let the fire in Breezehome fall to a low flicker overnight, and hadn't yet stoked it to a roar. "We'll have to wait for the Jarl to tell us what's been discussed."
"You're one of the only damn people in this city that can walk into Dragonsreach," Ulfric argued, gesturing with his left arm, free of the bindings that held ointment to his new scars. He wondered if he'd ever have the time or place to get them healed, like he had with the last ones Elenwen gave him. These were much less severe, perhaps they'd disappear on their own, instead of with years of regular healing. "As Housecarl-"
"As a Housecarl with no Thane? No news to report, no request, no summons?" Lydia cut him off. "I'll be denied at the steps. And if not, his temper will be boiling."
"As Housecarl," Ulfric repeated, more force behind his tone this time, "to the Dragonborn, a woman Balgruuf respects and trusts enough to let a dragon attack his city on her word, you have more power than some of the other Thanes in Whiterun. In the absence of your Thane, you can personally request audience with him."
"He doesn't take spontaneous visitors on his best days!"
"I seem to recall the Dragonborn walking right into his throne room," Ulfric replied. "He had more than enough time to threaten me with that axe."
Lydia pressed a hand to her forehead. "I'm not the Dragonborn. I have to play by the rules with the Jarl. We all have to play by the rules with the Dominion. What do you think would happen if I barged into his meeting with all those Thalmor? I'd be thrown into a dungeon for Jarl Balgruuf to save face. Didn't you just say they threatened to arrest him?"
Ulfric shook his head. "You really think Balgruuf wouldn't let you go the second those elves leave?"
"They're not leaving, Ulfric," Lydia said. "This is serious. The Dominion is here to stay this time."
"That might be true for now," Ulfric admitted, "but I at the very least want to know exactly what's being discussed, rather than what Balgruuf will disclose. And since you won't do it for me, the Dragonborn will want to know when she returns, too. I don't know what kind of orders she left for you, but-"
"It's been a month," Lydia chided. "She's never been out of contact this long, not even when she was training at High Hrothgar or fighting in the war. Letters came every two weeks, like clockwork. We have to consider-"
"You think she's dead."
"-all the possibilities," Lydia finished. "I think we can't ignore it. She flew off on the back of a dragon to Sovngarde! That's where dead people go!"
"Well, she went there alive!"
"You of all people should know what Alduin is capable of! What's one woman against a god who leveled Helgen in minutes?"
"Ask the Elder Scrolls, I don't know!" Ulfric tossed up his hands and sat down hard in a chair. "She's not dead."
"No, you just don't want to consider it," Lydia pressed. "Look, Ulfric, I'll do what I can to keep you safe-"
"You think I care about my own safety?" Ulfric dropped his voice low and gestured to the side of his face where thin tendrils of Elenwen's spell had wrapped and caught. "The Dragonborn will return. She told me on the Porch." Be ready when I return. Ulfric was ready, ready to end the Thalmor once and for all.
Lydia paused and swallowed hard. "I understand that you've had a difficult day. Let's discuss this after you've recovered a bit more from your injuries."
Ulfric couldn't help but laugh. "Waiting kills people. That priest is already dead, Vignar's next, and how many after that?"
"Then we have to stop 'waiting' for Nariilu, and act as if she isn't returning."
Ulfric gripped the arm of the chair, ready to push himself up. Instead, he was shaken back down by a sudden earthquake. No, not an earthquake, he realized, as ancient words rumbled through the floor and up into his body. The Greybeards. He met Lydia's eyes and smirked. "I suppose this means I was right."
