Interlude: The Would Be King
"Don't worry. I won't lay a single hand upon you."
The Thalmor interrogator smiled and it wasn't insidious. It wasn't maniacal or maddened by the desire for bloodshed. It was a tender smile, with no malice attached to it. There was no love there either. No respect.
It wasn't the smile of mercy. It was the smile of a master craftsman looking at an ingot and imagining the weapon they can hone with enough time. The Thalmor interrogator had plenty of time to spare.
Ulfric's heart was seized by a cold that was far greater than any tundra he had experienced. He breathed heavily through his nostrils, his ribs aching with every exhale of air. Phantom pains.
Elenwen stood imperiously in the shadows of the torture chamber, expression neutral, emotionless. Ulfric, in times of delirium, imagined this chamber to be his and her home; she had, after all, spent all this time supervising and suggesting ideas for his unending torment.
The Thalmor interrogator continued, voice soft, "You're a hero to our cause, Ulfric Stormcloak. The information you gave us was essential in freeing the Imperial City from your kind's oppression. Good, strong work is to be done now, driving out every last bit of resistance in it's outskirts. Strategists say it should be oh..."
The interrogator turned to Elenwen, who gave a small nod to her elven compatriot.
"...A month or so. Did you see that nod? To be allowed such an honor of knowing how the extermination is going while in our custody? We're so proud of you, Ulfric."
This was all news he had heard before, when he had...
When they had taken the information from him. Ripped the secrets from his very tongue. Ever since then, they had updated him on their successes, thanked him for his cooperation, and continued to tear him apart. It was the only way he could keep track of time nowadays.
Every little bit of information was another cut into his soul. In the night he could imagine his ancestors looking down on him from beyond the stars, the sense of disappointment and shame weighed on him like an anchor.
The first month of his capture had just been the beatings after they had successfully gagged him, unleashing their pent up fury and vengeance for their fallen comrades upon him. They had left him with his limbs shattered, his ribs broken, and his teeth spewed out on the ground for hours. Healing magic had restored him enough to live.
The second to fifth months had been more controlled. Methodical. The knives, the pliers, and the wire had been put to use. His chest had been carved open, the flesh flayed and pinned aside with the pliers to expose the meat of muscle beneath. Soon that too had been cut through, an operation that required two of the Thalmor healers to oversee, as exposing the beating lungs could very easily be fatal.
Too quick and merciful to let him die from exposure.
He had been healed after hours of operation, drifting in and out of consciousness, aware of every cut because they were patient enough to wait for him to wake. After all, what was the point of pain if the victim was unaware of it?
After he had been healed, the wires were used to sew his eyes shut, leaving his tormenters to spend hours describing everything done to his fellow soldiers. Sometimes they would simply stay in the room with him, silent, letting him hear the screams of prisoners echo through the halls. Soon after, they ripped the wire from his flesh, blinding him with blood until they healed him back to normal once again.
He couldn't remember when, but at some point he had grown to resent the concept of magic itself, almost more than he hated the creatures using it to punish him.
He had given them everything, Talos forgive him, he had given them everything and more. They had kept him captive for nearly a year and yet they still continued to question him. Still continued to make him suffer for the audacity of not giving them the answers they sought. Answers they must have known he could never answer.
He longed for death, for any sort of end to this farce of an interrogation and despaired at the thought of them keeping him alive like this for decades.
To grow so old in chains that the memories of agony would overwhelm all else. That one day, he would no longer remember picking up the axe to follow his father in combat, the pride he felt at being taught under the Greybeards, and the hot-blooded rivalry he kept up with Balgruuf. They would simply fade away into madness.
The interrogator brought his hands together and a crimson light glowed between his fingers, it's illuminations casting that soft smile in a far more sinister fashion.
Magic. Of course. If they had run out of ideas for physically harming him, the mystical was an option the damned Elves could resort to.
Talos give me strength. Guide this loyal soldier, this loyal Nord, this brother of yours through this trial. I have always pledged myself to you and shall do so as long as I breathe. Guide this weak soul, and I shall uproot the Elven Powers themselves in your honor. Let me prove my worth once!
"Oh great hero," The interrogator murmured. "Let us peak into your mind. Show us what someone so brave and so prideful really fears."
The Thalmor opened his hands and Ulfric screamed through his gag.
"You're quiet, Ulfric. Have you finally gotten the urge to take to the field?"
Ulfric huffed out a laugh as Galmar took a place by his side. The massive bear of a man's footfalls were like bags of gravel hitting the stone floor, yet Ulfric hadn't noticed his approach till his friend spoke up. He was surprised at how deep in thought he had been in.
The two of them faced the windows looking out over the Keep. Ancient tales told by historians and bards had spoken of how Ysgramor had built Windhelm as a grand way to watch over his son, Ynor's, tomb. To make up for his failure in watching over him as they crossed the perilous sea of ghosts.
In moments like this, I wonder if you and I had the same thoughts as king, old Ysgramor.
Ulfric didn't have a son, but he had lost his father while imprisoned by the treacherous Empire, forced to deliver a eulogy by letter. By letter. Not an ounce of respect to the man who gave his life serving a rotten government, even opening the city up to more elves when the conditions in the outskirts had worsened.
Not a decision Ulfric felt he could have made. The criminals and scum of man were bad enough, but at least they were civilized compared to what he knew elves could do. He found some measure of comfort knowing that there was at least only a single High Elf mixed among the Dark ones, and that his father's heart had not grown so soft as to allow the Argonian's within the city walls.
Ulfric knew they were hard workers, especially with the life-style they made for themselves outside the city walls, and in his mind were the perfect example of an outsider race making themselves useful to the city. But the bad blood between Dark Elves and Argonians ran deep, comparable to Man and Mer, and Ulfric could imagine the Dark Elves taking to violence if they saw the Argonians nesting within the walls.
To stamp it out meant taking resources from the war, from keeping the Empire and it's Thalmor masters on the trail.
It was a delicate situation, one his father had played to the best of his ability, before he had been called to Oblivion and beyond. Windhelm was Hoag Stormcloak's tomb, and Ulfric would watch over it as well or better than his ancestors did their own kin.
Galmar glanced his way, "Nothing to say?"
"I was thinking," Ulfric said, not taking his eyes off the window. "Trying to decide our best course of action, now that Whiterun is an Empire staging ground."
"You think to hard, you'll beat that mind of yours into mush. Too much Greybeard in ya, so busy thinking instead of acting."
Ulfric smirked, "I used to think that men needed a little more Greybeard in them. A man looking over your shoulder for years, waiting to remark on a misstep, and that one word can rattle your bones. It does a man good for discipline."
"Don't think I missed yer saying 'used to', Ulfric."
"Aye," Ulfric sighed. "They are wise and they powerful, but they are also fearful men. Like babes wielding a match, they fear getting burned, but do nothing to snuff it out or use it for real purpose. It's a fine bridge to walk, knowing what to use and what discard of their teachings."
"Were it not for that Thu'um, this wouldn't needed to be discussed. They are cowards Ulfric, and if they had it your way, I would be dead. Who was it that sent dozens of Thalmor soldiers flailing through the sky by a mere shout? Giving an outnumbered squad chance to recuperate and go on the offensive? Discard their meandering meditations and take to the front once more!"
Ulfric shook his head, "If only it were that simple. Our cause was nearly ended a mere two weeks ago. I trust in my brothers in arms, in you, Galmar... but I hold no illusions as to what my death would mean to the Stormcloaks. A martyr, yes, but an even bigger victory for the Thalmor's projects and authority. I can only imagine my death invigorating those devils in hunting down all that remained. For now, at least, it is best that I continue to be it's face and for you to help in strategizing our raids."
Galmar huffed, but nodded his agreement.
Ulfric held back a sigh of relief. Galmar Stone-Fist was his strongest and most trusted ally in the fight against the Empire-Thalmor alliance, but he had never given much thought to politics or economics of fighting a war. He was a brute in the most respected sense of the word, even back in the days of fighting for the Empire on the frontlines, focused only on the enemy in front of him and hardly ever the many that maneuvered around him.
Not for the first time, Ulfric regretted his inability to sway Rikke to his side. Tulius was a sharp man, experienced, but he was also bluntly uninterested in the people of Skyrim. Dwemer machines held more emotion than that supposed man could conceive.
Rikke was different, her fierce intelligence and skills with a blade matched only by her love for the soil of her home. She would know how to balance out Tulius' callous nature with her empathy, and organize a civil resistance to Ulfric's spy's and dissenters. If Ulfric had her trust, he had little doubt that the three of them could have decapacitated the leadership of Empire and Thalmor alike in little less than a year's time.
Ulfric could still see the horror in her expression when she had learned the truth of his duel with Torygg. She couldn't understand that Ulfric's use of the Thu'um had been a mercy to the weak High King. He may have been in the prime of his life, but Torygg was an old soul at heart and his skill with a blade had rusted considerably as he ruled Skyrim to it's near destruction.
A shout to cripple and a single strike to finish the fight... it was mercy, compared to Ulfric slicing him to pieces.
Ulfric shook his head free of the thoughts. Pointless to ruminate on now.
He forced humor into his voice, "It's not all bad, being cooped up in here Galmar. I can think of it as practice for once I'm crowned High King."
Galmar hummed in agreement, "Perhaps literally. My scouts have made contact with some dissatisfied mages from Winterhold. Loathe as I am to trust magic, these few seemed to believe there's something of substance to the location of the Jagged Crown."
"I've read your report. Harald of Ysgramoor's own crown, hm? Incredible, if true. The history and power that would wield symbolically in our hands cannot be understated."
"Literal power, if these flighty mages are telling the truth," Galmar noted. "I'm surprised you even got the report. I expected to learn that it was buried under a mountain of letters, complaining that we don't have the guards cleaning every crack in Windhelm with a thistle-branch."
"The war takes priority, always," Ulfric answered. "I trust the captain of the guards to handle the minor disturbances. I don't see why the need me in handling a butcher of prostitutes and the odd landmark at sea. The less said about the annoyances of the Grey Quarter, the better."
"Ah, I do recall seeing Brun-Wolf leaving the building some time ago. Has he still forgotten the men he fought for?"
"Brun-Wolf is a stubborn fool, but he means well. Too well, to be entirely honest. The dark elves seem to be rallying around him as a voice for their grievances. I often wonder how they would feel if I voiced every grievance the good men and women of this city had with them."
Galmar smiled, "Do you want me to have words with him? Remind him what siding with the elves looks like to the loyal sons and daughters of Skyrim?"
Before Ulfric could reply, a guardsman entered the room, "Jarl Ulfric, Frorkmar's retinue has returned. They come bearing news of what happened to Anga's Mill and have a vampire as prisoner."
Ulfric frowned, "A single vampire terrorized the mill?"
"No, my Jarl. It was a coven of them, according to their report, wiped out when they found their cave. There are only a few survivors left."
Galmar nearly spat, "Damned leeches! Anga's Mill was practically a town allied to us. It'll take weeks to get the wood and craftsman resupplied at the same consistency."
"And just as long for families to grieve while getting what they deserve for compensation," Ulfric noted. He gestured to the guard, "Execute the vampire and get Frorkmar's men some mead, after caring for the survivors. They've earned it."
"Um, my Jarl, they've actually petitioned for a trial for the vampire."
Galmar, "Why? It's a leech! Burn it to cinders and let it's damned soul pass on to whatever realm of Oblivion it crawled out of!"
"It was requested at the behest of an individual Frorkmar encountered, sir. They claim to be the Dragonborn."
What?
Ulfric paused, eyes wide, processing that information. He had heard the scouts report when surveying Whiterun after the Dragon attacked and had connected the name passed around by rumor, but now...
He glanced to Galmar, who returned the look, his gruff demeanor cracked slightly in confusion.
"Is this verified," Ulfric asked.
"She claimed that you would know when you saw her, sir."
Ulfric sighed, "Let her in."
The guard thumped his chest and bowed, gesturing to his fellows by the doors to allow her entry. Galmar crossed his arms, the old soldier narrowing his brow in anticipation.
"You really think it's her?"
"She's an odd woman for sure. That remark sounded like my brief time hearing her speak. Whether she really is the Dragonborn however..."
And what that could mean for us, when she might have chosen the Empire over our cause.
As far as entrances went, it wasn't as grand as Ulfric had expected. Victoria strode into the throne room on foot, hood down and head held high as she moved confidently past the dining table. She had light bruising on her face and hands, but she didn't appear to be in any immediate pain.
Ulfric had to fight back a grimace. Her outfit was personalized but recognizable; Legion armor, dyed in dark colors and with modifications for the cold, but it Legion armor nonetheless. Slightly torn in places, but still serviceable. Grievances he had with the Empire or not, he couldn't deny that she looked far more comfortable in the armor than in prison rags.
He could see this woman having the courage to fight a Dragon. Killing one, he wasn't sure of yet.
Victoria held out a hand, a polite smile on her face, "Jarl Ulfric. It's been a while."
Ulfric reached out and clasped her wrist and she did the same, "Victoria. My mysterious savior. I've wondered how our paths would cross once more. I was hoping it would be with you fighting under our banner."
"I'm not much of a soldier, I'm afraid." She turned to Galmar, hand held out, "Victoria Dallon or Antares if you'd like."
Galmar kept his arms crossed, eyeing Victoria up and down with suspicion, "You're the notorious Dragonborn?"
"Ah," Victoria put her hand down. "Yeah, that's what I've been called after Whiterun. I have to admit I'm not exactly well-rounded on what that means for me beyond the obvious."
"You can absorb the souls of Dragons," Ulfric said. "Gain their power for your own."
An flash of emotion crossed her face, so fast Ulfric wasn't sure if it had been his imagination. She nodded, "Unfortunately, yes. It's been... harrowing to work with, but I'm coping for now."
"Can you Shout? Use the Thu'um?"
Another nod, "The Greybeards helped me. I have to admit it needs some work."
Ulfric smiled, "I'm amazed those old dogs didn't lock you up for study. I can't imagine how thrilled they would be to have you around."
"To be honest, I think they were a bit relieved that I left. They didn't seem to know what to do about me."
Nor I, Ulfric thought.
"The Empire seems to have figured that out well enough," Galmar spoke up. He pointed at her outfit, "Giving you armor and claiming to be in your debt for saving their lives. It seems you've decided on what side you're on, despite claiming to not be a soldier."
"I- what?" She raised an eyebrow in confusion, "I mean, I know a bit about this Civil War, but I don't know what you mean about them being in my debt. I just wanted to save people who were in danger and they offered this armor and some small supplies after the fact. I'm not on any side here."
Victoria turned to Ulfric. Something she saw in his expression made her concerned, "Really, I'm not on any side of this. I'm just trying to help whoever I can while I- while I sort out some bizarre circumstances."
Like how you didn't know of the Empire. Or if you do, it might be the Reman Empire... somehow.
"I've helped your guys too, just so you know," Victoria continued. "I helped them investigate Anga's Mill and cleared out a den of vampires for them-"
"A vampire you now want to give a trial to," Galmar interrupted. His distrust was apparent, "It's hard to believe the Empire's bleeding heart hasn't gotten to you, when you act in much the same capacity. Maybe even infected."
"I believe everyone deserves a right to a trial," Victoria stressed. "As humanely and safe as possible for everyone involved. I've talked to your healers and been given potions that would stop diseases like vampirism from effecting me after the fact. Trust me on this, D'Ario - the vampire - is no friend of mine. You'll understand when you get a chance to see him."
"I would not waste my time on a vampire."
Victoria sighed, "No offense, but this is a waste of time. Because the only reason I ran into Frorkmar in the first place was because I was making my way here already, to warn you."
Ulfric tensed, "Warn us of what?"
"A dragon is nearby. It's made it's nest at a place called Shearpoint, guarding a wall that has Shouts carved into it. I nearly flew face first into it because of the blizzard. Luckily it didn't notice me, so I was able to turn around and fly this way."
Ulfric felt his blood run cold. A dragon. One had not only burned Helgen to the ground, but had also torn apart Whiterun before it had been put down. The thought of one attacking Windhelm, when the war front was so precarious, was utterly terrifying.
It was only fitting that such a cursed ruin would also be home to such a nightmarish creature as well.
"Can you kill it," Ulfric asked, desperately trying to keep the panic from his voice. "Like how you slew the one at Whiterun?"
She tensed, "I'm... I'm not sure. Things are different now. I was hoping to work with you to make a plan."
"Ulfric," Galmar spoke up, "We don't even know if she's telling the truth. This could be a trap, drawing troops away from the city and leaving us weakened."
"Okay," Victoria turned to Galmar, "Again, I am not taking sides. You can ask Frorkmar if you'd like, he and his soldiers can vouch for me. I'm all alone here and I'm not interested at all in this war. I have no personal stake in it."
"There are always stakes in war-"
"Galmar, stop."
He quieted, nostrils flaring as she stared down Victoria. She didn't bat an eyelash as she met his gaze.
Ulfric continued, "She saved my life Galmar. She let me go free and argued for a non-violent solution between ourselves and the Empire's dogs. Honor demands that I repay this with my trust, for now."
For now. Because there was always the chance that she was more or less than what she appeared to be.
He met Victoria's eyes, "Tell me everything. We will work together to save Windhelm."
Victoria smiled in relief, "It'll be a long story, but I'll try to summarize as best I can.
She began to pull out scrolls; notes and maps of the area, all the while speaking about her experiences with the Greybeards.
Galmar gave Ulfric a concerned look, but Ulfric raised a hand in appeasement. He understood his friend's wariness; he meant what he said about trusting Victoria on this matter, in repayment for her saving his life.
But trust now did not mean trust in the future. Victoria spoke of impartiality in war, and he might have believed it if she had secluded herself among the monks of Hrothgar. The fact that she was instead roaming Skyrim as the Dragonborn and wearing the armor of one side was a sign of trouble to come, if Ulfric wasn't careful.
It was only a matter of time before she would be influenced by someone or something in this world and be forced to make a true decision about the people of Skyrim.
I pray for you, Victoria Dallon. Because I will not see the tomb I oversee to become a pyre. And I would fight all the Divine themselves to keep that from happening.
Please, he begged, make the right choice.