She chose her most trusted Dragonguard to join them on their campaign against the Forsworn, and even then, Nariilu hesitated to use the term 'campaign'. What she and the dragons would do to the Forsworn would be a massacre, not a simple war march. And she felt absolutely ridiculous using terms like 'most trusted' instead of calling it like it was-Uthgerd was only leaving three of the dozen-something Dragonguard behind because two were still fairly injured from slaying some dragon two months ago, and Illia was too valuable to risk as their only mage now that Esbern had slipped from the Temple in the middle of the night without leaving a final note.

Not that she would've read it even if he had. Nariilu had no time for such foolishness, but she wondered what in Oblivion was going through his head now, on the run from the Thalmor once again, exposed in the Reach where there were no mountain passes accessible to such an old Man. He'd have to stick to the main roads, at the mercy of bandits and bears Forsworn and whatever Thalmor patrols were starting to close in on the Hold.

Uthgerd marked the locations of Forsworn camps on the map, each one supposedly tucked deep within the mountains, barely accessible by foot. Nariilu fumed, thinking about how long the Blades had been barely more than another Forsworn holdout. She was honestly surprised they didn't have a Briarheart or two running around, sacrificing elk to Hircine and spriggans and Delphine, in hopes that she would turn into their latest Hagraven.

The Dragonguard that were coming along were to be little more than messengers, witnesses, to prove that it had been her that finally, finally finished what Stormcloak had started years ago. Perhaps they'd give him the credit, seeing as an easy half of them had pulled out Windhelm blue sashes to wear over their armor. She figured they hadn't quite put two and two together about just who she was, yet; the one who'd nearly killed them and ruined their army. Or, even better, they didn't care. Uthgerd swore up and down she'd done her damndest to explain who she was, to mixed results and a few disbelieving chuckles that had been shut down by memories of her killing more than a dozen Forsworn before most anyone could react.

That, in their eyes, was more telling of who she was than anything Uthgerd could say. And the Dragonguard greeted her with respectful nods, battle-ready grins, thanks that they were finally going to put their training to use. Delphine only let a few ever leave to hunt dragons-and she'd mostly trusted the Forsworn, not any of the recruits that she'd recommended or that they'd stumbled across on the road. The Forsworn being targeted by the Thalmor had only been a positive in her mind, everything else about the Reachmen be damned, and Delphine forged some 'enemy of my enemy' type alliance between the two groups where Nariilu had insisted any and all agreements were supposed to stop at relatively safe passage through Karthspire. Nothing else.

Nariilu didn't give much of a damn about the Forsworn as a whole, except that they tended to attack her and anyone without the proper signage on the roads, and how…hospitably they'd treated her in Cidhna Mine. In other words, she had quite a few reasons to advocate for their full slaughter, and it was a bonus that Stormcloak wanted to avenge his past failure by killing them all. Win-win for both of them.

And for the dragons, they'd get a hearty meal out of it and recruit who they could to the Dragon Cult, something that made the chosen dragons more than eager to come along and the unchosen grumble in huddles as they watched the rest leave Skuldafn in a loose formation before splitting off just beyond the safety of the Velothis. Low-standing hunters and skirmishers would be the bulk of the menu; anyone high enough in the Forsworn to be a real threat was caught up in Daedra-worshipping and corrupted by whatever foul magic the Hagravens mastered. But anyone cowardly enough to surrender would be taken back to Skuldafn to form the beginnings of the new Dragon Cult, stripped weaponless and bound in magicka-blocking cuffs.

She wasn't a huge fan of that aspect of their negotiations, that the Forsworn would be converted to a group that worshipped the dragons instead of her, but she supposed it was something that could be worked on. Perhaps, even something to her advantage, if the Forsworn turned out to be able to take down a rebellious dragon or two-as if the loyal, honor-bound dragons weren't keen on following her orders to the point of slaying their own kind.

The lesser of the dragons idled in the jagged Druadach peaks, hidden from sight, ready to come when summoned by her, Odahviing, or…no, they wouldn't respect Stormcloak's call, if he could even manage to Shout a dragon's name. And no one else could pull off a Shout, even if it should come somewhat naturally to the Nords in her Dragonguard. She made a mental note to see about teaching them the Thu'um.

On second thought, Stormcloak could Shout a name, if his quick study of Dragonrend was any indication. If his Shout was half as powerful as hers, it was a miracle the dragons didn't die on the spot when they met it. Stormcloak's Dragonrend had been nothing short of agonizing; if she had to choose between it and fighting Alduin again, she'd choose Alduin. Oblivion, she'd choose a thousand Alduins at once, burning and melting in his acid breath, boiling blood. At least death would come quickly rather than the endless pain; shooting, freezing, stabbing, throbbing, and so much more.

The Dragonguard were somewhat wary around the dragons, and she didn't blame them in the slightest, even if most of them played brave and approached whichever unclaimed one they felt the most comfortable around. Even the softer-looking ones they'd chosen mostly by how horrible their names sounded were downright fearsome, and Nariilu had a feeling that it was mostly her presence and their morbid hierarchy and promised consequences keeping them in line. So, she and Stormcloak would be splitting up to lead two groups of dragons, just in case either of them needed to Shout one down.

After they all took Karthspire, she would lead to the north, Stormcloak would be heading to the southern encampments on Soskendov, the razor-spiked Seventh that boasted about having been slain at Twentieth and had risen through the ranks since his revival. He would be bringing along all the Dragonguard that had dug up their Stormcloak attire-even if he looked like he'd rather lead a pack of sabre cats than his former soldiers. But he held his head high in front of the Dragonguard, giving slight nods and confident chuckles at all the right times to convince most everyone that this would go flawlessly. Nariilu even overhead Stormcloak initiate a competition between the two groups-who would end the most Witchmen lives would get first pick on the spoils and a cask of fine brandy.

She almost wished he'd resume his constant scowling, purposefully uncomfortable silence, the way he used to dominate a room just by standing with his arms crossed like he was one wrong word from killing everyone within striking distance. Ever since she'd come back from Sovngarde he'd been nothing but hunched shoulders, quiet glances…occasional bouts of sobs, especially in his sparse sleep. She really had thought he'd cheer up, stop blaming himself for the Graymanes' deaths and whatever else once he recognized her as a god, once she agreed to kill the Forsworn, tell him her plans, blah blah and so-on, and while that did a bit to alleviate the shaking in his hands, it did almost nothing for his clouded eyes.

And now, faced with the opportunity to finally finish what he'd started all those years ago, all he wanted to do was linger around her, Uthgerd, Salma, Odahviing, Soskendov, offering one-word advice to their plans and flight maps, little nods of approval that Nariilu got the idea were more to pretend he was listening than to show any actual opinion. And the dragons were beginning to pick up on it, too-Uthgerd and Salma were too busy actually planning to notice, the Dragonguard were too awed by him to care if they did.

They finally broke for a late dinner, and Nariilu was excited to see that most of the Dragonguard were carrying plates outside to eat alongside their dragons-the lower-ranked dragons had little need for decorum and arrogance; the Dragonguard had grown comfortable that they wouldn't become a meal over the course of the day. She'd been letting herself get distracted by chatter between the Dragonguard and the dragons all evening, some even daring to taste a few Shouts. She'd bit back a quip as Uthgerd kept stealing longing looks at the Dragonguard slamming into the Temple, flying along on single Words of Unrelenting Force and standing up and cheering for more. Still, when Nariilu slipped into the main banquet hall, she wasn't surprised to see a handful of people milling about, eating in a solemn near-silence.

It wasn't hard to notice how the hall reeked of soap and vinegar, dark stains marring the floor and table. She ignored them, everyone ignored them, eating on the clean grey stone instead of the red, obvious gaps left between the diners where ghosts sat.

She happily contributed to the slow, inconsequential conversation, even if the tone did shift when she sat down at the site of her massacre a few days prior. Even if she didn't have much to contribute, they wanted to know the state of this city or that township, had she heard of so-and-so? And the Dragonguard contented themselves to her non-answers, more focused on a meal of a stew that was mostly potatoes and peas and just enough elk to give it a richness that only came from an all-day stint over a fire, bones and all.

She slipped away easily during one of the frequent, long lulls in conversation, and most everyone ignored how her boots echoed unevenly in the grand cave. The walk down to the chamber that Uthgerd had set up for her with a thin mattress and a lantern (it had once been a room for drying herbs, Tsunhilde revealed after she pressed enough-you could have simply asked, I would've told you) was easy. Quiet. Peaceful, as Nariilu considered skipping reading and journaling for the evening and catching up on sleep while she could, even though she'd soon be in her bed in Solitude-a massive, opulent thing that far outclassed the dreams of her youth, sleeping on hay-filled sacks.

And then, it wasn't peaceful. The mood of the corridors fell off the Throat of the World as Stormcloak rounded the corner opposite her, likely returning from the archives or maybe even the farm-graveyard, instantly staring at the ground to avoid tripping on smooth-carved, evenly ageworn stone. "Hail," she said, more formal than she felt she needed to be, but who in Oblivion could tell with him?

"Hail." She barely caught his response as he hurried to the door of his chamber (once storage for the dried herbs), but she was much closer and managed to make it to the door before him. She leaned against the doorway, blocking the handle behind her. He made no attempt to hide the mead bottle clenched in his hand, or disguise the clink of another in one of his pockets.

"What's wrong?" Nariilu crossed her arms to hide her flinch; her words came out as more of a statement than a question.

"I was under the impression we were past stupid questions like that."

"Then stop acting stupid." Stormcloak lifted his eyes from the floor to narrow them at her, and she was almost able to look past the haze in his glance. She bit her cheek against another insult; it wouldn't help. It'd take them even further back into idiocy. "This kind of stupid. Something's into you," she clarified. "You've barely said ten words to me since we meditated, and ever since I got back from Sovngarde you've been either bursting with rage or tears at any given moment."

"I'm the one acting stupid? Did you forget that while you were busy meeting gods the rest of us were still here in Skyrim?

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

She raised an eyebrow, Stormcloak met it in kind, adding a grimace that would've chilled her blood if she hadn't been more than capable of defending herself if he followed through with the threat in his eyes. Lydia hadn't elaborated on why Stormcloak had lightning carving down his arm, peeking over his hem to wrap around his ear and up his cheek, but she'd guessed enough given Elenwen's sudden appearance in Whiterun and his delicate state ever since. Stormcloak himself was even less likely to fill her in. She finally spoke, "Is this not what you want?"

He laughed once, an indignant noise that neared a cry. "How dare you even ask me that."

"The Forsworn, I mean." Nariilu bit her cheek, not knowing how to fill the silence as he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.

"You know this isn't what I want."

Nariilu pressed her lips together, weighing her words as she looked up at Ulfric. Rage-no, not quite rage. Something more devastating rolled through his shoulders, weighing down the proud man, testing the strength that proud, silent farce he played well enough that she doubted anyone else noticed. How long had he been pretending at confidence, letting his guise of brashness shield…everything?

"Then what do you want?" Nariilu heard her own voice whisper, still too loud in its echoes.

Stormcloak furrowed his brow and opened his mouth; she braced herself for a Shout at the worst, a barrage of insults at best, but the sound that he made was nothing short of languid. A scoffing sob, somewhere painfully between laughing and mourning, it broke her heart and sent her throat down, down to Oblivion. He bit off the cry with a shake of his head and Nariilu let herself be pushed aside for him to enter his chamber and close the door too carefully for a man in his mood.

She stood in silence, watching the door and straining to hear any sort of sound from Stormcloak; all she caught were distant footsteps from the Dragonguard beginning to retire for the evening. Nothing, not even the slosh of mead nor the sound of glass against stone as he set down a bottle, not footsteps to move from the door or the rustle of hay from him settling down on his coarse mattress. What had gone wrong? She'd been making such great progress with him, swearing she'd broken him just enough for him to believe in her as much as any drug-addled beggar believes in the mercy of Mara, but this? How had she gone so far beyond his limits?

How could she bring him back?

A voice that barely sounded like it belonged to Stormcloak, choked with inevitable tears, whispered around the cracks of the worn door. "I want to not be afraid anymore."


"This one has lost her way."

J'zargo stood in front of her, blocking the way out of her Legate's tent with his arms crossed and tail flicking. Nariilu gestured to the map, the little figures there noting her forces; dragons swirling, armies flying, Stormcloak cowering under a curled corner. "I am where I am."

"Turn around and walk back. Look at how far this one has come. When is the last time she checked where she is going?" He brushed an invisible speck off of his blue robes, setting the enchantment swirling in the bright afternoon sun. "Measure yourself. Measure what you have achieved." J'zargo circled the table, opening the path to the Great Porch behind him. He nuzzled against her shoulder. "J'zargo fears that your path will keep us apart. Forever."

Nariilu pressed into him, trying to keep from hearing his words, feel the warmth under his fur. "I'm dreaming."

J'zargo nodded, his face caving in the way he'd looked on that bench in the Temple Courtyard. Broken, smashed, flat, a bloodied pulp of fur and flesh. His organs threatened to spill, slumping down where there was no longer skin to keep them in place, blood and bile leaking from a trailing intestine, dripping gore. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps you are awake. At least one of the College professors would argue there is no such thing as dreaming, or wakefulness. You know J'zargo finds it hard to care about such petty details."

She concentrated on piecing him back together again. She had no time in the morning to be haunted by J'zargo's broken body again-and this was ruining the last memories she had of him, even if they had been hallucinations brought on by gods knew how much fatigue and stress.

"Stop that. Let J'zargo speak as he is." Nariilu forced herself to look away from his ruined body, back to her map. She sent her dragons around the tent, searching for where she'd left the miniatures for her enemies. A dream, that their huge bodies could fit inside a Legate's tent. J'zargo continued, "This one did not kill J'zargo; our bet is still on."

"'Whatever your heart desires,'" Nariilu repeated, spitting the words so they'd make it past the lump in her throat. "You can't have me anymore. You're dead."

"So?" He caressed her arm, letting claws rake her skin through her armor. Ebony and glass, whole again, perfect, the plates snug and warm from the Skyforge, glowing and dancing with an enchantment she'd never had the time to cast. A clawed finger at her chin, twisting her head to look at him-whole and perfect. "J'zargo's heart desires…" He paused, glancing to the dragons assembling the miniatures on her map. "The world does not have enough to give you. Nothing will satisfy this one. How long until you cannot take more? Will it ever be enough?"

A dragon, red with white wings, placed down a miniature of Lydia. "No. It won't," Nariilu answered. "I won't ever stop. And I won't let Lydia poison what we had. What I still have of you, all my memories."

"Lydia only convinced me to hurt this one to save her. J'zargo has known since he first laid eyes on you that, somehow, this one craved power more than even himself. He has known that it would hurt him, hurt you. This one's nature is to take, to own, to know."

He had doubted her from the beginning.

J'zargo had never trusted that she would be able to claim her birthright as Dragonborn. If she had told him she was Talos, he would deny that, too. Shake his head and gently tell her that she was wrong. That she was born wrong, all wrong, that her gods-granted dragon Soul made her no more than someone who could Shout, no better than any Nord with a few years of training. He thought she was some common soldier, a quick-learning mage who'd never do anything but cast a few spells and burn herself down to nothing.

"It was what J'zargo loved about you."

And Nariilu pushed him away, stared him down, forced him to decay to the mangled mess he should've appeared as. All throughout whatever they'd had, love had never entered the conversation. It was never who they'd been, despite how she'd burned to bring it up, to define what they'd had beyond an unspoken agreement that what they'd had was built on a mutual understanding that they could own the world together, that they both needed the masses to kneel underfoot.

That they'd never allow themselves to love the other, not explicitly, not beyond constant, careless touches and nights spent celebrating that they'd survived yet another battle, adventure, that they survived together.

J'zargo had loved her, and waited until he was dead to let her know. She couldn't bear to ask why he'd kept that from her, why he'd never given her the excuse to respond in kind, that, yes, she loves him too.

She didn't dare ask why he loved her, and she was still trapped in loving, mercifully falling into that same blissless state of loved. Of hate.

"Do not taint my dreams with your needless presence anymore, J'zargo."

J'zargo pulled a miniature from the hole in his gut. "J'zargo is glad that this one sees the truth in my words." He placed himself, tail flicking and embers dancing across his fingers, in the center of the map.

Nariilu woke up and punched the stone wall until her hand couldn't keep locked in a fist.


Ulfric snatched sleep where he could, forcing himself to wake the second he saw Elenwen's face appear out of the shadows, her presence lingering in the darkened room until he lit every candle he'd been supplied with. The mead made his eyes heavy; it took longer to fall into a swirling dream, but longer still to pull himself out of it.

His mouth was dry, his stomach grumbled with too much drink and not enough food, his mind caught on the screams of the Thalmor prison, raw and sobbing, too real, too recent to keep away.

He allowed himself a second to press into the warm furs, damp with his own sweat, a luxury he'd never had in the prison, something to remind him that he was here, deep underground in a Blades Temple, about to avenge his second, easier stint in that Imperial hellhole. A swig of mead to drown out the noises in his head.

The screams didn't stop, too close to be distant memories, too far to be from his own mind.

He was in Sky Ruler Temple. He was in Skyrim. He was safe. Out of the reach of the Thalmor, the Imperials.

What he wouldn't give for Wuunferth's sleeping draught.

He sat up and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool stone through his tunic; the walls in the prisons had been slick with mold and blood that never seemed to dry. The air smelled of ancient incense, dust and earth, a far cry from the waste and rot of the cells. And the night was poisoned with the sounds of torture, sobs and cries and a distinct lack of whips or spells.

Nights like these, he would stay up with the never-resting Wuunferth and watch the man work on his cures, a short reminder that a blessed few used magic for good while he waited for a spiked tea to take effect, or one of the palace guards would always be ready for a wager in a game of dice or cards.

The screams faded, replaced with the muffled sobs of someone trying to keep quiet to avoid attracting the attention of a prison torturer looking for something to occupy themselves with. Like a woman confessing her knowledge to bring down an Empire, cries that were mourning memories instead of dreading attention.

The Dragonborn was weeping in her chamber.

Ulfric drank from his bottle, holding the rim over his mouth until the last drops slid down his tongue. He'd go and offer her mead to dull the…whatever she was crying for. His mind danced to their earlier interaction, blessedly dulled with the haze of drink, but he was awfully rude, wasn't he? She'd just wanted to help him fix how he'd failed, ruined everything all those years ago, and he'd lashed out at her.

He should've taken her into his arms and thanked her for the opportunity to right his wrongs, to prove that…that he wasn't an abject failure. Gods, he'd broken down into tears in front of her again, hadn't he? Ulfric threw his bottle against the wall, watching it shatter into too many pieces with blurred vision.

He should go in there and apologize. Go and hold her and comfort her while she cried, because no, he wasn't upset with her, he was upset with himself for not being able to do anything right. For needing the help of the Elf who was better than him at everything, that beat him at every turn, just to do what he needed to. It would be so simple to stumble one door over, to wipe her tears away, to…to…

Ulfric remembered he had a second bottle of mead in his pocket. He dug it out and finished it in one pull.

The Dragonborn let Uthgerd go over the plan with the Dragonguard that morning, letting her gloss over the flight paths since the dragons would all be following either Odahviing or Soskendov. Ulfric wasn't surprised that nobody spoke when Uthgerd finally asked if anyone had questions; the end of the Forsworn would be nothing short of a braindead hit and run operation. Almost no logistics were required; given the speed and strength of the dragons, they only had to bring supplies for a day or two in case they somehow managed to lose every single dragon on the convoy.

They'd fly to the Forsworn camps the next morning before dawn, make it to even the furthest holdouts within two hours, and while they weren't naïve enough to expect things to go smoothly, they expected to make it back after clearing the camp of the day by dusk.

Karthspire was the exception; they'd all siege it together, mostly because it was the largest, best defended Forsworn stronghold as far as they knew. He'd taken care of most of the other camps in the Reach years ago, and the ones he hadn't managed to touch were small holdouts high on rocky cliffs-places that couldn't support much more than an ambush force. The reinhabited ruins were in a similar state, unless thousands of Forsworn had come out of hiding in the last few decades.

But Karthspire had nearly destroyed his militia with its endless streams of witches, bottlenecked control of the Karth River as the Forsworn were the only ones crazy enough to cast a boat onto that deadly water, if spells raining down from the mountains at every pass wasn't horrible enough. It was a sheer miracle he'd been able to get a large enough force through to siege Markarth itself, and then only by crossing much further south, near Old Hroldan and then passing through smaller Orc controlled gaps and caves.

Karthspire, the only true settlement the Forsworn had, would fall. It had taken him almost thirty years, but it would finally fall.

If they could take Karthspire, the hardest part of the campaign would be well behind them. If they could take Karthspire-if. Ulfric found himself doubting more and more with each passing minute that a plan borne from cooperation between men and dragons could yield anything other than betrayal, especially once they split up after Karthspire. His mostly untested Dragonrend wasn't something he was ready to stake his life on.

And the Dragonborn was still far from her prime; each time he saw her she either had a potion or a meal in her hands, or was on her way to get another. Dark circles were heavy under her eyes and, while she'd stopped faking her limp all together, she swayed when she stood for too long, leaning heavily on her staff more with each passing moment. Her hands sometimes twitched into a fist that he knew wasn't because of frustration, shoulders catching and rolling in short spasms if she turned her neck too far.

He prayed harder than he should for her safe return from her leg of the campaign (massacre), worried even though the Dragonguard shouldn't be involved in much fighting at all. The dragons would be doing the bulk of the work; as impersonal as it felt to him, he was grateful for the low risk for his former soldiers, his current shield-siblings. But the Dragonborn was careless, reckless, determined to make her mark on history even if only a handful would ever see it. He had no doubt she'd make some large hero of herself for her accompaniment to attest to, even if she died to a Briarheart or Hagraven or some other damned Forsworn witch trying to ensure her name landed in more ballads than it already decorated.

Like she hadn't made her mark already-marks, Ulfric dared to think to himself; slaying Alduin was no small task. And here she was, slaying the Forsworn as well, like it wasn't his own failed charge.

Ulfric's mind swam with all the ways he could fail again. All the ways he could cause yet another massacre of his soldiers, his people, and he didn't like what he came up with. Though only six would go with him, he felt the weight of sixty thousand soldiers on his shoulders, six million Nords across Skyrim that would die if he said the wrong words, gave the wrong command. His tongue burned for something stronger than the diluted barrels of wine, dusty mead strewn around the Temple to wash away his past failure, his current station.

Six to join him to end the Forsworn once and for all, five to join the Dragonborn. Thirteen against a force perhaps thousands strong, all skilled in cursed backwoods magic, all ready to take lives to defend their horrid, Daedra-blessed ways. It nauseated him, the way that they were to fly directly into the most fortified camps of one of his oldest enemies, the way they expected to take them without much issue.

No, not much issue at all, because Soskendov had reported he and his underlings being able to fly more or less freely in the Reach, even with a stray spell warning them away from camps hidden deep within jagged peaks and sheer cliffs. No casualties were expected, not between the Dragonborn or Uthgerd or Salma, because the dragons were handling the majority of the fighting-the mortal soldiers were only expected to watch from the skies. Perched safely upon their dragons, they were expected to watch the end of the Forsworn.

As if Soskendov cared about what the Dragonborn decided the plan was to be. No, not when he was to be miles away from her, from Odahviing. Even if there was a chance of a lower dragon tipping off Odahviing to their…more involved process in the massacre, Soskendov apparently had a pronounced history of brutality towards any that undermined him in any way that kept the dragons beneath him well in line. The thirty or so that were to report directly to him cowered in the mountains, only a few daring to meet the Dragonguard on the courtyard even the morning of their attack on Karthspire.

He almost admired how Soskendov muttered his planned betrayal to Odahviing, if it wasn't a betrayal to the Dragonborn as well. That sort of deception could fester and grow until they had an all-out mutiny on their hands-not that Ulfric didn't doubt that Odahviing could deal with any rebellious dragon easily. Not that he didn't doubt the Dragonborn could quell any issue with a single Shout of Dragonrend.

Not that he couldn't bring a dragon to its knees-bring the Dragonborn to her knees. He'd tried to find little excuses to talk to her since he'd nearly killed her with his Shout, waiting for her uneven step near her chamber, complaining about the sharpness of his sword, for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on. Or, reasons he refused to examine. He should hate her, he should take any chance he got to kill her, to paralyze her and leave her writhing in pain…he got nothing from seeing her slam herself against the stone floor of the Skuldafn temple but the silky feeling of her hair between his fingers when he jumped to protect her head. And that scared him more than the threat of any apocalypse brought on by Alduin or the Thalmor or any other adversary.

Because he'd been able to incapacitate the Dragonborn for long enough that he could've slit her throat, stabbed her through the heart, snap her neck, given her any number of mortal injuries and he didn't. No, he hadn't even stood idle and let her deal with her pain on her own. Instead, he held her head and relished the feeling of warm skin on his fingers, ignoring the fact that she was his captor, his conqueror, the one who'd brough his entire movement to its knees. No, he'd been too busy keeping her alive, keeping her comfortable as she seized in pain he'd caused from a Shout she'd taught him.

And she'd been able to teach him a Shout. Granted, it was a Shout designed for Men to use against dragons, so he had a natural advantage in learning it, but still. Meditating with her-as horrible as it had been, feeling her pain creep into him, eclipse his own self-hatred-had led to him learning a Shout in five minutes instead of five years. He'd been swallowing the request every hour since to ask her to try and teach him another one. He tried to convince himself he wanted to learn another Shout to prove the Greybeards wrong, that he was worthy of Kynareth's gift to Men.

She would, if he asked. If he only asked. The Dragonborn was so reliant on his approval that she'd do just about anything he asked, beginning with the massacre of the Forsworn. Ulfric could hardly think of anything else he dared to ask her for-she would grant it to him like he was a spoiled child. The boons of being her chosen method to rise to prominence in Skyrim's political scene were still to be discovered, but her wealth easily neared that of a Jarl, from what he had seen.

Perhaps if he asked, she would reinstate him as Jarl of Windhelm.

As if he deserved it.

As if Tullius would allow it.

The Dragonborn still bowed to other masters, even if she refused to show it to him. Yes, she still had to acquiesce to the other Thanes in the Holds she cared about, still had to follow the word of her General, her benefactors. How that bothered her, if the knot in her brow whilst she read her letters was anything to go by. No, she wanted to care only about him, judging by the softness, pleading in her face whenever she asked him to do anything.

Ulfric almost found it offensive, how kind she became when she requested he find where the Dragonguard kept their whetstone so she could sharpen his Ebony sword upon it. Almost apologizing, she had added that she could find it if he was incapable, that he could accompany her if he didn't want to go without a weapon while she sharpened it. And he had, standing out of her sight so she wouldn't see how he stared at the tremble in her arms, the hunch of her shoulders, the way her hair almost couldn't hide the point of her ears, how her Graybeard robes gathered in a hasty hem and pooled in her lap, pulled over her knees to work the pedal of the grindstone.

He wondered what he'd done to make her seemingly afraid of him; so submissive in every word she spoke. It reminded him of the way his palace staff had spoken to him-afraid they'd be kicked to the streets upon the first sign of any defiance.

Ulfric shook his head against memories of his maids and stewards falsely fearing for their jobs, because he'd likely never have to vet an attendant, chef, servant again. That is, unless the Dragonborn saw fit to let him vet a domestic-why should she allow him to oversee the hirings of her own staff? He was nothing more than the man she'd identified as most fit to legitimize her claim to whatever position she'd decided to vie for.

And he'd found himself willing to advocate for her. Each position she claimed-Thane, Emperor, Talos-Ulfric had no reason to deny.

That scared him more than any Forsworn, any failure he could face.


Hi I'm alive! I just got a boyfriend (which ive felt like has already changed the way im writing ulf/db relationship bc this love thing is WILD) and he moved in with me and work is insane and I'm applying to phd programs and my cousin's getting married tomorrow and BRUH