The Whiterun guard looked out from his post by the gate, over the outer walls to the country beyond. The fields seemed to shimmer green and gold in the midday sun. From behind the gates, he could hear the sound of the people going about their business. On the opposite side of the gate, his companion for that day's watch shuffled slightly, the long handle of his battleaxe shifting slightly as it was moved into a more comfortable position. Lookout was undoubtedly a very boring part of the job these days.
Though, he supposed, given the state of the country a few years ago, a little boredom was no bad thing. He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and sighed with, if not contentment then something approaching it.
And yet he could not shake that thing he'd been feeling for the past few weeks. A suspicion, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. And he was not the only one. Not only all the guards but every one of Whiterun's citizens he had spoken to about it had all said to be feeling a similar thing. A sense that there was something happening, something that they should have noticed but hadn't, always there on everyone's minds. And it all seemed to centre on the Jarl.
Any further thought on what this might be was interrupted by a shimmering in front of him that resolved into the shape of three figures made out of light. Both guards made grabs for their weapons, steel glinting in the sun. The light creatures shimmered into colour and suddenly the guards were confronted by three men.
It took only a moment to recognise one of them.
'Lord Uhther!' The guard exclaimed. Even had the man not been clad in Dragonscale with his legendary dragonbone sword on his belt, the guard would have recognised Whiterun's most famous thane. At his side, as ever, stood one of the Dragonborn's housecarls. The dragonbone helm obscured much of the face but the guard believed it to be a man. Lady Lydia had not come back with the Dragonborn then.
The sight of the Dragonborn with a housecarl at his side, though surprising, was not too unusual but the guard had never heard of him appearing from nowhere like that. And what was he doing with an elf?
Uhther inclined his head to the guard. He had left his head uncovered and the guard was able to see stern authority in his eyes.
'We have come to see the Jarl,' he said, his voice hard and full of command. The guard suddenly noticed that he held a staff in his hand, a long, grey stick topped with three screaming faces. Something about that staff twitched at something in his mind but he shook it away.
'Of course, lord, of course,' he made a quick bow before pushing open the gate.
Uhther thanked the guards before leading his party inside. Quaranir followed with Gregor, his hand on the hilt of his sword, taking up the rear. Uhther had initially been against bringing the big man along. He had left him at Heljarchen Hall for a reason. It was his duty, his and Aranea's, to guard his great armoury. But, as Gregor had pointed out to him, he needed someone with him he could rely on to watch his back. And besides, Uhther thought, the time would likely be soon when he would need as many of his housecarls around him as possible. The last thing he had done had been to send a letter to Windhelm, then they had travelled here.
Whiterun seemed just as Uhther remembered it. The sun shone on the stone buildings. He heard the sound of a hammer on anvil that meant the Warmaiden smiths were hard at work and, just up the street, he saw the people of Whiterun gathered in the market.
And yet, all was not right. The city seemed shabbier somehow. The streets dirtier. It was not a city that had been attacked, more neglected. The people he passed looked strange too. Drawn and haggard, their eyes a little wider than they should have been. Some twitched slightly, as if involuntarily.
Together, they walked past Breezehome. Lydia had truly made it her own home in recent years, and Uhther could hardly blame her. None of his family had lived there since he had bought the house in Windhelm, with the exception of the time he had sent Sofie to the city to learn the merchants trade from Ysolda. Though there was something he needed to retrieve from there while he was in the city.
Despite the rather haunted look of the people, some did still stop and say hello. Jon Battle-Born smiled and greeted him warmly, as did his wife, Olfina. Amren, whose sword Uhther had once retrieved from a group of bandits, stopped him as he was coming into the market.
'Can you believe it?' he said, his chest positively swelling, 'Our little girls pulling off a thing like that. I guess they're not so little any more, eh?'
Uhther had to resist the urge to grimace. That was yet another thing that he would need to deal with at some point. Lucia, or the Young Dragon as she was apparently now known, couldn't be left to rampage across east Skyrim with her Fangs. Though, he had to admit, she hadn't done too bad a job so far.
'I suppose not,' he said at last. Amren beamed and walked off.
'What was that about?' Gregor asked.
'No idea,' Uhther replied. Quaranir only huffed, impatiently, and kept on walking. The two men followed his lead now, though Uhther did stop to exchange a friendly word with Ysolda.
Uhther had once thought of asking her to marry him. She was a clever woman, witty and attractive, all a man might want of a wife. But then he had met Sylgja and that had driven the notion straight from his mind. Ysolda had married a merchant from Falkreath. He owned his own caravan and Ysolda sold the wares he brought to the city.
They climbed the steps up to the Wind District and hurried through the plaza of the Gildergreen. Heimskr's voice rose above the hubbub of the city as it ever did, shouting out the love of Talos for all to hear. Glancing at Heimskr, Uhther's eyes were drawn, inexorably, upwards to Jorrvaskr. The sight of that hall had once filled Uhther with pride and a sense of glory. Now all he felt was discomfort and shame.
He remembered his last night in the hall. The sound of tearing cloth, Aela screaming. And then the next morning, with all the Circle around him. The look on Vilkas's face, Farkas's last words to him. Uhther pulled his eyes from the place and followed Quaranir up the steps to the Cloud District, to Dragonsreach.
The doors creaked on hinges heavy with rust as the three of them entered the palace of the Jarl of Whiterun. Their footsteps echoed in the great hall. There was no other sound. Uhther looked around. There were no servants, none of the usual attendants or visitors that had always been here whenever he had visited in the past.
The long table of the Jarl was also empty. None of the Jarl's family housecarls, no visiting nobles, nobody. Only Proventus Avenicci was a familiar sight. He stood vigil beside the Jarl's throne, Balgruuf's greatsword strapped across his back should his lord ever need it. But it was not Balgruuf who sat in the Jarl's throne.
A young man sat in the throne, though slumped might be a better word. Uhther knew him, though it had been years since he'd last seen the lad. It was Frothar, the Jarl's eldest son. He had grown considerably these last years. The boy Uhther had once known had become a bear of a man; tall, well-built with thick black hair and beard. Though as big as he was, he barely seemed to fit the throne that his father had filled. He seemed completely dejected. But, more importantly, why did he sit in it? Uhther had heard no word of Balgruuf's death and that, surely, would have filled the tongue of every Nord for miles around.
Proventus saw them approach and his eyes seemed to fill with the light of hope.
'Lord Uhther!' the steward exclaimed. Frothar looked up quickly and, upon seeing Uhther and his companions approach, quickly tried to make himself look more regal.
'Proventus,' Uhther greeted the man before turning to Frothar, 'I had not had word of your father.'
Proventus took Uhther's meaning.
'The Jarl is still with us,' he hastened to explain, 'he has taken to bed with a severe sickness. Frothar has been filling in.'
Frothar smiled a weak smile that did not come close to touching his eyes. Uhther looked at Quaranir.
'Is this what you brought me here for?'
'In part,' the sorcerer said, evasively.
Uhther turned back to face Frothar. He remembered the boy as a strong-willed, if a little thick-witted, boy, a little bit of a bully but no more so than many boys his age. This looked like the man that boy would have grown in to but there was none of the spirit that should have gone with it. He looked utterly defeated, even as he tried to sit proudly on the throne.
'Well you're not doing much of a job, boy,' Uhther said, harshly, 'your city is dirty, your people look like they dwell in the Soul Cairn.'
Proventus gasped. He was an Imperial and, in his mind, it was not proper to speak to the son of a Jarl so. Uhther found it almost funny that, though the man had lived most of his life in Skyrim, he still did not truly understand the Nords. Also, he was the Dragonborn, and that did give him a few privileges.
He'd been half hoping that Frothar would rise in anger but the boy just slumped further in his seat.
'It's true,' he said, despondently, 'I know you are right. I want to do something about it but I find myself unable to. It's as if something holds me back. I wake each day, intending to fix what plagues the city, yet I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder for the thing I know I have missed. And before I know it, night has fallen and I've done nothing.'
Frothar hung his head. He was genuinely ashamed. Uhther felt himself feeling sorry for the boy.
'It is no fault of yours,' Quaranir spoke up. Frothar jumped and both he and Proventus looked at the Psijic as if seeing him for the first time. 'A dark power has tainted the Jarl, and that taint is spreading to the rest of the city, including you. But I believe this taint can be removed. Please, show us to the Jarl.'
Frothar blinked. Proventus's mouth dropped slightly. For a moment, neither moved. Then, Proventus seemed to snap back to his senses.
'Yes, yes of course,' he gabbled, excitedly. Frothar rose from the throne to follow the steward towards the steps that led towards the balcony and the bed chambers. 'This way, this way please.'
Quaranir took the lead in following the two men. Uhther, after exchanging a quick look with Gregor, followed in his footsteps.
After the rather bleak emptiness of the Jarl's main hall, the bed chamber was positively packed. Beside the bed stood Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, and Irileth, Balgruuf's personal housecarl, each looking as worried as the other.
At the side of the room, on two high backed chairs, two others sat. A young woman wearing a fine dress and jewellery, looking distinctly bored, and a slightly younger man wearing slightly plainer clothes whose expression was unreadable. The Jarl's other children, Uhther knew. He did not spare them more than a glance. He had never liked the Jarl's other children. Dagny had always been something of a spoiled brat, asking after new dresses and sweets all the time, even at a young age, while Nelkir had ever seemed a wormy little boy.
The others in the room wore cowled robes. Uhther recognised one of them as Farengar, the court wizard. The other two, he assumed, were alchemists. The three of them were so focussed on their whispered conversation that they did not notice the new arrivals until Quaranir spoke.
'I need everyone out of this room, immediately,' he said.
Farengar glanced their way and seemed about to say something condescending but then he saw the robes of the Psijic and his eyes widened.
'Let's go,' he said, curtly, and he and the alchemists left the room with no more argument. Dagny sniffed, rose gracefully to her feet and glided out. Uhther rolled his eyes. Dagny had always treated Lucia and Sofie as second best yet his girls, he'd wager, were worth twenty of her any day.
Nelkir was a little longer in the leaving.
'He should have his sons with him,' he had protested as Irileth, after a quick word with Uhther who had assured her they were here to cure the Jarl, tried to chivvy him out. It had taken Frothar grabbing his half-brother by the scruff of the neck and nearly throwing him out to get him to leave.
'I'll be out here with Hrongar and Irileth,' he said, once it was done. Uhther nodded in reply. There might actually be a bit of spirit in the lad after all. Perhaps once whatever the problem was had gone, he'd show himself as a true Nord like his father. Another Balgruuf, perhaps even greater than his father. Now that would be a man worthy of one of his daughters.
Uhther turned back to the Jarl's bed. That was something worth considering but now was not the time for that. Now he had to focus on the matter at hand.
Quaranir was sat beside the Jarl, appearing to examine him. Gregor had taken the place vacated by Hrongar. Uhther stood beside his housecarl and looked down at Balgruuf the Greater.
He had always been a powerful man, considered by many to be what a true Nord should be. Uhther did not doubt it had been Balgruuf siding with the Empire during Ulfric's Rebellion that had given many Nords second thoughts about joining the Stormcloaks. Uhther still remembered that day, so long ago, when he had come to the Jarl to beg help for Riverwood when the dragons had first returned. How impressive he had looked.
But now he looked like a man gone to seed. His skin withered, prune-like, his once golden hair had turned white and brittle. His eyes were closed but Uhther could hear him muttering faintly.
'The time is now,' Quaranir spoke softly. He looked at Uhther. 'Use the Wabbajack.'
Uhther started and looked between the staff in his hands to the man on the bed.
'I can't do that,' he protested, 'anything can happen to those hit by the Wabbajack. It could turn him into a chicken or a cake or something. He might shrink or grow…'
'Just trust me,' Quaranir snapped, impatiently, 'we don't have all day. This needs to happen.'
Uhther ground his teeth. This was madness. Which was ironic really. He raised the Wabbajack. He felt the power surge through the staff, sending a bolt of light from the three screaming faces to strike the Jarl.
The effect was immediate.
Balgruuf sat up and looked at Uhther. Gregor sprang to his feet. Dawn, his dragonbone sword, was in his hands in the space of a blink, flames licking up the blade's length. It was not hard to see why. Balgruuf's eyes were wide, far wider than any human eyes ought to be. They were also bright yellow, with cat-like slits, and, most disconcerting, they appeared to be spinning.
'Well now,' said Balgruuf, in a voice that was not his own but one that Uhther recognised, 'there's a tingle I remember.'
There was a popping sound. Balgruuf's eyes snapped shut and he fell back on the bed. In the same instant a hole opened in reality, just in front of the chamber door, its edges glowing with the black light of Oblivion. As suddenly as it had appeared, it faded away, and there stood the one Uhther had expected since he had heard the Jarl's voice.
'So, I'm guessin' ya want to talk to me about somethin',' said Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness, 'well get on with it, 'I don't have all afternoon!'
