"Ulfric Stormcloak is alive."
General Tullius looked up from his desk in the war room of the Palace of the Kings. An interesting letter had come in from Jarl Kragnar in Winterhold; claiming Ulfric had been spotted entering the College of Winterhold along with Legate Therel. Tullius wasn't sure if he believed it. Elenwen stood in the doorway, her arms tucked neatly behind her and her chin upturned in the standard Thalmor fashion. "We didn't want to make a martyr, Ambassador."
"He refuses to renounce the false god. His very life is a violation of the Concordat."
"Ulfric was taken prisoner in accordance with the old Nordic laws," Tullius replied. "I'm told that strips him of his honor. He might as well be dead to his traditionalist rebels that hold honor above common sense."
"The temple of the false god is still standing. Another violation."
"Jarl Free-Winter is waiting for the snow to clear," Tullius lied. He'd brought up the fact that Windhelm still had the only standing Temple of Talos in the Empire only once, and Jarl Free-Winter implied that taking down the Temple would lead to another uprising from the citizens. The Jarl had no intent of tearing it down, and Tullius was wary of making any more drastic changes so soon. "I suggested keeping the structure and converting it into a general temple for the Divines, like in Solitude. It may make it an easier transition for the Nords."
Elenwen hummed. "As a temporary measure, I suppose. Unfortunately, sigils are carved directly into the stones. That simply will not do," she said, walking over to his desk and placing down a thickly rolled scroll. "I have brought three Justiciars to assist in the transition. From what I have seen and been told, almost all terms of the surrender were in accordance with the White-Gold Concordat. This is a list of suspected Talos-worshippers still in the hold."
Tullius narrowed his eyes. Three Justiciars? One per hold, if even, had been standard. Judging from the size of the scroll, there had to be at least a thousand names listed. "All of the Stormcloaks renounced Talos, and Ulfric. Publicly, I might add. The ones that are still alive, at least."
"It isn't just the rebels who are guilty of blasphemy. My Justiciars will begin investigating after the temple is renovated to the Concordat's specifications." She turned and inspected the war map, picking up the red flag over Windhelm and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. "I'd like to take Galmar Stone-Fist with me to the Thalmor Embassy."
"Stone-Fist is an Imperial prisoner." Tullius stood up. He was also half-dead in the dungeons, but Elenwen didn't need to know that. He was scheduled for execution in the Imperial City, in front of the Emperor and all the Senators in Sun's Height. They had until then to get every bit of information out of him, for all that it mattered. His ongoing interrogation was more formality than any real search, just a little something extra to pad out his final report. The Stormcloak army was completely destroyed; the report of the destruction of the last known camp had come in yesterday. Tullius doubted he had much they didn't already know, and the man wasn't speaking, anyways.
"And he worships Talos," Elenwen said, sticking the flag back into the map. "Of course, you are familiar with the nuances the Dominion has when it comes to Talos-worshippers."
And it shall be so that, in the case of known worshippers of the false god Talos or any other gods attributed to Talos, the Aldmeri Dominion assumes full custody of such persons, be they Man, Mer, or Beast. This privilege of the Aldmeri Dominion extends to all under the ward of the Third Empire, which will relinquish fitting persons to the Aldmeri Dominion in accordance with above sections. Tullius was intimately familiar with the section of the Concordat. It had been invoked often during the civil war, making interrogation of Stormcloak officers a nightmare. He'd have to return to the Imperial City empty-handed, instead of with the 'mastermind' of the rebellion as he promised his superiors. Gods, he'd have to send another letter to them, explaining the situation in full. He'd be stuck in this damn Province until retirement.
Nariilu watched as Sergius Turrianus prepared his enchanting table; warding the pentagram, laying out a soul gem, sprinkling void salts over the armor after she hefted it onto the table for him. He murmured spells under his breath, tracing runes along the surface as the magic fell into place over the ebony, giving it a red glow that revealed a deep purple in the black of the armor.
It was a healing enchantment, one that would make most flesh wounds inconsequential and help defend against any poison Stormcloak found himself up against. Turrianus took the grand soul gem she supplied and smashed it on the armor. The enchantment grew brightly and then faded back into a gently moving gleam, giving the armor the appearance of reflecting a burning sunset.
"I hope you were taking notes," Turrianus said, brushing an errant soul gem shard from his robes. "This is the last time I'll be enchanting something for you, however hopeless you may be at the craft."
She handed over a pouch of Septims. He had said something similar last time. "At the rates I'm paying? I doubt it."
Turrianus waved her off, muttering to himself something about the youth of the day. He reached into a chest next to the table and pulled out a petty soul gem. "Don't forget to bring me those gems."
Nariilu left the Hall of Countenance, pushing the door open with her foot as both of her hands were occupied carrying the armor. She would never understand how some actually preferred to wear heavy armors over the much lighter options. J'zargo leaned against a column, his pack hanging from his hand and her bag set by his feet. "Is everyone ready?" She asked.
"Colette is already in the city. She is very excited," J'zargo said, standing up and following her towards the Hall of Attainment. He slung his pack over his shoulders. "And loud. She would not shut up."
"And Stormcloak?" She left him eating in the Hall of Attainment when she took his armor to be enchanted. Nariilu wanted to believe that he wouldn't get himself in some sort of fight, physical or not, in the hour or so it took Turrianus to enchant it, but she knew better.
"He went with Colette."
Damn. Now she had to lug the armor down the bridge. She motioned with her chin for J'zargo to pick up her bag too and began towards the bridge, picking up her pace when she heard the telltale rustling of a saddlebag settling down on a shoulder. "Are they getting along?"
"They have not killed each other."
Nariilu supposed that was as good as anything.
They began on their way soon before midday, with Nariilu leading them on the south road and then into the mountain pass west of the city. The snow crunched beneath hooves and mountains towered on every side not long after they entered the pass. The day was clear, and it wasn't long before she found herself squinting to see. The mid-morning sun seemed to bounce off of the snow directly into her eyes, so she kept them shut on long straight passages.
Colette was certainly happy to be there, and kept up a friendly rapport with Stormcloak after he mentioned that he respected restoration magic over the other types. She didn't acknowledge his blatant denunciation of other mages, nor did she seem to notice that she was doing most of the talking. Nariilu was content that Stormcloak wasn't quietly fuming at divines knew what or stewing in self pity.
"Does this one think Colette knows where the Staff is?," J'zargo said, riding close enough that Nariilu could hear him clearly even though he kept his voice quiet, for once.
"I was going to ask once we were too far from Winterhold for her to turn back," Nariilu replied. "Just in case she gets indignant." She had recounted her conversation with the Archmage from the previous night that morning as J'zargo packed a few spare robes and enchanted rings and potions into his pack. She had gotten worked up enough that she wasn't sure if the weight in her stomach was anger or the impression that the Archmage was hiding something. Brelyna stuck her head in and ascertained that the Archmage was always hiding something. She added that they should stop poking around where it didn't concern them, to which J'zargo replied that the lacing on her robes must be a few inches too tight.
Nariilu wasn't sure how she would react, but given that she knew the location of the Augur and freely gave it to J'zargo meant that she was somewhat on their side. Though, she could've just been starved for conversation, and Stormcloak was actively ruining that advantage.
J'zargo chuckled. "It would be beneficial to ask for a lesson on Restoration before asking about the Staff. She will be in a better mood."
"We're both hopeless at Restoration," Nariilu said, "We should ask for one regardless."
Aftland peak rose before them as they continued, with the slowly sinking sun reflecting golden bronze off of the roof of one of the ruin's great towers even from two or more hours travel away. They'd rest there for the night, Nariilu announced, even though they'd arrive well before sundown. She'd hoped they'd make it all the way to Heljarchen, though it seemed that following the winding mountain path was more difficult than she'd imagined. They could likely press on past dusk, though the thought of traveling in the dark without any visible landmarks to guide them towards the Wayward Pass worried her. It would be a dark night, J'zargo warned, with both Masser and Secunda effectively new. They'd already passed numerous bones and carriages from travelers who got lost. Nariilu decided it was better to go a little out of their way to avoid any of their group joining the skeletons that warned caution
She doubted anyone had moved in since she and J'zargo cleared out the ruin in search of the Elder Scroll, though she made a point to mention the possibility of Dwemer machines or Falmer patrolling inside.
"A real, live Falmer!" Colette exclaimed. "There's a theory that their sight could be recovered, you know, with long-term Restoration. Not unlike how some gifted Restoration masters have mended soldiers who could no longer walk from their injuries."
"How are you going to get a Falmer to not kill you for as long as it takes to try?" Nariilu called back.
"It's simply a theory, Nariilu," Colette huffed. She cleared her throat. "Though I'd love to be the one to test it before the Synod gets to. They've been seen in Skyrim."
"For some sort of alliance against the College of Whispers?" Nariilu asked.
Colette shrugged. "Who knows? The Archmage doesn't tell professors any more than he tells apprentices."
She quieted down; Nariilu guessed her jaw was tired after talking almost non-stop since the morning. A pointed look from J'zargo told her that he was thinking the same thing; the Archmage's secrecy was a blow to the already slim chance that Colette knew where the Staff of Magnus was.
"I'm sure you know how dangerous Dwarven ruins are," Ulfric said. "Many adventurers have died because they were ambushed in the night."
"Aftland has been cleared recently," Nariilu replied.
"All of them have been cleared, many times. The machines, they fix themselves."
"Not in six months," Nariilu said. She wasn't actually sure, Aftland had been the first Dwarven ruin she'd cleared and hadn't visited it since. "The worst we should have to worry about is bandits, through it doesn't hurt to stay alert."
They reached the ancient steps to Aftland soon after the sun became hidden behind the tall stone and bronze tower, turning the snow a deep golden color. It was still bright enough to see by, and would be for another hour at the very least, a fact that annoyed Nariilu. She led them up the stairs to the main entrance to the city, surrounded by towers and blocked by the cracked glacier looming above them.
Nariilu didn't like how still the air was here, though she enjoyed being out of the constant breeze that had poked its way through her cloak since stepping into the mountain pass. She continued up, dismounting her horse and leading it up the steep slope towards the ruined tower. She imagined the tower, cut off from the rest of the city by the glacier, would be the safest place to spend the night, even though it was on the far side from the path.
She stopped at the door and banged on the door loudly enough for it to echo once, twice, and waited.
"What are you-" Stormcloak started to ask. She shushed him and pointed to the door. After a minute, when she didn't hear any scurrying inside, she pulled the door open, struggling against the weight of snowdrift. Nariilu cast a candlelight spell and moved it around the inside chamber.
"Oh, dear," Colette complained, peering through the door. She cast her own magelight, setting lights many times brighter than Nariilu's upon each corner of the room. "You really must practice the basics. It's…well, it's embarrassing, frankly! For you and the College." J'zargo snickered. "The both of you! You can't just blow up everything in your path with Destruction magic!"
"I was being cautious," Nariilu lied, "in case something was inside." Truth be told, she had only begun any real training in Alteration since joining the College. It wasn't a school Battlemages learned, unless they came in with a certain aptitude for it. The flickering candlelight she dispelled with a wave of her hand was leagues better than even a month ago.
"J'zargo will go look for enemies." J'zargo slipped inside and dropped his pack by the door.
"Unnecessary," Colette said. Her eyes had glazed over with a purple aura. "There's nothing here but a few corpses on the lower levels." She put down her bag. "You see, nonoffensive spells have their uses."
"Detect life?" Nariilu asked.
"And dead."
"I'm checking for myself," Ulfric said, pushing past everyone and making towards the far side of the room. There was a door there; Nariilu recalled a ramp that went down to a lower level, and then a caved-in passageway blocking off the rest of Aftland. "I don't like trusting my life and safety to spells, no matter the skill of the caster."
He disappeared through the door. Nariilu waved for J'zargo to follow him and he did. In the meantime, she set on breaking up an old collapsed chair into firewood. It wouldn't last for much of a fire, but it would warm up the small room enough to make it nearly comfortable for sleeping. She thought about checking the other towers for more chairs or benches, or even the abandoned expedition, but decided against it out of nothing more than laziness.
"I haven't been on a trek like this since the Great War," Colette mentioned, removing the sleeping rolls from their packs. "It's exciting."
"Nothing much has happened," Nariilu replied. Thankfully, at that. Frost trolls were fond of mountain passes like this, and though she felt more than capable of taking down a troll or two, she'd rather not put in the effort.
"Yes, but I've been doing nothing but researching and lecturing for decades. I haven't had a change of scenery," Colette said. "Forgive me if I'm liberal in my assessment." She quieted, casting spells to clear the dust, dirt, and snow from the floor.
Minutes passed, Nariilu finished destroying the chair, and J'zargo and Stormcloak hadn't returned. "Are they still alive down there?" Nariilu asked, looking towards the door. She idly arranged the wood into a few different piles, doing nothing more than occupying her time. Colette's eyes went purple and she nodded, pulling a thick tome from her bag and flipping through it. Nariilu sighed and stepped outside to set runes around the path and door.
She went back inside, entering just as J'zargo and Stormcloak reemerged from the lower level. She raised her eyebrows in question.
"It is empty, except for the dead Falmer," J'zargo answered. "It does not look as though anyone has been here since us."
"The cat said you found an Elder Scroll here," Stormcloak said, more of a question than a statement. If J'zargo had told him in an attempt to impress him, it seemed that it worked. Stormcloak's eyes were wide with more than a bit of confusion. She didn't blame him; Elder Scrolls were legends and lost legends at that. The Empire's grand collection of them had gone missing sometime around the Great War, though there were many conflicting reports on when they were last seen, with some Moth Priests reporting dates of the disappearance years off from others.
"Oh, is this place where you found it?" Colette asked. She shifted her weight on her bedroll. "Urag treats it as if it were his own child."
Nariilu nodded, sitting down on a bedroll and rubbing her hands together. She hated casting runes in this cold; the delicate finger work was difficult enough when the weather wasn't threatening to freeze her hands off. "It was further down in a giant underground cavern. Blackreach, I think it's called. Crawling with Falmer and Centurions. I don't plan on ever returning." She didn't mention how she and J'zargo had been lost down there for days, trying lift after lift for one that finally worked to get them to the Oculory. It was a disgusting, wet place with almost no fond memories attached to it.
"I'm sure if Tolfdir had known there was a Scroll so close to Winterhold, he'd have the apprentices down there in a heartbeat." Colette beamed; no doubt she was going to spread around exactly what ruin she and J'zargo had used to get to Blackreach the second she stepped foot back into the College. Nariilu made a note to herself to draft a letter of all the trouble it had been, including detailed accounts of the various times they'd almost died, to dissuade any further investigation of the Dwemer ruins. "After the success at Saarthal, the Archmage is willing to fund other expeditions. I'd like to plan one to the Eldergleam Sanctuary, now that the…um…the war…" Colette trailed off, glancing between Stormcloak and the ground at her feet.
"Now that the civil war is over," Stormcloak said. He visibly tensed.
"It would be an excellent place to study Restoration and its history," Colette finished.
Nariilu sighed through her nose; Colette gave off nervous energy that mixed with Stormcloak's own frustration and created an awkward air to the small room. It was a shame, especially given that Colette had been getting on well with Stormcloak, even if he seemed to not give much of a damn as to what she was saying. His polite silence was more than enough for Colette to take as a sort of friendship and run with. "Well," she said finally. "Since we're a few hours off pace, I'd expect us to reach Whiterun around midday the day after next. Colette, how quickly can you set up wards around the city?"
"By myself, a few days, or more," Colette said, almost instantly forgetting her previous embarrassment. Nariilu wondered if being slighted by the other scholars and professors at the College often had given her remarkably quick social recovery, or if that was a passive skill related to her Restoration mastery. "But you mentioned the Court Wizard would help?"
"I worked something out with the Temple of Kynareth, as well," Nariilu replied. "They'll help place wards, but the priests want to be stationed around Whiterun in case they fail during the dragon attack."
"How many priests do they have, now?"
"Last I was in Whiterun, three."
"About five of us, total." Colette closed her eyes. "Danica Purespring is still the High Priestess of Kynareth?"
Nariilu shrugged, and then realized that Colette couldn't see. "I'm not sure of her name," she admitted. She pulled out her journal and leafed through it.
"Of course it depends on how skilled the others are, but if Danica is there, things will go smoothly. And quickly," Colette added. She opened her eyes. "Most of a day, perhaps. Maybe more, maybe less."
"How long will the wards last?" J'zargo asked.
"No telling. Not longer than an hour, especially if you want us in shape to fight or heal."
Nariilu frowned. "It is Danica Purespring," she said, her finger settling on the name above a page on directions to the Eldergleam Sanctuary. Colette smiled and Nariilu shut her journal. "You're telling me we have less than an hour to trap this dragon, get information out of it, and kill it?"
"You could have more time if the wards weren't spread out across the entire city," Colette said. "For instance, they could hold strong for days with a relatively short casting time if we placed them only where the dragon will actually be."
"The Jarl would never accept that," Nariilu said. "He's barely letting this happen as it is. Absolutely no risk can come to the citizens. The wards go around the city, focusing on the residential areas."
Stormcloak huffed. "Wards won't stand up against a dragon."
"Not for long. That's why you're distracting it and luring it into the trap," Nariilu said.
"Dragons are smarter than you think," Stormcloak replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if it ignores us completely and goes directly for the citizens, or burns down the city itself."
"I'm summoning it with the Thu'um," Nariilu said. "It should focus on killing us before anything else, once you Shout at it, too. The wards are more to keep Jarl Balgruuf content. We have to lure him to land in the Dragonsreach porch. That's where the trap is, from the First Era. From there, we have to work fast, before the wards break, so it doesn't burn down the palace on top of us."
"It is a very simple plan," J'zargo added.
"Summon it, trap it, kill it," Nariilu agreed. The hard part had already passed; getting Jarl Balgruuf to agree to it, and getting to a place where she could honor his demanded terms, including the end of the Civil War.
"Place wards, arm the guard, summon it, trap it, interrogate it, and kill it, all in a timely manner," Colette said. "But all in all, it's relatively straightforward." She began to explain the theory and technique behind setting such large-scale wards, with such detail that Nariilu barely kept up. J'zargo nodded along; she was sure he was faking an understanding. Understanding magic theory and magic practice were theoretically aligned, but in Nariilu's experience were two diverging fields with little overlap. Perhaps they were closer related for less combative schools.
"Balgruuf will not accept me walking free within Whiterun," Stormcloak spoke up suddenly.
"If he cares about his Hold, he will," Nariilu replied. She was sure Jarl Balgruuf would look past their history, even one as recently bloody, in order to protect his citizens, and, ultimately, Skyrim. There was nothing in their agreement that specifically barred Stormcloak from entering Whiterun, either, especially to help bring about the defeat of Alduin. Besides, Stormcloak wouldn't be 'walking free' according to the old laws.
"He holds grudges."
"So do you."
"That's how I know he'll kill me as soon as I step beyond his borders."
"Oh," Colette sighed, "That's a bit…harsh, don't you think?"
"I'd do the same to him if I was in his position," Stormcloak said.
"He is not necessary," J'zargo said. "We will be alright without him. What is one more sword against a dragon?"
"He has the Thu'um," Nariilu answered. "I say he's necessary, so he is. The dragon might only speak Dov, as well. Stormcloak, I don't want to hear any more of this defeatist talk. Jarl Balgruuf isn't going to kill you."
"If he does, Colette can revive you," J'zargo assured.
"I don't deal with necromancy, J'zargo," Colette protested. "I'm not getting myself on the bad side of any Jarls, either. The College is a neutral institution. I agreed to this to give young mages an example of the power of Restoration magic, not to make a political statement."
"We're not making any political statement," Nariilu replied. Stormcloak laughed sarcastically. "Alright, maybe we are, but you aren't, Colette. It's an against the dragons. You don't have to do anything but help set wards. You don't even have to heal any injured, if you'd like to return to the College."
"I'll heal the injured. I'm helping to defend you, and anyone else who's in danger, too. You mentioned you may be incapacitated?"
"While I catch my breath from Shouting the dragon's name, yes. I won't know how badly I'll be affected until I actually Shout, though." Nariilu looked at Stormcloak. "Do you think you can learn a Shout to ground the dragon before we fight it? If we can get it to land on the porch, we can trap it."
"No one could learn a Shout in two days," Stormcloak responded. He rolled his eyes and muttered, "except for a Dragonborn."
Damn, if she could've taught him Dragonrend, the fight could end in minutes. "How long does it take you to learn a new Shout?"
"A few years," Stormcloak answered after a pause. Nariilu blinked. Years. She knew it took a long time but…years? She'd gotten a similar answer from the Greybeards, but Stormcloak was supposed to be gifted with the Thu'um. She'd expected a few weeks, or months, maybe a year at most. No wonder most of the Draugr who could Shout rarely knew more than one. "The Way of the Voice takes a level of commitment hard to find today."
Nariilu opened her mouth to say something about how Stormcloak had left the Greybeards, but decided against it. He was in a good mood it seemed; not scowling at any of them, but instead at his negative opinion of the Dragonsreach scheme, and his idea of his fate in Whiterun itself. She supposed he had reason enough to be cautious, but to be expecting his own death was nothing more than fatalistic paranoia. Stormcloak was still holding himself in a low place, despite his upturn in mood after the banquet in Riften.
Though Nariilu supposed it could have something to do with how he was able to isolate himself on the horse for hours at a time for nearly a week as they traveled. Divines, if he needed space to work his own way out of his thoughts, she wasn't in a place to give that to him for the next few days, or weeks, depending on where Alduin was. Stormcloak could think just as well as any of them, and thinking didn't require solitude. Perhaps he was avoiding any insight into his condition because he believed it to make him weak; she had observed too many Nords ignoring physical pain in pursuit of some warped sense of battle glory. It wasn't uncommon for Nord soldiers to jump back into a fight in no condition to do so, with open wound spilling blood or a concussion leaving them unable to stand tall, only falling back when they physically couldn't force their body to fight anymore. Perhaps that same tendency to ignore pain held true for other pains?
Rarely, some Nords also shunned away magical healing for the same belief that it was to admit weakness, though judging from Stormcloak's reaction to her own minor healing of him, Colette and her ramblings, and his own lack of visible scars, he didn't hold those same values. Still, Nariilu concluded that his traditionalist values were impeding his acceptance of her and his new position.
Stupid man. He would be High King if he would just follow her, do what she said without any spat words, any pointless protest. Stormcloak didn't believe it, of course, though she could tell that he wanted to. He was not a man without hope, and she knew that he clung to her assertation that she did want to see him as High King just as tightly as he held on to the unfounded hope that Skyrim would one day be independent.
A squeeze on her shoulder tore Nariilu away from her thoughts. She blinked as J'zargo said, "Is this one listening?"
"I was thinking." She realized she had been staring at Stormcloak for the entire time she was lost in her own mind. He stared back for a second before narrowing his eyes and looking away.
The distant roar of a dragon woke them up in the early hours of the morning. The Dragonborn stuck her head out of the tower. It was too soon for even the faint pink morning light to reflect off of the snow. She shrugged, shutting the door behind her. "Too far," she announced, stretching her arms and returning to sit in her bedroll. "Back to sleep." The roar must have echoed through the mountain peaks. No telling how distant it truly was.
J'zargo groaned and rolled over in his bedroll. He didn't seem bothered by the crisp morning air punctuated by the lack of fire that burned out hours ago, glowing the dimmest red from the center of the room. Ulfric supposed that having a thick coat of fur at all times came in use in Skyrim. He couldn't imagine having to be trapped in it in Elsweyr; the times he had visited southern Cyrodiil had left him sweating profusely in the summer sun, even after stripping down to only a thin tunic. Still, J'zargo's casual behavior was a stark contrast to Colette's; the woman started shivering soon after she fell asleep, and continuing after Ulfric, fed up with the constant movement and shaky breaths, placed his extra fur over her.
Now as she sat up, half awake, she pulled at the fur and studied it, as if trying to remember getting it in the middle of the night. She sighed through her nose and laid back down. Ulfric decided to wake up and stay awake; the uneven floor stones left his back stiff, and laying down with his ear to the ground let him hear creaking from deep within the tower. He had spent most of the night awake in fear of the entire tower crumbling into the Blackreach cavern the Dragonborn described.
It seemed the Dragonborn was staying up as well, if she had slept at all. He had noticed that she was always last one to lie down and the first one to wake. He looked over, she was scrawling in her journal, stopping occasionally to flip back to previous sections. Judging from the page she spent the most time writing on, she was nearing the end of the free pages to fill. She had noticed this herself; loose sheets were crushed in between the last page and the back cover, with more sticking out at random from the book.
Ulfric didn't miss how close her roll was to J'zargo's, nor had he missed how casually he touched her shoulders, arms, hands. He hadn't missed how easily she gave up her own bed to him at the College, and sat simply on the cat's when he woke in the morning, though he ignored the implications then in preference for savoring the feel of the comfortable bed. He did not miss how easily the conversation and laughter flowed between the two as they rode for hours.
Normally, he wouldn't be concerned, but in his situation who the Dragonborn chose to involve herself with was paramount, as it reflected on himself. It should be paramount to her if she truly wanted to be Jarl, if she wanted the power and influence that came with being Dragonborn. Cavorting with a Khajiit was not becoming. She was already a foreign dark elf with secrets hidden plainly behind her red eyes. By Talos, the day she saw Jarlship would be the day Skyrim ended.
His head swam with…not quite disgust. He was curious more than anything, curious as to why a former prisoner of the Dominion would openly entertain the company of a cat who easily called himself Thalmor. He imagined the Dragonborn was fancying herself to be some new-age Barenziah, openly associating with Khajiit, with thieves.
She noticed him watching her and shut the journal with a silent finality and stood. She wrapped her cloak about her and made for the door, looking back once in an invitation for him to join, then she disappeared outside.
Ulfric took his time to pull on his boots and gather his own cloak and sword, even though the Dragonborn hadn't brought her own outside. It never hurt to be cautious. He followed her and her footsteps in the snow to the outcropping where they had tied their horses. The moons were still in the sky, though only the tips of their crescents could be seen from the Aftland valley, and the horses were still asleep.
They stood in silence, the Dragonborn's back to him as she pulled a bag of feed from one of the horses' saddlebags. "I'm serious about making you High King," she finally said.
"Only a Jarl may be High King," Ulfric replied. She was foolish. She learned her knowledge of Skyrim's politics and culture in some long-forgotten crypt, or, even worse, in a war room briefing. Since she mentioned making him High King, he had written it off as some desperate attempt at gaining his trust. If she wanted him as High King, she wouldn't've destroyed his army, she wouldn't've dethroned him and made him nothing more than a thrall.
"A Jarl may abdicate to a chosen heir."
"You want me Jarl of the Rift?" The words spilled from his mouth as fast as he thought them. "I'll be an old man by the time Maven dies." The current Jarl of the Rift had a decade or two on him, though she rarely showed it with her spry step and shrewd mind.
"I'm not fit to lead Skyrim," she admitted. At least she realized that. No Nord would accept the rule of a foreign, elven Jarl. "This is not my country. It's yours."
"Then why serve the Empire?" Ulfric felt his heart rise in his chest despite himself. Divines, he didn't want to believe she spoke from her heart. She had to be lying for him, she had to be pulling some scheme to get him behind her, really, truly behind her, to forget all she'd done to him and his people. His country, she said, not hers.
The Dragonborn was nothing if not proud. To admit that, even though she still had her back turned and didn't quite say it to his face, was nothing short of extraordinary. He was certain she wasn't referring to Skyrim as the homeland of the Nords and instead indicating how she was a mere visitor to the country, but the openness of her statement was likely not accidental.
"The Empire with Skyrim included is greater than the Empire and Skyrim," she said. "I worry about a Dominion invasion. A second Great War. We only stand a chance united."
"We could be united without Imperial oppression!"
"What was your war truly about?" She asked, as if she was asking his opinion on the weather. She easily set the feed for the horses. "Talos? The Empire? Skyrim? Nords? Everything? Nothing? I have heard many men and women claim to fight for many different causes. But what did you fight for?"
Ulfric took a breath and gathered his thoughts. "I fought against our wretched condition, caused by a weak Empire that sold Skyrim to the Thalmor to keep a cowardly Emperor on the throne. I fought against the Jarls who were blinded to the suffering of their own people by gold. How many Nords died in the Great War? We were repaid with taxes and treaties that took even more from us."
"You fought because you felt there was no other way."
Desperation. Yes, he'd been called desperate before and would be again; he did his best thinking, acting, as a result of its gnawing anxiety deep within himself.
"You have the Jarls' respect, even the ones that did not follow you," the Dragonborn continued. "You're a strong, unifying leader. You could rule as High King, even now. Both of us have more power and influence than the Emperor could ever dream of."
It was true. None of the Jarls had ever paid much mind to Titus Mede II, even in his youth. Before the Great War, he had some amount of respect and wasn't seen as the puppet he is now. His own father had even referred to the Emperor as a man who always tried his best. Regardless, the Jarls always bowed to High King Istlod before and after taking any orders from the Empire, not that Istlod never took orders from Mede. It was well known he funded Solitude with Imperial gold, even if Istlod sometimes bent the decrees he was given to his own ends.
In comparison, the influence Ulfric held was unprecedented; that almost half Skyrim would follow him to war was something that alone marked him more powerful than the other Jarls. Their own authority barely made it to the borders of their Holds, much less halfway or more across the country. He already had the power a High King held, no, a High King could only dream of. The Kings and Queens of Skyrim had been little more than Imperial figureheads for centuries, not the unifying leader they once were.
And the Dragonborn, her title spoke for itself. She was not only a step below General, his own long-lost Imperial rank reserved for great leaders made on or off the battlefield, she was Thane in every single Hold, negotiating for her ascension to Jarl in a matter of minutes. Granted, Maven was little more than a thief, but she well understood the power of connections, of reputation. Her naming the Dragonborn as successor sent a message to the other Jarls as clear as day.
The Emperor rarely stepped out of his palace to address his own people, instead leaving nearly all matters of running the country to his senators. Gods, how Ulfric hated the senators. They were slimy politicians who only acted for their own good. Without the might of the Imperial Army, the Empire would've fallen long ago. The fact that the Stormcloaks managed to hold their own as long as they did was a testament to his own army's strength, as well as the fact that they had little to no chance once the Empire became serious about ending the war.
"I'm offering you an alternative to fighting." The Dragonborn turned to face him. "Help me understand the Moot, understand Skyrim, so I can help you."
He wanted to agree. He wanted to trust her, but something deep within himself just…couldn't. He scanned her face, looking for any tell of a lie. She steeled herself, standing strong with her arms at her side, one holding the lightened feed bag. "Why would you help me?" Ulfric asked. Gods, he was desperate if he was on the verge of believing a Dunmer wanted him as High King of Skyrim. Dark elves hated him, and in turn he hated them with their grossly blatant Daedra worship, not to mention the stench of cremations and rotting flesh strung from doorways.
"The Empire is weak."
"A single High King cannot change the course of the Empire."
"But a High King and Empress unified…" The Dragonborn trailed off. A smile ghosted her face. Ulfric met her piercing stare and couldn't believe what he saw. She was serious, absolutely dead serious.
That's what she was after. The Dragonborn had her eyes on the Ruby Throne.
The Dragonborn wanted to be Empress.