Ulfric took his time pulling on his new boots, testing the feel, the weight, anything to postpone his spar with the Dragonborn. They were unenchanted, something he noted with a mixture of relief and annoyance. On one hand, he would be that much less protected from whatever Odahviing-or any other foe-had to throw at him, and on the other, he had only barely gotten used to the constant tingle the magic in the chest piece sent running across his skin. The glow from the armor still distracted him.

She perched on a crate on another crate in the corner, lording over the room like a hawk. He felt her watching his every move, and he supposed that pissing her off even a bit more by donning the ebony slowly wouldn't make much of a difference.

She had sent Lydia away on some errand that she hadn't even fully come up with, instead mashing together at least three directions into one strange sentence that implied that her Housecarl should go all the way to High Rock for a rack of lamb meat. Lydia nodded with little to-do and headed out from the front door. Ulfric imagined she had some familiarity with these outbursts.

The boots fit well, though they were a little heavy for his liking, as did the gauntlets after he pulled them on. The leather in the gloves needed adjusting; it was a loose, and he said as much to the Dragonborn. She grunted in acknowledgement, jumping down and landing strong and loud on the floor. "Grab your sword," she ordered, drawing her own as she pushed the back door open.

Was she planning to spar in her College robes? Sure, they shimmered with enchantments, but no enchantment could keep a sharp blade from shredding fabric. Regardless, he followed her outside to a small yard, fenced in with a half-built wall. Tall wooden posts were up around the perimeter, but only one side was filled in with the same tight masonry as the addition to the house, hiding it from the market and leaving them open to other houses that spread back to the city wall. Two training dummies and a beat-up archery target were set up near the back of the house, a grindstone further away near the unfinished wall.

The Dragonborn twirled her sword around in her hand, watching Ulfric step out into the yard with a hesitant hand on his own sword. "I never asked;" she said, her voice tense, "is the balance alright on your sword?"

Truthfully, Ulfric had never felt such a well-honed weapon. It was light enough to swing with almost no effort on his part, yet felt as if it had more than enough weight to even cut through bone. He had found himself thinking that she had altered it to fit someone of his size before her siege in preparation for his capture. Ulfric nodded, slipping the helmet on and adjusting it until it rest comfortably.

"Well, go on," she urged, pointing her sword in the direction of the dummies. Ulfric attacked the leather figures slowly at first, testing the reach of his armor for the first time. It would have been nice to get this done in Riften, or even Winterhold, but he still didn't feel any issues with the ebony chest piece. Even the weight was something he easily got used to.

As he sped up his attacks, Ulfric noticed he was having a difficult time keeping a firm grip on his weapon; the gloves desperately needed to be altered. She walked over and deftly removed his right gauntlet, ripping out the leather glove and handing the gauntlets back. "Try now." Ulfric made a practice swing after returning the armor to his wrist, feeling the chill air on his hand. The Dragonborn seemed to be pleased; she nodded and motioned for him to continue.

Ulfric easily fell into a simple training rhythm, one he had preformed most days since he was a young boy. He, like always, was hypervigilant of the emptiness in his left hand; a shield would be appreciated, especially against a dragon that could spit fire.

Ulfric jumped out of the way of the Dragonborn's blade crashing down where he had been standing not a second earlier, twisting to face her. He pulled his sword in front of him to guard to contrast the Dragonborn's offensive position. "Good," she said, no humor present in her tone, "you looked lost in thought." She attacked again; Ulfric parried easily and followed through into his own attack.

She sidestepped. "You said it yourself," Ulfric replied, "I act on impulse, not thought." He stepped forward once, twice, three times, each attack dodged. The Dragonborn was quick, he knew that from their first duel, but now she was out of armor. He wondered if her glowing College robes had some sort of speed-enhancing enchantment on them. Maybe that's why she was so confident sparring in nothing more than wool; armor wasn't necessary as long as one wasn't hit.

The Dragonborn swiped low at his legs, but didn't have the reach to make a genuine threat against him. She was still on the defensive. "I'm glad you've admitted it." She stepped back as Ulfric punished her low aim. It was his biggest advantage against her, against most foes: he had longer reach than most. If anyone wanted to threaten him with a sword, axe, or mace, they had to step well within danger to do so.

"If only you could admit your flaws," Ulfric countered, feeling his arm jolt as their blades collided. Gods, she was strong for her slight form. He grabbed the hilt with two hands, putting his weight behind a hard, sweeping attack.

She caught it with her own sword and stood firm, throwing her leg out behind her to brace herself. "Such as?" she grunted as Ulfric continued to bear down. The Dragonborn suddenly ducked down, pulling away and leaving Ulfric stumbling as he lost support; he hadn't realized how much of his weight he'd been pushing with. She jumped behind him. Ulfric felt her blade rest against his back. An inconsequential move with his armor on; it did nothing more than mark her the victor of their brief exchange.

"Arrogance," he answered. Ulfric pushed back, swinging his blade around. She cried out in either surprise or effort, Ulfric wasn't sure, as she barely blocked in time to avoid a nasty hit to her upper arm. Ulfric pulled back as she grit her teeth against the blow; as intense as she was fighting back, he almost forgot he could seriously injure her. He frowned in annoyance at himself since he figured she likely had almost as much chance of hurting him, even with the ebony armor.

The armor felt fantastic, Ulfric noted. It had become quite the annoyance over their travels, but now as he was able to move in it, really move outside of basic horseback riding and walking, he understood why a quality set of ebony armor would set anyone back a small fortune. He wouldn't admit it to the Dragonborn, especially not after he accosted her for her continual arrogance.

The Dragonborn smiled. "Arrogance is only such if one doesn't deserve it," she said, kicking her leg and making hard contact with Ulfric's stomach. He barely felt it; the armor dispersed the blow. She stepped back, noticing how unfazed he was before resuming her attack. Ulfric let himself be hit once, twice before the Dragonborn stopped. The armor was fantastic. He imagined he could easily take a hundred similar hits before they caused real damage. "Come on, I'm trying to see how you move in the armor," the Dragonborn encouraged him to attack back, or dodge, or anything. He heard the edge of frustration worm its way back into her voice, having nearly disappeared after they begun.

Ulfric shrugged and stood still. He looked down and inspected the hits across his chest, arm. Nothing, except maybe the slightest dent under the enchantment to show that, yes, there had been impact. If it hadn't been for the smallest pain at every hit, he would doubt she was even making contact. From a Daedric sword, wielded by a skilled combatant at that! Gods, he could take down Alduin in this. Why hadn't she made a set for herself?

She scowled and aimed directly for his face, thrusting the point of her sword at the viewslit in his helmet. Ulfric ducked and caught her blade on his own, the sight of the serrated edge coming straight for him sent a rush of adrenaline through him. The Dragonborn made a small sound of contentment that she had gotten him to participate in their practice once again, though by nearly stabbing him through the eyes. Even that sent a flash of pride through her. Arrogant indeed.

"Very unbecoming for an Empress," Ulfric taunted. Her face twisted, and Ulfric briefly remembered how angry she had been not long before. Her sword crashed into his upper arm, and even through his armor he felt it, truly felt it. It was hard enough Ulfric wondered if she was still considering it practice for him, a test for the new armor. Up until then her attacks had been well-projected enough for Ulfric to barely have to think about where to place his sword to block or parry.

This attack had much more in common with their previous, real fight along the base of his…Ysgramor's throne. There was her temper, flaring back up from the simmer she had been keeping it at since she sent Uthgerd away. No telling what all that was about earlier, but the mere mention of the Blades had him keen for information. She attacked again, again, again, each with speed and strength that Ulfric only barely blocked and sometimes didn't. Each blow that slipped past his guard slammed into his armor and shook him more than it hurt him.

For some minutes she continued, never lightening up the speed, the ferocity of her attacks. Every swing and thrust of her sword was fast, aimed, and would've been deadly had Ulfric not been in armor. Still, Ulfric got the idea that she could easily kill him if she wanted. She hadn't even lifted her empty hand except to balance herself as she twirled around on light footwork he knew the Legion didn't teach, and her mouth stayed shut for once. With spells, with a sword, with the Thu'um, Ulfric knew he had no chance.

For the first time, he truly realized that she kept him alive because she wanted to, not because she had to. In Ysgramor's throne room, it had taken all of his strength and as many Shouts as he could manage to be evenly matched with her as she Shouted only twice; to open the doors of the Palace of the Kings, and to sprint from the entrance of the grand hall to his throne to challenge him to a duel. At the beginning, Ulfric had thought himself to have a slight upper hand, and later to be evenly matched; her stamina must run deeper than his as he was older than she, physically if not chronologically.

If this is what she was capable of, it was no wonder his army fell within months. To call the Dragonborn a one woman army was an understatement; she looked bored.

The weight of the armor was beginning to pull on him as she dragged on, making it difficult to move as fast as he had to. Sweat poured down Ulfric's brow and dull aches throbbed on his stomach, arms, legs, marking where she had struck him and where bruises would develop. And then, all of a sudden, she stopped her assault just as quickly as it had begun.

The Dragonborn stepped back, tightly holding her sword at her side at an angle that left her able to bring it up again the second she needed, or wanted. Ulfric didn't drop his guard, even when she relaxed into a simple stretch. "Tell me," she said, "when you studied with the Greybeards, who was their leader?"

"Master Arngeir," Ulfric answered. He still heard the man's mantras echo in his mind every time he went to Shout, every time he sat in quiet meditation. Ulfric blinked. Why on Nirn did the Dragonborn stop their spar just to discuss the Greybeards? "Why?"

"Just wondering." She shrugged and brought her sword up. His answer seemed to annoy her. Had Arngeir died sometime during the last few months, and he completely missed the funeral? Questions for later, Ulfric decided. He swung before she had the chance to do so herself. His hasty assault caught the Dragonborn off guard, and she stumbled settling into a steady footing. Off guard. He wondered if she feigned surprise just to make him feel more competent. She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose this means 'just wondering' wasn't good enough for you?"

Ulfric responded by attacking again, leading more with his fist than his blade into a feint attack that admittedly worked much better with a longsword. Their swords caught near the hilt, sending the impact up Ulfric's arm. He felt the Dragonborn begin to pull back, no doubt to attack on her own terms. He wouldn't, couldn't let that happen. Ulfric swiped out to grab her sword hilt with his free hand. He ripped it away from her; he had caught her off guard.

He felt almost as shocked as she looked, though he tried to keep his face neutral even though she couldn't see it under his helmet. She looked at her empty hand, then to him as he adjusted his grip on the sword in order to duel-wield. Ulfric hated duel wielding with a passion; he much preferred a shield to save his ass or a free hand to pull maneuvers like…well, like what he just pulled. But still, he was trained enough to hold his own with two swords, especially on the defense.

Without her sword, she jumped back and brought her hands up to guard her chest and face as a brawler would, but with the relaxed hand positioning of a mage, ready before he brought the second sword up for use, he noted. Then, she dropped back into a casual posture with her hands at her side. "Excellent technique," she said, sounding genuinely pissed off. He lowered the swords, turning hers around to hand back. The Dragonborn yanked it back and muttered something under her breath. She was still angry, not as near as much as before their spar, but Ulfric knew that would disappear within the next few hours.

He would give her that; she was quick to explode in anger, but she was almost as quick to seemingly forget that she had ever been furious at all. Perhaps that was why she expected him to not only ignore…well, everything she'd put him through, but to trust her unconditionally almost immediately after his capture. She held out her hand and Ulfric handed over her sword.

"The armor is agreeable?" She asked, sheathing the sword.

'Agreeable' was an understatement. Ulfric felt almost invincible, a thought that empowered and terrified him. He'd seen many a brash commander rush into battle and die because they (often rightfully) believed themselves to vastly overpower their enemies. Confidence was a killer.

On the other hand, he had barely felt any of her blows that could've sliced a man in half. The ache he had felt where she landed her sword had diminished to nothing more than a gentle throb in time with his heartbeat, even the ones that brought memories of being knocked off his feet not long ago. And though the armor was much heavier than he was used to, it rested over him comfortably, evenly enough to not be much nuisance. He had gotten used to the breastplate over the journey from Riften to Winterhold and to Whiterun. The helmet and gauntlets and boots would follow suit soon enough, hopefully before Loredas. He nodded.

"Good. I don't believe there's time to enchant it properly, but the enchantment on the breastplate should be more than enough already," The Dragonborn said. She turned to the half-built wall and placed her hands on her hips. Ulfric noticed a group of children peering out from behind the stone, some giggling, some with wide eyes and mouths. "Run home! Before I tell your parents you bothered a dragon!" She slipped into a playful lilt flawlessly.

The children shrieked with laughter and scurried off. "Can you see?" She asked. All humor in her voice was gone; the Dragonborn was back to seriousness and scowling and arrogance. She reached up and flipped up the faceguard on his helmet and then back again, and again until he swatted her hand away.

"Like the guard isn't even there," he said. He had gotten used to the black metal at the bottom of his vision and no longer noticed it. "Your measurements were…" Ulfric trailed off. He didn't want to give her such a glowing compliment as to say they were perfect, or even adequate. "Passable."

He hesitated too much. The Dragonborn smirked. "As is your skill with a sword." She turned on her heel and walked inside. How predictable, Ulfric thought, always wanting the last word. He tucked his helmet under his arm and followed her, finding her pulling down a quilt from the wall in the main room. He stood in the doorway, watching her run her hand down a deep burn in the wood that traveled up to the second floor.

She sighed, and jumped when Ulfric spoke up, "Where's my Dossier?"

"You should go back and train more," she answered. Ulfric set down his helmet on a crate just behind the doorway. "Try a variety of maneuvers, in case the armor joints want to lock up. Wouldn't want that to happen in battle." Ulfric opened his mouth to ask again, but never got the chance to. "I thought you'd ask. I'll give it to you, but you shouldn't read it until after Dragonsreach."

"And why?" By Talos, he just wanted to know what the Thalmor knew-thought they knew-about him. And the Dragonborn had read it, too.

"I'd sooner die than relive what the Thalmor did to me, even through the pages of a book." They met eyes and he looked back, unfazed. Perhaps she wouldn't dare face her past, but he would. He had to, especially if he were to die on that Porch. She averted her gaze. "Alright. But we'll all need you on Loredas."

The Dragonborn reached into the burnt wall, hissing in pain and grunting. Her arm popped back out, holding a book as thick as any Emperor's biography he'd read. Blood glistened on her hand where a splinter had caught. She held it out to him, the title written in thick letters burnt directly into the leather cover.

Something in his stomach dropped when he read it. Ulfric's hand barely shook while he took it from her and flipped open the cover.

A Dossier of the Thalmor of the Third Aldmeri Dominion on the asset Ulfric Stormcloak

A complete biography and analysis of Ulfric Stormcloak, including transcripts of effective and ineffective interrogations, compiled by First Emissary Elenwen.

Ulfric paused, taking in the words written in that same delicate script shared by every Thalmor. He read the cover page over and over again, memorizing everything on the page from the bits of charred wood that stuck to the edges of the pages to the slight smear of the ink around a damp-looking stain. "How much have you read?" He asked after he felt confident that the book began to mock him; he would never be able to memorize every tiny detail on every page of the thick book, but he would certainly try.

"From cover to cover," she admitted. Ulfric was surprised his heart didn't sink as much as he expected it to. On these pages was every humiliation he'd ever faced, his interrogations, even. He ignored it. "The insight into your battle tactics is particularly troubling. You'd likely be sieging Solitude now if I hadn't read it."

He didn't respond. How much did she really know about him? Or, rather, think she knew about him. Every single word written in this book was through the eyes of Thalmor, skewed by hatred and humiliation. "Where did you get this?" He still didn't look away from the cover page. He wanted to turn to the next one, but suddenly found himself exceedingly aware of the Dragonborn, still in the room, whether she was actually looking at him or not. Knowing she had read it didn't come as a surprise to him in the slightest, but it still felt like a violation of his privacy.

"I stole it off of Elenwen's desk the same day I freed Etienne from an interrogation cell. They're using their embassy as a prison, which comes as a surprise to nobody with sense."

He ran his finger over the outer edge of the book, feeling the uneven pages rub against each other. They had been pressed flat under the book's own weight, and likely even more from being stuck tightly in a wall. Ulfric caught the Dragonborn moving at the edge of his vision; without glancing he knew she was hanging the quilt back up; it was colorful enough to contrast against the beige and black of the page and ink.

Gods, were there copies of his Dossier? He wouldn't be surprised, but the thought of dozens, hundreds perhaps, Thalmor having his life, his darkest moments, just resting on their bookshelves for them to peruse as they desired made him swell with anger, then nausea, then fear. 'You'd be sieging Solitude if I hadn't read it.' Was it a tasteless attempt at lightening his mood, or was it truly that detailed? Detailed to the point where it rendered his strategies irrelevant? For all the weeks of planning he had poured over, all the contingencies he and Galmar had discussed and developed to the point of redundancy, was this really the difference between victory and the defeat his army had suffered?

He'd been told the Dragonborn had acted as a one-woman army, something he believed knowing she wasn't only a trained Battlemage, but the Dragonborn with the power of the Thu'um. Not something he had expected to face. But now, what if the details in his Dossier made him predictable, the very thing he went to great lengths to never be in war, especially when the stakes were as high as they had been during the Siege of Whiterun?

"I'll be back later this evening," the Dragonborn announced. "I have business to attend to before it gets too dark outside. You'd best stay here." Ulfric was barely aware of her moving around the room, grabbing a sack and heading to the door. "Any requests for meals?"

How could he even think about eating? The dried meats and hard cheeses and bread of the road was more than enough flavor for him. He'd be content with nothing but that for the rest of his life. The very thought of a true meal settled unpleasantly in his stomach. He'd eat after he finished his Dossier.

The Dragonborn waited a minute for him to say anything, but finally sighed. "Be careful." She opened the door with a creak, late afternoon light streamed in, brightening the windowless room. "I know you won't, but at least pretend to."