A/N: This chapter, 28, and the upcoming ones are chapters I finished a while ago, but didn't post due to lack of motivation and confidence. I haven't written anything for this novel in a while, but I will most like come back to it eventually! Just need some incentive. Reviews and the like are always appreciated and ever helpful, and thank you to the guest review who motivated me enough to post these!
Thorunn had always associated red with fire and brightness. The fire of a dragon's Shout, the fire of the hearth at Ulfric's bedside, the fire of a pit on nights of comely traveling, the fire in Ulfric's eyes when he gave speeches to his men, the fire in Thorunn's own heart. There were other types of red, too, that were equally beautiful; that of Aela's familiar, of Vittoria Vici's wedding dress, of the poppies outside Thorunn's old home in Falkreath, of the Dragon's Tongue the Greybeards loved so dearly, of the jewels in Ulfric's crown.
Red was all she could see now on this battlefield, and it wasn't the red of those comforts. It was the red of Alduin's eyes, of Skjor's and Kodlak's blood seeping from their wounds, of the Imperial heraldry, of the Dark Brotherhood and blood and red, red war. Thorunn didn't know if the blood on her hands was her own, her brothers-in-arms', or her enemy's. What she did know was that the blood- crimson and betraying -trickling profusely from a gash in her left thigh was hers, and she could not walk on it. She was kneeling in the sea of corpses and midst of battle, the point of her sword planted into the ground while she used the hilt for support. Ahead of her, three elves were ganged up on one Stormcloak. Not far from there, a Dominion archer was poising an arrow towards a distracted Stormcloak. To her left, Altair was on his last leg, steadily crumbling as he worked against the relentless blows of the two elves attacking him.
Isha was still going strong. She was one of the few. Her arrow seered through the smoke-clouded air towards the heart of one of the elves attacking Altair. The arrow found its mark, and red red blood started dripping there too, not unlike the red Altair inflicted with his daggers. He gathered up what little remained of his strength and propelled it into one final blow against his second attacker. No later than when the elf collapsed, Altair followed, sagging to the ground.
Commander Kottir Red-Shoal was nowhere to be found. Thorunn hadn't seen him, Vunthar, Eriswe, or Kemaan since before the battle had begun. Her housecarl, Rayya, was holding her own against a group of elven vanguards. Thorunn knew, with a sinking feeling of desperation in her heart, that she could not save her. They started the battle outnumbered five to one, and it looked like they were ending it ten to zero.
"M-my queen..." came a weak voice from behind her. "You have to... get out of here." She heard heavy footfalls, as if it was taking the speaker's every effort to put one foot in front of the other. Thorunn had taken a nasty blow to the eye and could only see out of her right one, but with what little she could see, she identified the speaker (coated in blood and grime and mangled features though he was) as Thongvor Silver-Blood.
Thorunn's grip on the hilt of her sword tightened. "No," she stated firmly. Or, what she perceived as firmly. In reality, the word came out as a broken wisp, carried away by the clinking of steel on steel and the cries of dying men. A hand grabbed her arm, Thongvor's she presumed, and before she could protest or resist, her world went from red to black.
[SOLITUDE; TWO DAYS LATER]
"What do you mean Markarth is lost?" Ulfric roared, standing from his throne abruptly. His blue eyes bore into Jorleif's browns, furious.
"The Dominion attacked their flank, sir. They were not supposed to be aware of the Stormcloak camp, and yet they were. Hundreds came from absolutely no where." Jorleif was generally a collected man, but now his hands were trembling and his voice was wavering.
Ulfric let his fury subside for half a moment so he could think. The past week had been one of the most nail-biting stressful weeks of his thirty and five years. Fidgeting had become a habit, and often he found himself zoning out during council meetings. With the war came a tide of new problems arising throughout the country. Rorikstead and Karthwasten were taking the brunt of it, given that they were closest to Markarth. Solitude was next in that line of ire. Ulfric had no choice but to consider returning to Windhelm.
He wouldn't be going anywhere without Thorunn back at his side, however. And as of right now, whether she was alive or not was up for questioning. That was not acceptable. "Someone within our ranks must be an Aldmeri spy," Ulfric suggested.
"That is not an unreasonable assumption," Jorleif agreed.
"We should worry about spies once we have the queen and her charges back within arm's reach," piped in Galmar Stone-Fist. "Our brothers come first. We should man a journey of our own to see this slaughter for ourselves."
"That would be suicide," argued Jorleif sharply. "Solitude cannot be left without someone to maintain order."
A feminine voice cleared her throat. All eyes turned to the culprit, whom Ulfric identified as Freya Gentry. She and her Breton counterpart Velerys Dothri seldom sat on council meetings as of late. Freya was their spymaster and Velerys their coinmaster; two roles generally unneeded when it came to war. Spies and secret intelligence might be of use to an Altmer, who stabs from behind, but not to a Nord.
"You have plenty of suitable regents to rule in your stead if you were to make a trip to Markarth," said Freya. She was tall with sharp features and fair hair tied into a uniformly bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a steel breastplate over her velvet finery and a dirk at her belt. "Jorleif, for instance, or Galmar, or myself."
"I go where Ulfric goes, woman," Galmar spat. He was always wary of rogues and spies, and with good reason. Ulfric remembered vividly how Galmar's own wife had turned out to be an Imperial agent who turned on him once he'd overstayed his welcome with the Stormcloaks.
"I am staying here," Ulfric stated firmly. The Dominion was lying in wait for the perfect chance to seize Solitude, he knew it. The moment he left it vulnerable, it'd be gone. He couldn't leave, not even for his queen. "We're spreading our men too thin. Sending another unit to the Reach would likely just result in more deaths, considering how easily the rest of them were cut down. Jorleif, I want you to tell my commanders to start boosting efforts to recruit. I want the Stormcloaks broadcasted ten times more than when we were fighting Imperials. Back then we had only half of Skyrim and people were lining up by the hundreds. Now we have all of Skyrim; there is no reason we should be struggling."
"As you say, sir," Jorleif bowed and departed.
"And Freya, there is no reason you shouldn't have intelligence that could help us."
"I would not be here if I didn't, Majesty," she retorted sharply. "My snakes say that Vikkesia Hrethgir is behind this attack. She let the Dominion into the city. As for who sold the Stormcloaks out at the camp, they have an Altmer servant girl there. Eriswe, they call her. For now, her story rings true, but I would keep an exceptional eye on that one if she still lives."
"Why would Hrethgir let the Dominion take the city? What does she have to gain?" Ulfric demanded. He vaguely knew the woman; she was a close friend of Thongvor's- trusted, otherwise she wouldn't be his regent. She did have a questionable absence in the war against the Imperials and the Great War, but Ulfric had thought nothing of it until now.
"Markarth, of course," Freya said as if the answer were obvious. "Power in exchange for allowing the Dominion to reap the benefits and establish supreme rule. I am led to believe that a letter was sent to Vikkesia by Thongvor, and that is what cemented her decision to allow the Dominion in. This letter's contents are lost to the sacking. My advice: Do not trust Thongvor until he is proven innocent."
Ulfric had a hard time seeing Thongvor betray them in favor of the Dominion. Thongvor had always been loud and firm in his love for Ulfric, the Stormcloaks, and their cause. Ulfric needed Thorunn for more than just his love for her. She could clear up the mess of this situation.
Regretfully, he couldn't spare men to go find her. He knew elves wouldn't be able to take down a woman like that. He wasn't worried for her life more than he was worried for Markarth and its loss. He'd come too far against the Imperials to lose everything he'd worked for to the elves.
"Very well," Ulfric conceded. With a heavy sigh, he sat back down in his throne. Such an uncomfortable thing it was. "For now, we wait and listen. We can do little else."
The crown never felt heavier.