Mulnak heaved the Dragonborn to Whiterun without an utter of complaint nor any sign of fatigue. An impressive feat, considering Thorunn wore heavy-plate armor. Even so, they had to stop periodically for Brugi to send a dosage of healing magic into Isha's slow-beating heart. Thorunn grew worried when the Bosmer's eyes went four hours without opening, despite their efforts. Luckily, Whiterun was home to the Temple of Kynareth, and within were priests who'd learned the ways of healing their entire life. Doubtlessly, they would be able to tend to the elf.

It was hard to stop remembering the way Altair had collapsed on the battlefield. Thorunn hadn't been able to discern if the collapse had been from death or exhaustion, but her hope was on the latter. With each second they dawdled, the chances of their injured comrades surviving grew slimmer. If they were lucky, the Dominion would leave those soldiers to die. Better that than to be taken captive and tortured into spilling information about Stormcloak whereabouts.

Ulfric himself had been taken captive once. Everyone knew the result of that maelstrom, but the gory details Ulfric had only disclosed to Thorunn within the confines of their private quarters. He spoke of regular lashings, starvation, the stank of death and decay wafting from the damp walls of his dark cell. The rats, of all things, had become his beacon of hope. Those pessimistic rodents had been the only living things that passed through those cells that weren't hostile and trying to hound information and submission from him.

The skies were breaching darkness when the gates of Whiterun came into view. Thorunn had been dozing off, entirely comfortable and warm in the arms of the Orc carrying her. The guards recognized their armor and shield heraldry at once and opened the gates for them without question. Behind their helmets, Thorunn imagined their eyes were full of questions they knew better than to ask.

Familiar faces were a sight for sore eyes. Adrianne Avenici was tanning leather outside her shop, speaking with Amren about some exchange they were warding. Lydia stood outside Breezehome, Thorunn's house when her only worry had been taking down Alduin. Those days paled in comparison to what she faced now, it seemed. Lydia must not have recognized her, as bloody and dirty as she was, thus she didn't react when they passed.

The marketplace had no lack of names, either. Fralia Gray-Mane advertised her jewelry, Carlotta Valentia and her daughter their fruits and vegetables. Lit torches hung from the sconces outside the tavern, inviting and comforting to weary travelers.

Mulnak walked through and past the Cloud District. Thorunn desperately wanted to stop at Jorrvaskr, to drink mead and sleep in a warm bed and worry about the burdens of the world on the morrow. But she couldn't afford that luxury, not while her brothers slumbered dead or soon-to-be on cold grounds soaked in blood. Time was of the essence.

"Dragonborn, would you have me take you to the Kynareth?" offered Mulnak, ever dutiful.

"No," she declined. "Vunthar, take Isha to the Temple. Ralof and Kottir, visit Kodlak White-Mane. Tell him I sent you, and tell him to start crafting arms and armor for our men. The rest of you, go to the tavern and regain your strength."

They did as bade.

Heimskr's sermon was as obnoxious and ear-grating as ever. "Mulnak," Thorunn said, calling the Orc's attention. "Take me to the Shrine of Talos." Her men could not wait, but neither could her God.

Mulnak followed her directions, setting her down gently before the Shrine. Her legs were cramped and her wounds were sore, but she refused to do more than wince at the pain. She knelt and entwined her shaking fingers in prayer.

"Hail Talos," she mumbled, "wise warrior, Hero-God of Man, come sit at my fire. Tell me your war stories, the battles your sword hones; you who chooses the slain, look on my deeds and when the time comes to retire to Sovngarde with you, let my end be worthy of song. In the meantime, let me feel excitement and poetry and fury and joy, let me understand sacrifice, think long, remember well, and journey far. Let me see this war's end. Let my child walk a world that does not work against them. Let my brothers live to see this world they fight for." The Shrine was beginning to fester, the most comforting of chimes lofting from its stone, the most beautiful of blue streams of magic weaving its way around the crevices. "Talos, witness this."

The trickles of magic loomed over to her, wrapping her in invisible arms and filling the emptiness within the pit of her gullet. Her voice felt stronger. Her Voice felt stronger, and her bones, and her wounds became tolerable. For a moment, nothing existed apart from her and this boundless connection. It was as if Talos Himself lent her his Voice.

And she knew just what to do with it. Her eyes opened and the link faded into a hum at the back of her heart. With a renewal of courage, she placed the palms of her hands onto the altar and hoisted herself to her feet. She was unsteady and the wound in her thigh burned in protest, but she waved away Mulnak's offer to help. She would not approach a Jarl being carried like some hapless damsel. She could do this. I can do this.

Careful not to put much weight on her bad leg, she began limping her way to the stairs, slow and steady. With each step, it felt like the wound was splitting open all over again, but when she looked down, the bandages were as stable as they'd been before she started walking. With that in mind, she refused to worry about something that wasn't there. Illusions would slow her down.

The staircases were problematic. She had to use the pillars for support, but those were sooner acceptable than a helping hand. Midway, her wounds started to become accustomed to the pain of pressure. She winced and took her hand away from the pillars. Six more steps, she told herself as she limped her ascension. Mulnak was following. She could hear his footsteps behind her and feel his stare boring into the back of her head.

Three more steps. On the last, she stumbled and began to fall, but caught her balance just before her palms scraped the pavement. She took that last step with all the strength she could muster. Now all that remained was a flat bridge to cross. It was easy in theory.

But she'd proved her point, so she allowed herself to use the railings of the bridge for support. Beneath was a charming pond filled with fish that nibbled on your toes if you stuck your feet in the water. That had been one of Thorunn's favorite pastimes, back when she was allowed to have such a thing. Gaping, the guards opened the doors to the palace at her slow approach.

Jarl Vignar Gray-Mane was cut short of his conversation when those doors opened. He cut himself off mid-shout, dark eyes turning sharply to the intruder. He was an old man, with a hair and beard true to his surname. Wispy gray hair hung past his shoulders, pinned back with Nordic braids, and a scraggly beard hung to his chest. Wrinkles wrought his wizened features and his build was a lanky one dressed in patterned orange velvets and leather brown boots. A circlet rested atop his head, gold with red rubies in its arches. A ring of some gemstone or another was on every finger and an Amulet of Talos swayed at his chest when he leaned forward for a better look at his visitors.

He'd certainly made use of his coin, Thorunn noted duly. She'd hoped he'd invest in more benefits for Whiterun rather than his own prettiness. Another mistake of the Stormcloaks, making this man Jarl in place of Balgruuf. He'd been a tempered man, but a good one nonetheless. Thorunn didn't smile when she forced him to kneel.

"Thorunn!" Vignar barked cheerfully, chapped lips splitting into a toothy grin. A couple of his teeth were gold-capped while others were missing entirely. "How wonderful it is to see you. I hear you're making waves out there. High Queen, eh?"

She'd limped her way to the foot of the throne. She sent a nod to Malnuk, who hurried to grab her a chair to sit in. She all but collapsed into it the moment it was within reach, sighing with relief as the pressure on her wounds relaxed. "High Queen," she confirmed, the words little more than a gust of breath. "But I'm not here for pleasantries."

"Pah, of course not," Vignar said as if he'd expected as such. "Nobody high-and-mighty ever stops by for a simple hello. What is it, then? Oh, but first, you should know that the Battle-Borns refused to fight. And so I kicked them out of the city. I suspect they're begging around in Riften by now, yelling about their lost glory." He laughed wickedly. "I'm sorry to say I only got a few years left in me to relish in this."

She hadn't expected anything less, if she were being honest. They couldn't lose something they hadn't even gained, so she didn't weep for Battle-Born absence. "Fine, but I'm not here for that either," she said evenly. "Surely you've heard by now that the Dominion is attacking Skyrim."

"Oh, right. That." The Jarl's cheerful demeaner soured. He sighed. "You were in that manslaughter at Markarth, weren't you?"

"Correct."

"Let me guess, you need men? Weapons? Armor? Coin?"

"All of the above."

"Naturally." He sighed again, eyes narrowed calculatingly as he rubbed his bearded chin.

"We can spare weapons and armor, but coin and men are much too sparse," said Brill, Vignar's steward. He was a man eager to help whose favorite thing in the world was to see Vignar smile at his expense. "Our coin has... well..."

"Been spent on those lovely jewels Vignar's sporting?" Thorunn supplied.

Brill looked away, cheeks flushed, while Vignar laughed. "Let me enjoy my small luxuries, woman. As for the men, our guards are spread thin as it is. Why don't you take some of the Companions?"

"I plan to, but it won't be enough. We'll be lucky to find even one Stormcloak standing in that field of corpses."

"Then why bother going back at all?" the Jarl questioned.

"Hope."

He sobered. "Now there's a real jewel," he said, almost a mumble. "Hope." His smile was free of snark when it rose this time. "Well... you can take your pick of the prisoners. Some of 'em are real strong, strong enough to take one of those damned elves down with their bare hands. Go through the belongings chests to find some armor to fit them into. Best not to hand them a weapon until they got something you want them to slash at, though." The snark reappeared in his grin.

Thorunn decided she'd rather pass on that notion. "I'll consider it," she told him anyway. She knew she wouldn't get much else out of this shrewd old man. "And the arms and armor?" They at least needed enough to replace their band's rags. Her own armor was dented and on the brink of shattering, and her sword and shield were doing no better. It would not do.

"I'll do what I can. Take a look around the armory. Might find something you like." She did just that, taking her pick from what little the armory offered. It was mostly guard armor and weapons, which weren't ideal for a full-scale battle, but she worked with what she had. She found nothing that would fit Mulnak's broad chest, though he declined anyway, stating that armor just gets in his way and weighs him down. She fitted herself into steel, and packed a chest with variously colored guard armors. It would have to suffice.

Mulnak carried the chest while they made their slow descent down the staircases from the Jarl's palace. Once they reached the bottom, she directed him to go take a look at the prisoners and see if any would be worth the risk of their freedom. She instructed the nearest guard to take the chest to the tavern for Thongvor and the others to work with, and then she started towards Jorrvaskr.

By this time, it was night. Torch sconces lit the paths and shopkeepers began locking their doors. When Thorunn entered Jorrvaskr, its usual raucousness was absent. But the people she needed were seated around the fire, mugs of mead in hand and idle chatter on their lips. Their heads rose when she entered.

"Thorunn," said Aela, her chair scraping against the floor as she stood abruptly. "You're in bad condition. What brings you here? We heard of the Dominion attacks."

"And of the pregnancy," added Vilkas, critically eyeing the bandages wrapped around her midsection.

"Don't say that with such contempt, brother," Farkas chided, shoving his brother's shoulder playfully. "We're going to be uncles."

Thorunn waved them off. "I need your help," she said impatiently. "The Dominion slaughtered us in the Reach. I don't know if any Stormcloaks yet live, but I plan to retrieve them if they are. I was hoping the Circle could give me an edge."

Farkas' smile dropped, and Vilkas' glare became severe. Aela was the only one who remained passive. "Are you asking us to-" she began, but was cut off.

"We are not going to use our curse for war," Vilkas growled. "And anyhow we don't have total control when we transform. We could just as easily kill you as the elves."

"I'm aware," Thorunn snapped. "Which is why I don't plan to be in range when you transform." She knew Aela would follow if nothing else. Farkas would only follow if Vilkas did, and Vilkas was as stubborn as an ox.

"It's wrong," Vilkas retorted. "Kodlak dreamed of a Circle free from this bane. He would be disgusted if you suggested we use it to fight wars we should have no part in."

"Don't presume to know what Kodlak would have wanted," Aela snarled, her eyes narrowed.

"Enough!" Thorunn barked. "I don't expect you to do this out of the kindness of your heart. We cured Kodlak of the curse with a Glenmoril witch head. I will do the same for you and Farkas, if you use this curse one last time to save lives." It wouldn't be easy going back to the witches' cave and claiming the rest of their heads, but where there was a will, there was a way.

That gave Vilkas pause. He looked into the fire as if it held answers, thoughtful.

"I think we should do it," Farkas said quietly. "We win back Skyrim's freedom and put an end to our restless nights and aching bones. It's a fair trade."

"Fine." Vilkas gritted his teeth and stood. "We're with you, Harbinger."