Jorleif, regretfully, admitted Ulfric's crowning hadn't sparked in life within the palace nor the city it ruled; it seemed to him, as it always had since Ulfric's father's passing, that the stones, which had once seemed so indestructible, were wilting. There were cracks between them that welcomed winter's chills and every so often, when he forgot to watch he step, he would lunge forward and smack himself from the missing pieces of the stairways. Jorleif was no warrior, but the swelling and bruises adorning his body could fool even those who knew him best. Presently, he was wearing a purple-black eye beneath his fur-trimmed hat. The swelling had diminished in the two days since he received it (shortly after Lady Ellyn's visit), but it was still tender and as he skimmed through the documents held at his fingertips, was reminded to ask his king once more to refurbish to palace and Windhelm.
The royal steward ascended to Ulfric's quarters and seeing the door cracked open, entered.
"My friend," he greeted, bending slightly at the waist. "Do you have a moment to discuss, er, certain matters?"
The blonde Nord's brows furrowed. The question was not as direct as it appeared; for one, His Majesty was still dressed in his woolen nightgown and had not has his breakfast; for two, important matters were no longer discussed only between the two individuals as they had once been – now that Ulfric had been crowned, a larger council, complete with those of a variety of experience and thus opinions, was necessary to ensure the best decision would be made.
"Our watch-outs to the west have informed me Jarl Vigar Gray-Mane will be arriving by noon," Jorleif explained. "I'll make it quick."
"Very well," Ulfric said a little grumpily and roamed to his wardrobe.
Jorleif cleared his throat. "As your advisor, I highly suggest you convince the lord to raise Whiterun's taxes. The stones aren't what they used to be – in fact, they're becoming a bit of a safety hazard – and if we are able to receive efficient funding, renovating Windhelm will create jobs, boost the economy, and inspire pride in its people."
"To simply ask Vignar to raise the peoples' taxes would be stupid," Ulfric grunted, replacing his loincloth. "The city is still recovering from our attack and Dragonsreach needs some repair from the dragon's capture. Yet I understand what restoring Windhelm would mean; the Palace of Kings is an icon of the Nords, and I would like to keep it that way. I will use part of Vignar's dowry to rebuild."
"You'll discuss a marriage to his niece, Olfina, then?"
"Aye. The Gray-Manes' line runs longer than mine. They're honorable and they're also respected."
Jorleif flinched. Ulfric wasn't fond of his proposal that he wed Lady Ellyn; the only thing she had going for her was her dragon blood. She did little for the Stormcloaks' cause, was far from pure, and was an Imperial and not a Nord. Still, Jorleif knew she, too, had connections that would, and already had, benefit the new kingdom.
"I advise you to wait a little longer. Lady Ellyn will come around –"
"Her decision is as final as mine," Ulfric adjusted the inner liner of his Stormcloak-blue robes. "Only a fool would make a wench like that his queen. The only admirable choice Torygg ever made was to keep an infertile wife instead of her."
Jorleif was insistent. "I have financial records of Solitude's whore house purchasing her from her father and of Torygg purchasing her from the mistress," he lifted the papers for the other to view; "the people cannot track her past if I burn them."
"A woman cannot erase her past so easily," Ulfric snapped.
"I erased your mother's," Jorleif reminded his king; "I erased her entirely."
When Ulfric turned to his inferior, he should've carried an axe to finalize the picture for he seemed ready to execute the steward resigned as an enemy. "If I want you to speak, I shall tell you to speak. Even dogs know how to obey and respect, Jorleif. You are dismissed."
The Listener was sprawled on her back like a feline as she did what she was allotted, - listen. The Night Mother had not spoken a word since she had arrived despite her insisting, but Nazir herded cattle into the torture room and was, at present, removing some digits. The herd did not answer when he asked where they had stashed their fortunes, but they did sing, and the singing reminded her of the beating within her chest for it was the melody she sang in the process of giving birth to her only son. Her thighs opened, knees bent, and hands fondled the plump breasts driven toward her chin via gravity to rekindle the process – the sex, the orgasm, the burden and delivery. She arched her back, threw her head, and opened her eyes as a gasp screeched through her constricting throat – "Hello, me wee lass."
Babette stood quietly at the foot of Ellyn's bed; her complexion was waxy in the torches' light and her expression was as stoic and empty as a lifeless child's, reminding the Dragonborn of her true nature. Too often she forgot the woman-child was, in fact, a woman and not a child, but Babette was quite forgiving and, Ellyn thought, maybe even enjoyed it, if for nothing but practice.
"Sister," the creepy doll-child smiled. "The screaming excites you, too?"
Ellyn looked thoughtful as she rolled onto her belly, arm extended toward the other. "Aye," she laughed, "I suppose it does."
"Your sexual drive is more intense today because you're going to begin bleeding soon," the child informed her; "I can smell it."
The Listener's brows lifted. "Tha's nice to know."
"Astrid asked me to keep tap of such things," Babette explained, beaming. "They say the days before bleeding are the best days to conceive. She didn't want a babe, you see, and would disappear for a week to avoid her husband. He didn't understand."
Ellyn rested her cheek against her bicep. "That's what marriage is for – a babe. A childless marriage is silly."
Babette shrugged her frail shoulders. "Marriage is also a leash, and she wanted to ensure the dog didn't run away."
"That's a way of puttin' it, I suppose. But all dogs bite the hand that feeds," Ellyn pursed her lips, contemplating the estranged relationship between the late couple, before lethargically rising. "Is there anythin' I can get fer yah?"
"Nazir and I would like for you to reconsider Ulfric's proposal," Babette stated and sat on the edge of Ellyn's mattress. "We were waiting for you to open up to us about it, but a friend of ours, and someone you should know, Jorleif, informed us today that Ulfric is considering another woman to be his queen and we could wait no longer."
It was difficult for Ellyn to respond to Babette's disguised attack; the child linked her fingers between Ellyn's to remind her of her affection for her, but had Ellyn not been afraid of her, she would have yanked her hands away and slapped the girl for being so rude. "I'm sorry," she began, exasperated, "but my personal matters are not your business."
"But they are," the child explained patiently and held onto her tighter. "You are our Listener. You are our guide; you speak through our dear, sweet Mother. Everything in your life affects us. Should you accept Ulfric's proposal, you will be High Queen. We have always had connections with the empire and with royalty, but we have never had a sister who was queen."
"I hate that man, Babette. You cannot ask this of me," Ellyn insisted. "Besides, even if I was made queen, how would I listen to Mother, eh? How would I give orders without anyone ever findin' us?"
"We have that all worked out," the little girl sang. "You know, when I was human, the world was very different. Men hated women. They would rape the women and, by law, marry them despite how the woman felt because the woman was no longer a virgin. That's how I was conceived."
The former prostitute's eyes brimmed with tears. "But –"
"Kings come and go. All you have to do is give him a son and he can join Sithis in the void. It's all simple, really. You're already popular amongst the people! The moot will not be able to suffice a reason to dethrone you."
Ellyn felt like a ship wreckage; "You don't understand," she tried to explain, but lost her voice. Never before did she have an honorable title until she became Dovahkiin, and when that occurred, she became nothing but title. She had lost her name somewhere in the sea-salt, rust, and crushed boards. She had more passion, more dignity as a wench than she did presently, yet she could not simply wipe away the crust. Her cause was lost.
"Very well, I will reconsider," she agreed with her head hanging low.
Babette looked pleased. "Nazir will accompany you to Windhelm. Just in case someone needs to. . .disappear."
The redheaded maiden tore her hand from the other's grasp. "No," she nearly shouted, "if I murder an innocent for the throne, I shall be no better than he."
Babette looked puzzled. The very idea of denying death must have sounded ludicrous to the veteran.
"There must be another way," Ellyn mumbled and looked to her fingers for answers. "There's a man in Riften, Maul – he's always informed on the latest gossip. He might be able to find somethin' on the Gray-Mane lass that I could use to persuade her. Write him a letter and send five thousand septims. He's most familiar with Riften, but for gold, I have a feelin' he wouldn't mind shovin' his nose in Whiterun's business."
Babette giggled eerily. "If you want to save her life, you write the letter yourself. A queen must be able to read and write."
Ellyn's chest sunk. "But I dunno how to read an' write, you little she-devil!"
"You'll have to learn."
"Maybe I'm not suited to be queen, then."
"I hear Sam is a scholar," the little one mused. Ellyn's eyes rolled; Sam* was a ball of fat for a man who had been recruited four months ago by Nazir because he murdered a farmer and showed little promise. He had been sitting on his assignment since it was given to him upon arrival and persistently whined because Ellyn refused to spend the Brotherhood's money to feed him although he made no effort to contribute to their purpose.
"What a naughty little cunt you are!" she cried and, flinging herself onto her back once more, released a sigh of exhaustion. "All I ever wanted to do was help a poor lad, and now I've come to this. I'm cold, lonely, horny, and absolutely bleddy miserable. All of you can fuck off."
The High King and his most trusted jarl galloped on their steads through the fresh creeks of Eastmarch and to the west where the land was laden with green pines, snowberries, and, eventually, elk. When Vignar Gray-Mane spotted a bull worthy of a feast, his heavily-lidded eyes met Ulfric's; he had too much respect for Ulfric to lead their gang, but Ulfric, having been secluded in his books until he marched into war, could not feign the confidence to lead his brother this time. Instead, the blonde Nord tilted his head and tightened the grip on his horse's reigns.
"We are equal, Vignar," he bellowed; "hunt at my side, not at my ass."
The grandfathered jarl chuckled and dug his heel into the mare given to him by Ulfric upon arriving in Windhelm. "Chase 'im to the edge of the mesa. Either he'll run off the edge or we'll corner 'im. If I try to hit 'im with my bow, I'll miss. My eyes, they're just. . .not what they used to be, old friend."
The king gathered the reigns in his left hand while he gathered an axe in his right. Hunting made him nervous; he understood the social value and respected the traditional Norse pastime, but his father never indulged him in the activity. He feared beasts because of their unpredictability; he tried to chase game as he might an enemy of war, but he saw all creatures that were not human as an alienated existence with purposes he could not, and would not, ever fathom. It seemed to him that each species sought to feed, eliminate, or enslave mankind. After witnessing the horrors of the Great War, he thought it best to suspect the latter two of all; it was safer that way.
This bull, for instance, could turn on his heel and charge at him with his great antlers at any moment. They would plunge into the chest of his horse, throw him forward, and when the bull retracted its head from his stead, he would trample him to death. Ulfric had no intention of going out in such a distasteful way.
The duo chased the elk through narrow paths and steep rocks; Ulfric's stead nearly lost his footing and tumbled, but caught himself and persisted further until the two men reached the edge. As Vignar predicted, the animal stopped short of the cliff and turned, rearing its hooves and lowering its head to charge between the two men. Ulfric's grip tightened on his axe and as the animal sprinted past him, swung into its side, slicing the beast from its chest to its rear. Injured and terrified, the animal attempted to limp further and as it reached Vignar, the old man swung his axe into its neck. The animal and weapon staggered onto the ice, still bucking, until Vignar climbed off his horse, pried away the axe, and gave another swing to end its suffering.
"Stubborn ass," Vignar tutted as he examined the mess. Ulfric climbed to his feet and guided his steed along the blood and hoof ridden path.
"It lost too much blood too quickly," he frowned. "The meat is soiled."
"Aye. I'm afraid you're right about that," Vignar nodded, balling his fists at his hips. "But that's why we brought the mead; it'll fill our bellies ever the same."
"Wise man!" Ulfric laughed despite his wounded pride. He turned his fur-lined back against the mountain chill and ignored the braids that beat his jaw.
The men gathered the mead, ale, and berries from a couple satchels strapped to Vignar's horse; they discussed returning to the base of the mountain where the wind was not as bitter and the snow not as thick, but the king's stead appeared to be favoring his ankle and thus the men made a sort of picnic from an abandoned troll den. Their furs supported their bottoms and the mead warmed them instead.
"How hails the Companions?" Ulfric asked, dallying in small talk.
"Damn if I know," Vignar growled, nursing a third bottle of mead to his raisin lips. "If you ask me, I'd say they've all just become a bunch of expensive sell-swords."
"Shame. And your brother? Eorlund?"
"Still forging their tools. There's a rumor going around you asked the Dragonborn to wed you."
Ulfric spat. "Bah! It was my steward's idea. He doesn't always understand politics. Have you spoken to Eorlund about my proposal to Olfina?"
"Aye, that's why I asked. Eorlund doesn't see much outside of his forge, but he does love you. All of us Gray-Manes do. We would be honored if you took Olfina for your wife, my one true High King. I am willing to offer five hundred thousand septims for you to make her your queen. She's a beautiful girl, a true Nord. Your family has known mine since before our time; you know where we come from, and you know she will make and raise sons to carry your legacy."
"I have the utmost confidence this arrangement will suit finely," Ulfric assured the other. "We'll make arrangements when we take our iced asses back to the palace."
"Ha! Of course! But if you change your mind to marry that Dragonborn wench, . ."
"Are you doubting my honor, Vignar?"
"I'm just givin' yah a friendly reminder, Ulfric. She might not be as loud, if you know what I mean, but we Gray-Manes have been known. . ."
Ulfric's mead sprayed onto the snow through his nose. "That's enough, you old fool!"
Vignar's expression darkened. "If Whiterun isn't on your side, you've already lost the war with the Dominion. It's about time a Gray-Mane sat on the throne, and we will not stand to be shamed should you decide to break the contract."
*All of the jolly, lovable characters I've ever read about based in medieval fantasy worlds are named Sam. I've decided to continue the tradition!
A/N : Thank you all for your support (reviews, follows, favorites, etc.). It means the world to me and to every writer whom you show your love for. I'm so sorry that it has taken me this long to update; life gets in the way – you know – but hopefully I will be a little more consistent now that things are slowing down. I want to apologize for the massive dialogue and lack of action; hopefully it's not too boring or tedious! Right now there's just a lot of human interaction that needs to take place, but there will be PLENTY of action once we really tap into the genuine storyline (; [and it's not this marriage – it's the war and something else I'll hint to but probably won't really dive into until much, much later].
Also, please give me your opinions on my characterization. I'm not feeling too confident with neither Babette nor Ulfric, but I suppose the scenes I've given are very particular and short, so maybe it's just me? I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you all so much.
- I. N.
P. S., for updates and visual inspiration, visit my blog. The link is posted on my page.