Do you know the way? I am weary and lost.
Sovngarde was beautiful, that much was undeniable. Even shrouded in mist, it was as though every good memory had somehow manifested. The hills and flora were familiar and inviting from above Alduin's veil of fog. His spirit ached for companionship, and a giddy fervor he hadn't felt since childhood urged his feet forward; he knew his destination, the Hall of Valor.
...
Ulfric Stormcloak did not expect the Dragonborn to stand with the Empire. Surely, the hero of Nord legend would understand his plight and feel, as he felt, that to abandon Talos and kneel to the elves was an affront to honor that could not be forgiven or ignored. He had also not expected her to be anything other then a Nord, in this he was also mistaken. She was an Orc, she was an Imperialist, but at least she lived up to one expectation: she was powerful.
It was not taken as a particularly good omen among his men when the Dragonborn sided with the Empire, and it was taken especially poorly when reports of lost forts were usually coupled with tales of how the Dragonborn single-handedly destroyed the entire force of men, and even less well when stories of how she could shout the very skies into doing her will came along with it. It was said that she could summon dragons to fight alongside her and would even use them as her steed for battle. Galmar, Ulfric's right hand in most all matters, usually dismissed these stories publicly, chalking them up to a coward's excuse for loss, but Ulfric was not so sure. Perhaps a frightened soldier's imagination had gotten the best of him and allotted the Dovakiin more power that she possessed, but he had seen the Greybeards make a mockery of what his fellow Nords now called power with a whisper alone. Ulfric knew what the Dragonborn was capable of, and perhaps taming dragons was not as far fetched as Galmar would have his troops believe.
It hadn't come as much of a surprise when the Empire sent the Dragonborn to be his executioner. Tongue against Tongue, Voice against Voice. Even with the likes of the Dragonborn among their ranks, the milk drinkers did not dare send anyone else, and he welcomed it. Only she among them had a shred of honor to her name.
It was faster then he had anticipated. Dying, that is. He did not feel the pain of steel forcing its way through his body, the blade was sharp, and found his heart quickly. Much more quickly then it did for Galmar, who was still gasping and throwing when Tullius' sword was turned on him. It was a blink and he saw it. Sovngarde.
It was everything the tales said of it, and yet more beautiful than mortal words could express, but something was wrong. An ominous mist covered the landscape, and there was... a smell. Nothing so obvious, or familiar as the smell of rot, feces, or filth, but something mildly metallic followed by something that brought to mind a wood fire. A smell he instinctively knew did not belong here. It accompanied an unwelcome guest, a dragon, an affront to this holy place.
Ulfric stepped onto the path before his feet, his heart yearning to be among his brothers and sisters in the Hall of Valor, but his mind was clouded the minuted he stepped into the mist. He was suddenly afraid, a deep voice, like that of the greybeards, but tenfold more was all around him, saying nothing and everything. The mist was whispering his name, telling him to give up, to cower and offer up his very soul for the World Eater must feast. It pulled at him, weighed him down, like walking through thick mud. Every step was heaver than the last, and the fog was blanketed the ground so thickly, he could scarcely see the ground at his feet. For what felt like hours he walked, delirious from the constant words. He couldn't be sure he was on the path any more, which way he had come from, or where he was headed. It looked hopeless, but he refused to stop. His eternity was worth a fight. That damned dragon couldn't convince him to stop even if the fog was a thousand times more dense. For hours more, he struggled on, not knowing if he was making any head-way, just knowing that to stop or to slow would have a dragon snapping at his heels. Then he saw it.
There was a figure, a soldier, one of his own Stormcloaks, standing bemused, staring off into the distance. The closer to him he came, he realized it was an older man. Even as he was, among the dead, Ulfric saw him and was grateful. This was a a man who must have been with him from the start, and kept on fighting for him even past his prime, this was a man after his own heart. As he drew nearer, the man turned to him, he had a blind eye, and a beard with grey peppered into its blond lengths.
"Do you know the way?" Ulfric's soldier asked him, his voice exhausted, and his eyes unfocused. "I am lost and weary." Ulfric stopped and regarded the man.
"I am sorry, my friend." Ulfric replied, feeling somewhat guilty for being of no help. "I find my self lost the same as..." Ulfric cut himself off mid-sentence. The voices had stopped whispering to him in the mist.
To stop was to have a dragon snapping at his heels.
What had he done?
His head snapped to the skys. He felt the pressure of great wings pushing the air before he heard the sound it made. There it was. The World Eater. There, he beheld Alduin in all his terrible and furious glory. In an instant, a great snout came rushing by inches from where he stood. The smell was terrible. That metallic smell, of fresh blood and iron, of burnt hair and raging house fires all mixed together. A great force pushed him down, forcing the air from his chest, the scream of wind deafening. He couldn't move, he couldn't scream. He lay there, a single second passing to him as though it were an hour. In between each heart beat, his eyes found new things.
Thud-lump.
Mere feet away there was an Imperial, his legs were giving out beneath him from the force of Alduin's passing, but so slowly, he could scarcely call it movement at all. The Imperial's mouth hung open in a scream Ulfric could not hear.
Thud-lump.
The grass was so soft here, and the flowers so delicate, but the rocks were jagged and harsh, so like his home. He wondered if the dead could bleed.
Thud-lump.
Alduin was wheeling in the air, turning. He was going to make another pass. He could feel the dragon's intentions on himself. The fog was whispering again, but the voices were clearer now, and harmonized into one word. They were whispering doom.
Suddenly, something reverberated through his body, and he realized it was familiar. It was the Thu'um.
"FUS RO DA!"
The shout rippled across the land and cut a small swatch out of the gloom. Ulfric's head was clear again. He was on his feet in an instant, reaching for a weapon he didn't remember having a moment ago. He wasn't going down without a fight. The great maw that was once headed for him was pushed aside just enough that the beast did not snatch him up. Alduin roared and disappeared into the mist, and all was silent as though he was never there.
"Ulfric Stormcloak." someone said behind him. He turned sharply, weapon at the ready. He was met with the Dragonborn. "Keep your head." She said. Ulfric was taken aback. Surely she was not his ally, but- ah, he was already dead. He had no enemies here. She did not care for the pettiness of the mortal life she waged on Nirn, nor did he. They were as though brother and sister here. It was only right that his sister fight by his side.
"Dragonborn." He stated simply with a nod. His own voice was clear and strong in the silence.
"Follow the path." She said, her voice strangely smooth for that of an Orc. "Do not allow yourself to be deceived in the mist. He still waits there for the lost souls." Ulfric nodded again, and the Dragon born passed him by, disappearing into the fog. Ulfric looked to his feet. He stood at the path's edge. He stepped into it once more and continued on his way.
Sovngarde was beautiful, that much was undeniable. Even shrouded in mist, it was as though every good memory had somehow manifested. The hills and flora were familiar and inviting even from within Alduin's veil of fog. His spirit ached for companionship, and a giddy fervor he hadn't felt since childhood urged his feet forward; he knew his destination, the Hall of Valor.