II
Mutters flew hither and thither across the table. All eight of the seated Jarls were casting looks at Varulf, gesturing at him as if he'd gone mad—and who was to say he hadn't just now? Who in their right mind, after all—Jarl or no Jarl—would vote against Ulfric Stormcloak?! Even the normally unflappable Elenwen was nonplussed; for the first time, her concentration on Ulfric had been broken completely. She was now staring at the Harbinger with mingled surprise and fury.
"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Varulf?" Yrsarald now stepped forward from beside Ulfric, unsheathing his own weapon as he did so. "Do you even realize what you're doing?!" he shouted.
"I realize it all too well, friend." And Varulf knew he was speaking the truth—more of it, he suspected, than anyone else inside this Temple realized.
Because this is what you planned all along … isn't it, Grimnir?!
The Arch-Mage, Varulf now knew, had had no intention of declaring for either side of the war—before, during, or after it. The Dragonborn was above all other Nords—above all other men, and therefore their matters as well. The peace treaty he had brokered was never meant to last—only to last until his battle with the god Alduin could be fought. Indeed, all of his battles seemed to be carried out on a much grander canvas than military struggles or political feuds—how petty they must seem, Varulf thought, compared to the struggles of a god in human form!
But Grimnir was still in human form, and therefore still susceptible to the human temptation of inserting himself into other people's affairs. The Dragonborn had known of the Thalmor's plans ever since he'd gotten his hands on that dossier—perhaps even before that—but how to interfere with them, in a way not even they could possibly have suspected?
His answer, Varulf now knew, had been the Harbinger himself. For he, too, knew the elves were a greater threat than the Empire. He, too, believed in something other than ideals espoused by Stormcloaks and Legionnaires alike—something older and more enduring than military might or political power.
He knew that Varulf believed in the power of Man.
And Varulf now knew it was up to him to affirm his belief in that power.
Ulfric stepped forward at length, and the other Jarls immediately tensed—as did Varulf; even from here, he could almost hear his renowned Voice coming, building up from within his throat.
"Let me ask you something, Varulf," Ulfric said, surprisingly calmly for a man in his position. "Why do you fight? Why did this little lad come to my palace all those years ago, eyes shining with the promise of fighting the Empire?"
Varulf faltered at the unexpected question—but only a little. "Because I believed Skyrim ought to be free," he said, looking Ulfric right in the eye. "That her people deserved to live free."
The Jarl smiled—completely at odds with the apprehensive atmosphere around him. "How very noble of you," he chuckled. "But perhaps I wasn't clear. Why do you fight for me? Any man with an axe and a whetstone may stand up and fight for their right to live freely. Only a small number of those people chose to stand with me." The smile faded. "Why were you one of those people, Stormblade?"
Varulf sighed. "I was new to the land when they caught us all at Darkwater Crossing. You were the first man whose name I learned in Skyrim. You were my guide … my Voice. You said what we were all thinking, and the way you said it swayed us all to follow you. Because of you, we gained our own voice. Because of you, the Empire has heard us, and knows who we are—what we can be."
He began to pace up and down the end of the table. "I joined the Companions because I saw them as heroes. They fought for personal pride—for honor and glory, and the deeds they did around the province set them apart in the eyes of many. These were not insurrectionists—not traitors—but everyday people who dreamed of something greater.
"I don't rightly know what led me from there to Windhelm," Varulf said. "Perhaps I had too much Nord blood in my veins to just ignore the fact that my home was at stake. You know I was born in Bruma—in Cyrodiil—but I remain a Nord at heart, and so Skyrim will always be my home. I told as much to my da when I came of age—when I told him I wanted to join the Companions. He bade me farewell the next morning with his heavy axe and a heavier heart—but he told me that he knew, deep down, that I would always do the right thing.
"I told myself that with everything I did—whether crushing the skulls of bandits to pulp in the Companions, or driving out the soldiers of the Empire from our homeland. But I began to wonder, Varulf—why were we wasting such time on the Empire? Why not move on to the people we both knew were more dangerous than Legionnaires—why not drive the Thalmor out instead of them?"
"Because we had no need to!" Galmar shot back. "You know this, Varulf! Driving the Empire out would have sent a message to the Thalmor—a message that the sons and daughters of Skyrim would not be cowed by elves!"
He shot a look of disgust at Elenwen.
Varulf, for his part, remained where he stood. "Did Ulfric tell you that, Galmar?"
"Of course he did!" bellowed Yrsarald. "He told all of us—and you know damn well he told you, too! Don't play us for fools, Varulf!"
"We are all of us fools!" shouted Varulf, raising his voice for the first time today. "We were fools to listen to the Thalmor in the first place! I was a fool to believe the Companions could fight for anything more than personal glory—and you were fools to believe that the Stormcloaks could fight for anything more than the freedom of their homeland! Is that not why you say you fight, Ulfric—or has there been another reason, all this time?"
Silence. Ulfric's hands were clenching into fists. Yrsarald and Galmar backed away in unison, neither wanting to be caught in the backlash of the attack that would surely come—
But somehow, the Jarl of Windhelm still managed to remain calm—although his voice sounded deeper than ever, like a building storm on the Sea of Ghosts.
"You're damned right I fight for a reason, Stormblade," he rumbled. "I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for the few of us who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces!"
Ulfric was growing louder, more animated with every word he spoke. Out of the corner of his eye, Varulf saw Galmar and Yrsarald exchange grins; they knew Ulfric perhaps better than anyone alive today, and no doubt had heard these words before.
"I fight for my people, impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet who branded them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing!"
Blue wisps of smoke poured from his mouth suddenly, and only then did Ulfric seem to realize where he was, and how loudly he was shouting. When he next spoke, the fire and fervor was nowhere to be found, replaced by a bare whisper of a trembling voice that seemed wholly unlike the man Varulf had known throughout this whole war.
"I fight," he spoke, "because I must." The Jarl's voice, for all its huskiness and weight, was almost childlike.
And in that instant—the moment the word "childlike" had crossed his mind—Varulf knew he'd found the chink in Ulfric's armor. He now knew what Grimnir had truly asked him in that chilly tower of his College last morning:
Has Ulfric ever known you as anything else … besides who you already are?
Varulf had had no answer then—but today, he knew precisely what he had to say. And so—choosing his words with the utmost of care—he began to say it.
"When I was a boy," he said, "I used to pretend, as many boys do. Every day, I'd chop wood for my da to keep the fires burning when the winters were cold. I always had this fantasy that if I could chop enough wood, I'd have such skill with the axe that I'd be able to cleave a whole tree down the middle with but a single stroke. The Companions would see this, and welcome me among their numbers with open arms. I'd be a legend among legends—a modern-day Ysgramor." He chuckled bleakly, feeling the nostalgia caress his mind before slowly eroding to ash in the face of his reality. "But I knew, deep down, I was only a boy. I grew older, wiser, still chopping wood for my da.
"It wasn't until Bruma had disappeared behind me, when I started on my journey to Skyrim, that I realized how my dream had changed me. It had made me stronger, in both body and mind—I saw in a shrinking puddle in the road how my arms looked as thick as any piece of timber I'd split in my youth. I saw the lines in my face, the spark in my eyes—and I knew that all my years of dreaming had finally paid off.
"That was when it hit me," Varulf said. That was when I knew I could be a hero."
He stared round at the hall—from the Jarls, to the Stormcloak elites, and finally to Varulf himself—and then he played his first trump card.
"I remember my childhood, Ulfric," he said, pausing for a dangerous three seconds—before adding, "What can you tell me about yours?"
Ulfric stopped, pausing to think. There was silence in the hall.
Then silence.
… Then silence.
"Do you remember the first time you picked up an axe?" Varulf said softly, as if trying to nudge Ulfric along to an answer. "Did your father, the 'Bear of Eastmarch', teach you in your youth—or did it simply come naturally to you? Can you remember? Maybe you chopped wood for the Palace of the Kings to keep it warm—pretending each piece of timber was the neck of some faceless bandit?"
Ulfric's ruddy face was paling. His eyes were uncomfortably wide—Varulf wondered if he had ever been this shocked in his life. "I … " he could only stammer. "I … don't … "
"Remember?" Varulf finished for him. "You don't remember ever having any fanciful childhood dreams? Why?"
As Ulfric stood there, mouth half-open as he tried to string together an answer, the Harbinger played his second and final trump card, tossing it onto the table for all the Jarls to see.
"That is a dossier on Ulfric Stormcloak," he said. "You will notice it bears the official seal of the Thalmor. Read it—all of you. It's high time we all learned the truth behind the Jarl of Windhelm."
Out of the corner of his eye, Varulf saw Elenwen rise to her feet, her face contorting in ugly anger. But Varulf paid it no mind—he only had eyes for the audience before him. No one moved; they only stared at the book.
Then, very slowly, Jarl Sorli of Morthal stretched out an arm, picking up the folio, smoothing out the page—and she began to read. Varulf's eyes saw her own slowly moving over the yellowed pages—saw her mouth moving silently, forming the damning words inscribed within—
And finally, more slowly still, Sorli's gaze traveled to Ulfric as she passed the dossier across the table to Thongvor. Her expression was blank. The Argonian aide with her, perhaps sensing her change in expression, bent down to whisper in her ear. Whatever Sorli whispered back in reply caused the lizard-man to stiffen, and he now stared at Elenwen with the coldness of winter in his beady blue eyes.
Barely a minute later, Thongvor had finished reading through the dossier. Varulf knew this because the last of the Silver-Bloods had pushed back his chair, his face a mask of total shock. He rounded on a still-confused Ulfric—and then he, too, turned towards the Altmer.
"You would dare?!" His voice was a bare hiss, strangled by anger.
Elenwen said nothing.
Laila Law-Giver, meanwhile, had opened the book. Barely a minute later, her face was bone-white.
"' … Even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed'?" Her whisper carried throughout the hall. She was staring at Elenwen in bitter fury. "You have played us both for fools!"
The next few minutes were a blur, as now every single person in the room save for Varulf, who watched the scene unfold with a calmness he'd never thought possible from him—and for Elenwen, who seemed to want to melt into the Temple walls as stare after angry stare brought to bear on her—descended upon the dossier like skeevers on a sweet roll. Slowly, gradually, a mutter of murmurs began to heave into a rising tide of uproar.
"Deceiver!" Jarl Dengeir hissed.
"Witch!" rasped Jarl Skald.
Slowly, gradually, all eyes were on Elenwen—save for Varulf's; he continued to stare down his former commander, who seemed to have no idea where he was. Though his attention was on Varulf, every few moments his eyes flickered, as if in search for a lifeline to grab amidst the storm that had suddenly erupted around him.
"They hollowed you out." Varulf's calm voice was the eye of that storm. "The elves took everything about Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm—and they burned it, and put what was left to the sword. They took away your memories, your hopes and dreams—your childhood—and turned you into a weapon of retribution and rage."
Galmar looked furious. Varulf paid him no mind—he could feel the moment coming. "This is no small pain for me, old friend, that I've had to bear," he said. "But I cannot allow this to go on any longer."
He straightened, and unhooked Wuuthrad, bringing it blade down upon the stone at his feet with a loud CLANG. "Ulfric Stormcloak," Varulf bellowed, "I denounce you as a puppet of the Thalmor, I reject you as the rightful High King of Skyrim—and as Harbinger of the Companions, I challenge you this day for that right … to the death!"
"No!"
Varulf kept himself from jumping in surprise—he'd almost completely forgotten Elenwen was next to him. The Altmer was red in the face, and shaking with barely suppressed rage.
"I must … intervene here," she said through gritted teeth. "I am afraid what you are proposing would violate the terms of the White-Gold—"
But Varulf would have none of it. "Silence the bitch or send her away, Galmar!" he roared. The Stonefist jumped at the sound of his name, and looked from Varulf to Ulfric to Elenwen with a mixture of confusion and anger. The Altmer, Varulf was pleased to see, had paled completely at the outburst, and presently returned to her cushion on tottering legs, with all eyes trained on her.
"This is a provincial matter," Varulf resumed, breathing heavily. "The elf will have no say in this. What say you, my Jarl?" he asked, putting as much emphasis as he could into the two words.
And while he did so, he took out his axe.
Not the battleaxe Wuuthrad, strapped across his back, but a smaller one tucked into his belt, enough so that he could wield it with one hand. Ironically enough, it had been Ulfric who had first told him of the customs of men here in Skyrim, and who had told him to carry such an axe wherever he went, in case the opportunity ever came.
Varulf slid the axe across the wooden table, and it came to a stop directly in front of Ulfric. A collective gasp arose from those seated at the table, and all who had seen it. He took note of their reactions—Elisif, Skald, Galmar, and all the rest of them—and knew now that he had their attention. They knew the tradition Varulf had just invoked.
They knew now he was being serious.
The moments that followed were some of the slowest and tensest in Varulf's memory. Every eye was turned on Ulfric; the Jarl was silent for a very long time, his gaze never leaving the section of table where Varulf's axe had skidded to a stop. The Harbinger would have surrendered every relic of Ysgramor he carried to know what thoughts were brewing inside Ulfric's mind.
The Jarl reached out for the axe, and turned it over in his hand. Like most of Varulf's kit, it was fashioned in the style of the ancient Nords, only seen in this day and age by the draugr who still roamed the tomb-cities throughout the province. Only one place in all of Skyrim—and perhaps all of Tamriel—knew how to recreate such arms and armor again: the Skyforge … the oldest fixture of Whiterun, older even than Jorrvaskr, the first building of the city.
That Varulf favored this style was a sign of his devotion to the Nords of the elder days—when Ysgramor and his ilk still roamed the earth in flesh and blood. The Harbinger wondered if Ulfric knew what he did—that not even Eorlund, master of the Skyforge and brother to Vignar, could smelt such arms and armor as those on his back.
Then, Ulfric placed the axe back on the table … and with a heave, slid it back to Varulf. "So be it," he said.
In that fleeting, silent moment, Varulf knew his fate had been sealed. His challenge had been accepted.
Today—here and now—a betrayer would die.
Immediately, the benches had cleared around them. The Jarls, their housecarls, and their stewards scrambled as one for the columns that lined the great chamber, scuttling behind them with speed that belied their age. None of them wanted to get in the way of time-honored tradition—more to the point, none of them wanted to get in the way of either Nord, standing at opposite ends of the temple.
Varulf unhooked Wuuthrad from his back, then reverently laid it on the bench where he'd been sitting. He and Ulfric both knew who that blade was for—and knew that Varulf would not waste it on spilling the blood of Man.
"Fus … Ro DAH!"
The Jarl's Shout came almost without warning. The blue wind that he'd expelled from his mouth carried everything in its path. Silverware and dishes were scattered to the far reaches of the Temple, smashing porcelain, wood, and metal alike and sending their shrapnel flying every which way. The great table where the Jarls had been sitting was split down the middle by Ulfric's Unrelenting Force; heavy timber was splintered into matchwood, and nails became lethal weapons, whistling through the air like arrows speeding for their mark.
Varulf, however, was ready. In the same movement that he'd made to strip himself of Wuuthrad, he'd grasped the enormous shield on his back. This shield had belonged to Ysgramor himself, so the legend went—and so heavy was it that Varulf did not doubt any other man of that legend's day ever could. But Varulf's childhood dream—and all the years he'd spent nurturing that dream with each log he'd split—had given him the strength to wield both legendary treasures of the Atmoran king.
Thus, in one fluid movement, the shield had been thrust in front of Varulf's chest. At the same time, the Harbinger had dropped to a knee, putting as much of his muscular stature behind the shield as he could. He felt Ulfric's Shout meet the shield head-on, causing the metal to resound with a deep, bell-like note that throbbed in the bones of all present—how chilling the sound, even in this space—but no other damage was caused to it, nor did Varulf feel himself flying through the air, Shouted apart just like Torygg.
For now, he had survived.
The battle was joined—the final fight for the future of Skyrim had begun.
"Wuld … Nah KEST!"
Varulf lowered his shield just in time to see Ulfric's body become a blur. The Jarl of Windhelm streaked down the middle of the Temple, carving his way through the devastation his Unrelenting Force had wrought faster than a hawk on the wing. In his hand, Varulf saw a war axe of his own, hissing with ice-blue enchantments as it swung in an arc—directly for the Harbinger's head—
WHAM.
Ulfric stumbled back, his arm numbed, perhaps even broken, where it had crashed into Varulf's shield. Varulf, having only moments to respond to the attack, had let his shield drop forward until the circular edge faced Ulfric. Then, the Harbinger had flicked his wrist, turning that edge on its side—directly into Ulfric's elbow. The momentum of his Whirlwind Sprint had left the Jarl with nowhere to go but into the maneuver—causing him to drop his axe onto the floor, where it was promptly blown into a column by the winds created by Ulfric's Voice. The blade embedded itself into the stone, inches from where Jarl Thongvor and Jarl Skald huddled together, gazing at the unfolding battle.
This was not Ulfric against Torygg—a man against a boy. The fight within this temple was against two warriors in their prime—two men each considered, in their own way, the pinnacle of what it meant to be a true Nord. On the one hand, Jarl Ulfric was one of only a handful of men who had mastered the Way of the Voice, second only in skill to the Last Dragonborn. That Jarl Ulfric did not possess the soul of a dragon—yet still commanded such power and skill as had been displayed so far—would have sent even a seasoned warrior racing for the hills.
But Varulf Blackmane was more than simply seasoned. He was the Harbinger of the Companions—the latest of the line of Ysgramor. Perhaps that would have been enough to solidify his own claim to the throne—but the way in which he'd put his claim forward was not how many Nords might have gone about it. Varulf had learned the value of subterfuge in battle, during his and Aela's many hunts in the pale moonlight of Whiterun Hold. To ensure a bountiful hunt, a hunter needed more than just brute force—but knowledge of the lay of the land, and of what he was hunting as well.
To be a true predator, Aela had told him once, one must think like the prey.
And that was what Varulf had done up until now. By sizing up the climate of the Moot, he had found his lay of the land. By revealing his knowledge of the Thalmor's dossier, he had dangled the bait in front of the would-be prey.
Now, as he swung out with his own axe at Ulfric, the Harbinger knew he had to think as his prey thought—as Ulfric thought—to anticipate where he would Shout before the Words came to his lips. Only then, by proving himself in battle, could he be validated as a true predator … a true Nord.
"They will sing of this battle for eras to come!" Ulfric boomed in the thick of the fight, dodging out of the reach of Varulf's swings—then ducking, rolling, and recovering in one fluid movement to recover his axe from the pillar it had been stuck in. This, too, he swung at Varulf; the axeblades clashed with a scream of metal and a flash of sparks.
"You will not live to hear it sung!" Varulf retorted, putting his strength into his swinging arm. He suppressed a grimace as something stirred within him—hulking, snuffling, growling as it sensed the hunt—
"Zuun … Haal VIIK!" Ulfric bellowed, and yet another gust of wind spouted forth from his mouth. Varulf had nowhere to go; the force of the Shout hit him full in the face, causing him to stumble, his shield to fall from his hands, and sending his axe spiraling into the air—
—and right into Ulfric's open palm.
Varulf felt his breath catch. His weapon was gone—and Ulfric was close enough to him that both his axes would find Varulf's neck before his hand could grasp the shield at his feet.
"And you call yourself a warrior," Ulfric said. His voice was deadly quiet. "Your time in the Companions filled your mind with talk of heroes and glory—but there are neither to be found in war. There are those who are called heroes of war—but there are also those who call such men butchers."
Slowly, he advanced on the Harbinger. "We no longer live in an age of heroes, Varulf. Su … Grah DUN!"
Once again, the Voice spilled from his lips, this time washing over his arms. Varulf saw the Jarl's muscles twitch—and then suddenly Ulfric's arms disappeared from reality.
Had Varulf not seen the momentary tell before Ulfric had struck, he might well have died then and there. As it was, the blades of both axes, borne by superhuman speed, had swung at his vital points—one for his neck, another for his heart—and he had no way of raising his shield in time. But the shield had landed face-down, balancing on the ridge that divided its construction in two—and as Varulf had attempted to escape the killing blow, he'd acted.
He stamped down on Ysgramor's shield as hard as he could, kicking it into Ulfric's boots with all his might. The Jarl stumbled once more as the heavy metal crumpled his right foot, crunching what sounded like every bone in it. But Ulfric's axes—twin blurs in his hand—were already at the apex of their swing; Varulf could not hope to stop them, only redirect them. So it was that what would have been two fatal blows now carved through his waist and left shoulder—bypassing his armor completely—and making Varulf roar in pain.
Ulfric had drawn first blood.
But again, the momentum that his Shout had granted his attack had caused him to overswing. The axe that had cut through Varulf's chest—the ancient Nordic weapon carried by the Harbinger—now spiraled out of his hand from a combination of overbalancing from the swing, and ongoing pain from Ulfric's shattered foot. Ulfric's other axe—his own—still remained inside Varulf's shoulder, but before the Jarl could retrieve it for the coup de grace, Varulf had moved away, delivering a kick to Ulfric's chest that sent the man sprawling.
"Perhaps not today," Varulf said, breathing heavily, grimacing as he wrenched Ulfric's axe out of his bloody arm, "but we will."
He dove to retrieve his axe—but Ulfric was already upon him. His Thu'um enhanced fists peppered Varulf's exposed flesh—for the armor he wore was not all-encompassing. The pitted pauldrons and greaves, cuirass and helmet—while certainly well-maintained—were very old, and so were not made with the knowledge of the human body a soldier possessed—a killing machine like Ulfric.
"You, as a Companion," he bellowed, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick, "seek honor and glory on the battlefield! But for all your noble fiber, there is nothing glorious to be found in war … and there is nothing honorable about what you have done here."
A right hook to the jaw—"There is more to this war to come than simply slaying the elves, Varulf"—a left kick to the chest—"they are strong, and matching their strength will take time. Yet you, in your haste to act, refuse to accept this! You believe the fighting is done simply because the Empire has been driven away? No!"
The Jarl of Windhelm was punching incessantly now, every other word punctuated with a brutal blow. "Our brothers—our sisters—our sons—our daughters—our mothers—our fathers … you would lead them all to their destruction at the hands of the elves, without any thought to the future!"
Each one of his punches struck true; within moments, Varulf's body was a mass of bruised flesh wearing armor and scant furs. The Harbinger could do nothing against the furious onslaught; every time he raised his shield, Ulfric would move in with a quick punch elsewhere, forcing him to move his guard elsewhere.
It was then that Varulf—with one hand holding his waist to staunch the blood flow, and the other trying desperately to protect the rest of him—knew he was at a disadvantage. His heavy armor encumbered him, slowed him down to where he was little more than a slow-moving mammoth; Ulfric, meanwhile, wore no armor to weigh him down. Buoyed by the power of his Voice, the Jarl of Windhelm continued to strike with the ferocity of a bear—unceasing, unrelenting, never letting up until Varulf was at the door on one knee.
Bruised.
Bloodied.
And perhaps—finally—beaten.
But Ulfric was still not satisfied.
"Krif … Haal GRAAN!" he bellowed, and again the Thu'um surged over his arms. This time, however, his fists did not shimmer with the fleeting fury of the winds … but the steadfast, unyielding strength of the earth itself.
That strength now rushed for Varulf's battered body in a crushing left hook. In one fell swoop, the plackart of the Harbinger's cuirass was swiftly ripped off, slicing through the air, past another pillar—narrowly missing the neck of Jarl Sorli, who watched the brutal brawl with fearful eyes—and embedding itself in the wall beyond.
Without the plackart to connect them, the faulds and pauldrons that protected Varulf's sides and shoulders had no other means of support. They clattered to the floor, one after another, each one leaving the Harbinger more and more defenseless against Ulfric's barrage.
Ulfric lunged out again with another punch—and this time his aim was true: not only did the blow connect squarely in Varulf's sternum, cracking multiple ribs and caving in his chest, but the sheer momentum sent him right through the doors of the Temple. The heavy oak burst asunder, little more than toothpicks—while Varulf's body careened into the air and into the courtyard.
The Harbinger hit the stone pavilion with a wet SMACK, feeling his broken ribs blaze with yet more pain as he skidded along the ground, leaving a swath of red behind him. Such was the force of Ulfric's punch that only the stone walls that separated the Temple from the rest of the city stopped him in his tracks—but even then, a few loose tiles fell to the ground from the force of the impact.
Varulf could not get up—he could barely even move for the pain in his sides, his chest, and just about everywhere else. He was naked before Ulfric's fury—defenseless, weaponless, and out of—
…
No.
…
Not yet, he heard it snarl inside him.
Through his puffed-up eyes, he saw Ulfric, limping out into the Temple grounds—but still on his feet. Varulf saw the two axes in his hands—saw Ulfric swinging his shoulders, limbering them up.
He was going to kill him with the Harbinger's own axe.
"I am impressed, Companion," he heard Ulfric say. "You put up much more of a fight than Torygg. It may even be possible that I will never fight again because of the wounds you have given me. But for all your might and Ysgramor's steel, the strength I wield is older than even him. Every Nord carries the strength of the Voice—but only a handful of us can learn the Words that give it shape and form."
He sighed. "I am very sorry it had to come to this," he said—and Varulf heard no trace of a lie in his words. "You were a brave warrior—and for this, I pray Shor will show mercy for what you have done today."
The blades came up. "Good-bye, friend Varulf. Give my regards to Ysgramor and Kodlak, if you should see them in Sovngarde."
The blades came down—
Varulf had no memory of what happened after that next moment. All that he was aware of was the flash of Ulfric's axe and his own, both bearing down upon his neck in opposite directions.
It seemed to take an eternity for them to swing forward. Perhaps that was some trick of the mind; he'd heard from his fellow Stormcloaks of how Time itself seemed to speed up or slow down in the heat of battle. Or perhaps it was no trick; the Dragonborn himself, it was rumored, could slow Time to but a crawl with the power of his Voice.
Whatever the source of this trickery, Varulf thought he saw something atop the Temple of the Divines, gazing down at the fight below: a human figure, with a horned head too small to be an armored helm—
The hunt is finished, Varulf heard in his mind. End it—come to me, and serve as my favored hound for all time—
CRACK.
All of a sudden, the Jarl's axes had stopped in their tracks. By then, the figure had vanished as quickly as Varulf had seen him—had he even been there? some part of him wondered—allowing him to see the reason why—
Then he saw Ulfric, his eyes wide and his shoulders bulging with exertion—and then Varulf felt the pain coursing through his hands, the palms bleeding as each one clutched at the blades of a weapon.
He had stopped them with his bare hands.
Varulf felt it at that moment—it was beginning to stir. He would not have much time—
"You think I will lead these people to their destruction, Ulfric?" he heard himself ask—but already he did not sound like himself … or even look like himself. His voice was noticeably more savage—growling—and the loss of his armor allowed him to see the black hair growing across his exposed flesh—
"Well, you are right about one thing," growled the Harbinger of the Companions, rising to a knee, then to his feet, grasping both axes all the while. "I will lead them!"
Then his world became red. The last thing he saw before the scarlet haze consumed him was Ulfric's eyes, wide with terror—
—and the last thing he heard was the deafening roar of a monster.
The demonic noise echoed all throughout Solitude, bringing the whole city to a halt. Beirand's forge rested for the first time since the Civil War. Headmaster Viarmo of the Bards College made a stutter in his lecture, lapsing into silence. The merchants in the streets, plying their food, drink, and other wares of their trade, felt their words die in their lips, stunned. The raving lunatic, Dervenin, momentarily paused in his whispered, nonsensical mutterings.
City guards and citizens alike, from Thanes to beggars, turned as one towards the Temple of the Divines—each with the same thought racing through their minds: what the devil was happening at the Moot?!
Inside the temple, it was no different. The Jarls had heard the ungodly row outside the door, but no one wanted to see what was going on, for fear of being swept up in the battle that had erupted under their noses. No one wanted to be Shouted apart by a stray breath of Thu'um from Ulfric any more than they wanted to be smashed to a pulp under the weight of Varulf's immense shield.
Jarl Vignar of Whiterun was the most prominent of these people. The moment he'd heard the roar, he'd immediately felt as though he'd been transported to the Throat of the World. He felt the chill of Tamriel's topmost peak slicing through his body as he trembled with sudden fear.
For though he'd never seen it for himself—however content to dismiss the concerns of his guards as superstition and paranoia—the fact of the matter was that he was too revered within the Companions not to know what was going on. He'd been one of Kodlak's closest confidants, after all—he'd spent enough time in Jorrvaskr before the war to know what sort of people the Companions' most elite warriors were.
And now, he was beginning to understand that Varulf was no different from him.
His aide and faithful steward, Brill, turned to him, his balding, egg-shaped face filled with terror. "What's going on out there?" he whispered, as if worried he might be overheard.
Vignar was debating whether or not to tell him—and then the door to the Temple shattered in its hinges.
Quite literally shattered—what remained of the heavy oak that hadn't been smashed apart in the battle splintered into matchwood, littering the Temple with debris. A grayish-red blur, meanwhile, sailed through the door, crashing in front of the nine shrines of the Divines with a meaty thud that made even Jarl Skald wince where he stood.
Vignar, however, did not hear it—he'd already realized that that blur had been the body of Ulfric Stormcloak—so battered and bloodied that he looked as though he'd been fighting a giant. But that was impossible, some part of him thought; Ulfric had been in control of this fight from the beginning! How, then, had—?!
He broke off as he heard a second set of footsteps come in—heavy and soft, not at all armored in the slightest. They were too heavy to be human footsteps—too far spaced apart to be walking a human pace.
Swallowing, Vignar did possibly the bravest thing he'd ever done in his life—and peered out from behind the pillar.
What he saw would be burned into his mind for the rest of his days as Jarl: a monstrous collection of flesh, fangs, and black fur, hunched over as to be bent almost double, yet still taller than any Nord he'd ever known in his life. Two arms were spread out in an attack stance, each sporting five claws that looked like they could tear steel plate asunder. Two legs planted themselves on the stone floor, one after another, slowly walking towards Ulfric—
The werewolf growled—werewolf, thought a stunned Vignar, over and over again as if in a trance—and even this was enough to raise chills on the skin of all present, though the beast was nowhere near them. The other Jarls, Vignar saw, were torn between terror and confusion: what was this beast?! From where had it come?
But Vignar knew the answer. He happened to catch the eye of Jarl Dengeir, and something in his eye told him the old codger, too, had a growing suspicion himself.
"Do … it … "
Vignar almost didn't hear it; he'd been so occupied on the sudden appearance of the werewolf in their midst that the words nearly escaped his knowledge. Despite every instinct, he peered out from behind the pillar again, and felt his breath catch in his throat.
"Finish … it … "
The words were all the more unbelievable because Vignar had never heard Ulfric Stormcloak sound so quiet. Once, the Jarl of Windhelm had been a symbol of the future—a symbol of a Skyrim made free. He had the power, the charisma, and the voice—in more ways than one—to back it up, too.
Now, however, the power seemed to have fled his words. The personality of the man who had inspired an entire generation of freedom fighters was nowhere to be found—and the voice sounded like a child coming to terms with the fact that he'd lost a game of tag.
For the first time, Ulfric Stormcloak sounded beaten.
"Did it make for a good song?"
The voice was husky, guttural. It was far from human—but there was just enough human in it to confirm to Varulf the truth he already knew.
" … aye … "
Silence.
" … Sing … it … "
More silence. Then, Vignar heard music in his ear, off-key and gravelly, like a rockslide heard from far away; the werewolf was singing. More amazingly still, the Jarl thought he'd heard the words from somewhere before:
We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives
And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies!
Vignar heard a second, weaker, but even deeper voice join in.
But this land is ours, Ulfric sang weakly, and we'll see it wiped clean
Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams …
An awful silence fell on the last word, and somehow Vignar knew what had happened before he stepped out from behind the pillar, ignoring the hushed whispers of Brill to come back to safety. But there was no further need for it, he knew—the battle was over.
Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm—the Bear of Markarth—was dead.
Varulf Blackmane, the Harbinger of the Companions—the Wolf of Whiterun—was victorious.
There being no further use for the form, the black fur of the werewolf began to flatten and recede along its misshapen form. It straightened up along its spine, the wolf-like head beginning to blunt into a more rounded shape, the fangs receding into the gums, replaced by smaller, more squarish teeth.
Varulf let off a monumental sigh as he felt the influence of the beast leave him. He hadn't let it take full control of him; he'd still been human enough to see Ulfric flung like a ragdoll by the superhuman strength of the wolf, straight through the hole in the door he'd made earlier on, and skidding to a halt in front of the shrines of the Nine—his limbs broken, his spine shattered, and his skull fractured from the force of the impact against the half-destroyed door.
He'd been human enough to see that he hadn't landed under just any old shrine—but the new Shrine of Talos, recently installed by the priests of the Temple, at the insistence of the Jarl of Windhelm himself.
He'd been human enough to sing one last song with his friend-turned-foe, as though they were inside the warmth of Candlehearth Hall downing pint after pint of mead and swapping stories of glorious battle with the Imperial forces.
And he'd been human enough to see the peaceful look on Ulfric's face—as if rejecting the pain of his wounds—before finally succumbing to the embrace of Shor, and speeding for the great palace of Sovngarde.
Even in its state, the dense oak had proved fatal; as he reassumed his human form, Varulf saw the jagged splinter of wood protruding from the back of Ulfric's skull. The impact of his body against the floor had driven it into his brain; it was a miracle that it hadn't killed the man then and there. Perhaps it would be one more notch in the legend of Ulfric Stormcloak—whether it would be the final notch, Varulf now knew, would be the question.
For he had turned around to see the remaining eight jarls—nine, he now supposed, if Brunwulf was to be counted among them—standing in the aisle of the Temple, looking right at him. Their housecarls, stewards, and other aides were coming into view, though very slowly—as if reluctant to see the truth of what laid before them. Elenwen, Varulf noticed, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had seen the reality of the situation—understood that it had grown beyond her control—and so fled the Temple, no doubt to warn her ilk of what he had done.
Finally, Galmar and Ysrarald stepped out. The Stone-fist had crumbled; immediately, his eyes had flicked to Ulfric's body, and the former second-in-command of the Stormcloak forces now appeared stricken by what he saw.
He whirled upon Varulf, icy fury etched in his face, but the words could not come out—either from anger or grief; he was beyond words now, the Harbinger knew … perhaps beyond all reproach.
Nevertheless, Varulf knew, the deed had been done. The secret was out—he'd bared himself in body, mind, and soul to all of Skyrim. All that was left was to take matters into his hands.
"Galmar." He stepped forward, and the Stone-fist jumped at the sound of his name. "You will tell the sons and daughters of Skyrim what has happened here. If what I have done this day displeases them, they are free to go. I will not stop them, nor will they earn my retribution in deserting me. They may return to their husbands, their wives and children, and the lives they knew before this bloody war. But if they are prepared to fight for a new Skyrim—a stronger Skyrim—then let them stand with me.
Galmar found his voice. "They will not stand with a beast!" he growled.
"They stood with Ulfric," Varulf said evenly. "What does that make him?"
It appeared as though Galmar could think of no answer to this. The ice in his eyes had thawed out completely, replaced by a molten rage that choked him to the core. He glared at the Harbinger for a few deadly moments longer, then tossed his battleaxe aside with an angry grunt, shattering a vase, before stalking out of the Temple. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced followed in his wake—not even daring to look at Varulf—and slamming the door behind him.
Choosing now to break the silence, Varulf got to his feet, staring around at the assembled Jarls. "All of you have seen my face before," he grunted. "But today, in this room, you have seen me bare the very depths of my heart and soul. You now know who I am … what I am," he added heavily, feeling the double meaning in his words, hearing the Jarls mutter among themselves in confusion.
"Some have called the beast-blood of the Companions a blessing," he said. "Others have condemned it as a curse. And before I became the Harbinger, I believed them both to be true—a blessing of great power … that was cursed with a terrible price. But now, I see it as neither a blessing nor a curse … I see it as an oath—my oath … to you."
The Jarls ceased their muttering.
"Well am I aware," said Varulf, his voice becoming gradually stronger, "that the Companions of Ysgramor have long stayed their hands from the secrets and whispers that come with politics. We believed—and believe to this day—to face our troubles with armor and blade … with honor and glory. But even Ysgramor could not return to Atmora. Our ancestral home succumbed to the eternal winters of the north. Even he knew when we as a people must bend to the winds of change."
No one spoke. Perhaps it was because no one could think of anything to say—or perhaps no one wanted to say anything, until they were certain the Harbinger had finished speaking his peace.
"And so," Varulf called out, letting his voice boom inside the stone chamber, "I swear my oath this day: that while the agents of the Thalmor continue to draw breath upon the world of Man, I—the Harbinger of Jorrvaskr, the chosen successor of the Five Hundred—will carry your burdens as I carry the beast within me. I will not part with its blood until the last soldier of the Dominion has been cut down by Nord steel. I will continue to embrace its spirit until the last bastion of the elves has been toppled by our strength!"
"Only then … when the battle is won, and our world is free … shall I go to the hallowed grounds of Ysgramor's resting place—no longer a King, but a man—one last time, for one last battle … that when the flame of my life, untainted by the spirit of the beast, is finally extinguished, I will behold the eyes of Shor in Sovngarde, and walk with good Kodlak and Ulfric, and all Nords who came before them, to the Hall of Valor … and my final reward!"
The echoes of his last words faded into a silence more total than any Varulf had heard in the Temple today. Already he could imagine the battles being waged in the minds of the Jarls before him: what was to be said about today? Would they tell the truth about what had happened—would Varulf be exposed as a werewolf, cast out as a pariah, before finally being executed and shamed in the history books as a traitor?
Varulf found he no longer cared. He'd done what he needed to—Ulfric was gone, and so was the Thalmor's hold on him. The Harbinger knew he might have made the final blow—but the mortal blow had been in the dossier he'd brought with him. It had been destroyed in Ulfric's Unrelenting Force—the pages torn from their bindings, scattered across the aisle, where everyone could read their damning words. Varulf, meanwhile, had made his point, and pled his case. All that was left was to accept the judgment of the men and women gathered here today.
"Aye."
Varulf started. Not only was this the last word he'd been expecting to hear—but it had come from the last person he'd been expecting to hear it from. Jarl Elisif the Fair didn't quite seem to believe it herself; her mouth was half-open, and she was mouthing soundlessly to herself, as if she wondered if that had really been her voice.
Nevertheless, the single word had broken the silence more thoroughly than Ulfric's Voice ever had today.
"Aye!" Jarl Vignar shouted, stepping forward. Varulf spun round to look at him, and found that Vignar's eyes were glittering strangely. The message in them was clear; Jorrvaskr would hear of this—but Skyrim, perhaps, would not.
"Aye!" rasped Skald the Elder, lapsing into a brief coughing fit immediately after. The floodgates were opening now, and Varulf's expression was growing more incredulous by the moment. Dengeir and Sorli had already weighed in with "Ayes" of their own, with Laila and Korir following soon after. Even Thongvor cast his vote in the affirmative—though he did so with extreme reticence; perhaps he knew he was simply outnumbered today.
At length, all eyes had flicked to the newest Jarl of Skyrim, gazing expectantly at him for an answer.
Brunwulf Free-Winter said nothing for a long time. He was gazing at Ulfric's bloodied body—at the peaceful expression worn on the face of his predecessor—and then, upwards slightly to the axe-like Shrine of Talos that framed the spot where he'd fallen. Then, his eyes traveled to Varulf—himself bloodied and bruised, and lacking most of his armor but for the scant furs the pitted plates had covered—
He sighed. "Aye."
And with that, Varulf knew there was no going back. Even as he heard Jarl Vignar announce the unanimous vote,, as if from miles away, he felt a numbness begin to consume him. For though he would shortly be High King, in accordance with tradition, he was not quite sure what to do next.
Yet even as all feeling disappeared from his body, Varulf felt a sudden uplifting, from somewhere deep within him. Was it the beast inside him, roaring in jubilation at having triumphed in a hunt that would be remembered in song throughout the ages? Or was it something else—perhaps a sign from Shor that all would be well; that Ulfric was even now looking down upon him from Sovngarde, waiting for him to make good on his vow?
Either way, the new High King felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The full repercussions of his actions would be felt for years to come, he knew—but for now, there was only one thought on his mind.
I will be a betrayer …
… no longer.
Somewhere in Solstheim
Many miles away from the site of the Moot, under the mask of the dragon priest Morokei, Grimnir Torn-Skull's one remaining eye narrowed as some sixth sense hummed to life in his mind. There was nothing to suggest what might have happened to cause this—nor where it had happened, or when.
But though he would not receive the news for at least one more week, Grimnir instinctively knew from that feeling, at that moment, that things would never be the same again.
We cannot go back.
He did not pause in his step as he headed southward towards the gigantic mushrooms in the distance, nor did he bow his head in solemnity. But his mind had already begun to turn and gather speed, and in a fleeting moment, he remembered the bargain Varulf had struck with him, shortly before embarking on the journey that would come to change Skyrim—and all of Tamriel—forever.
And then, Grimnir remembered the words of Carlovac Townway, written on his account of the final year of the First Era, when the great machine of Sotha Sil had subtly, irreversibly transformed under the watchful eye of its master.
It cannot be fixed now.
He looked up into the sky, past the clouds of ash that still belched from Vvardenfell, two hundred years on. Masser and Secunda could barely be seen within them, and only a few of the brightest stars were visible. It was midnight.
This is the beginning of the end, he knew.
These are the last years of the Fourth Era …
CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT – INTERNAL USE ONLY
SUBJECT: VARULF BLACKMANE
Status: Active (Hostile, Monitor Only), High Priority, Emissary-level Approval
Description: High King of Skyrim, Harbinger of the Companions, veteran of Stormcloak rebellion
Background: No appreciable information on subject prior to Stormcloak uprising, but interrogations suggest he was a native of Bruma in his youth before leaving for Skyrim and joining the Companions of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun. Rose quickly through Ulfric's ranks before eventually becoming a high-ranking officer (Stormblade).
During the Moot of 4E 203 (see report), subject suddenly confronted Ulfric and slew him in a challenge to battle. First Emissary Elenwen served as eyewitness to the events and attempted to intervene, but was unsuccessful. Subject was subsequently elected as High King in Ulfric's place. First Emissary received formal reprimand.
Operational Notes: SUBJECT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED AS A CLASS C POLYMORPH (WEREWOLF). Engage with extreme caution.
Confirmed to be in direct contact with Target One (see file). Suspect Target One relayed classified information on Ulfric Stormcloak to subject that directly influenced the events of the Moot (see report on Embassy break-in of 4E 201), and indirectly compromised our overall position in Skyrim as well (prolonging the provincial uprising, as is well known, was crucial to our success; however, the death of a reliable, if dormant, source of information was unforeseen and further detrimental to our cause).
Negotiation with subject is inadvisable, except in the most extreme circumstances. Proximity to Target One has rendered subject anticipating of our methods, and generally uncooperative to our persuasion. However, subject will continue to be monitored pending further developments in the years to come. The continued existence of this man is an affront to us all. Any pertinent developments are to be immediately forwarded to an Emissary-level operative.
A/N: KRIF HAAL GRAAN (Fight, Hand, Rout) – Imbues the Thu'um within the caster's arms, giving them unparalleled physical strength for a period of time.
Thanks for reading! – K