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The missive didn't reach her.
His advisors seemed irked that such an enormous blockade had succeeded their path, and for the most part, all he could feel was relief. That effectively put the prospect of marriage back into the ambiguous outer reaches of his imminent spectrum, at least for a little while longer. Although a small part of him had stirred at the thought of meeting her again. It certainly wouldn't have been… unpleasant.
But that wasn't anything to think on at present, apparently, and for now the most dire thing he needed to worry about were these letters for rebuilding from Kynesgrove, and the debate on how much aid was necessary.
His advisors continued to press the issue, their list of candidates growing more and more absurd as the days went by. The Dragonborn, at least, he had somewhat of a history with. And to that end, at least he also knew what she looked like. Elf she may be, but there was no man this side of Elsweyr who could deny her beauty. But being easy on the eyes didn't give one that strength, or that power, which really drew his eye.
And he'd privately admit—though certainly not to his advisors—that the idea had crossed his mind.
Though there had been a war to be fought then, and he was still getting over the fact that the Dragonborn, a true hero of Skyrim, the last of the Septim line, could possibly be an elf. A High Elf, at that. The same kind which had ruthlessly taken Tamriel into the authoritarian mess it was now. Thankfully, she looked nothing like her arrogant counterparts, and clearly didn't act like them. She didn't have the snide makings of a politician, nor the demeanor of a boastful warrior.
A growing spill of ink on his table brought the High King back to the present, cursing himself for once more losing himself in thought on a woman who was most likely half way across Skyrim at this point.
It seemed almost… defiling to sully his image of her, a wandering warrior with a stern, ossified expression, untethered and free.
At any rate, true to his initial anticipation, the Dragonborn wasn't a viable option, and his elder advisors had begun to grumble about other potential prospects. A woman from the Shatter-Shield clan seemed to have taken the primary spot, though they'd also approached him about a potential alliance with the Grey-Manes through marriage, which seemed even more absurd. Though the clan supported him, he doubted they'd like the thought of marrying one of their own off so far away from Whiterun. They'd even brought up Torygg's old bint of a wife, Elisif the Fair, which was well and truly absurd.
A part of him really wanted to slay them all down and get it over with—but they were the six advisors of the High King, regardless of whoever the High King was, and it was tradition that he keep them. Though really he thought them all a lark.
"You look angry."
Ulfric looked up, where Galmar was standing at the front of his desk, burly arms crossed. He must have been in serious deep thought not to hear his lumbering general cross the room.
"Tired, perhaps." He looked back down, beginning to read this whole 'Kynesgrove crisis' anew, with no luck.
"It's not good for a warrior to sit around a desk all day." Galmar noted.
Ulfric wanted to point out he didn't have much of a choice anymore, but refrained. Galmar was free to do as he liked, for the most part, and didn't have nearly as many toiling duties as he did. The Jarl gave him a dry smile. "Who else will get all these done?"
"Hire a Stweard—what happened to your old one? Good man, that one."
Ulfric rubbed his temples. "No High King has ever had a Steward do his work for him—
"You're the High King now." Galmar interrupted, imperiously. "Why do the old ones matter?"
Which was true, and comforted him somewhat, because the entirety of his time as High King he'd been attempting to be just like the rest of them. Politically inclined men, more diplomats than fighters, who spent most of their years inside at Universities studying law, not outside fighting bloody battles. But perhaps Galmar was right. He wasn't one of those Kings, and clearly upon recent years they'd failed Skyrim, and maybe the lands needed a different kind of King.
"You're right." He decided upon, after coming to a relieving conclusion. "Tomorrow I'll bring Jarleif, and get this mess sorted out."
"That's the spirit!" Galmar laughed heartily. "Now, in the meantime, why don't you come down with me and see some of these new troops? There's a couple of real diamonds in the rough."
He didn't feel too bad leaving the palace—if anything, it almost made him feel better—having spent a considerable portion of the week holed up there for meetings and paperwork. The courtyard, which he usually could only stare at in longing from one of the main windows, was full of new recruits swinging blades.
"Galmar!" Said a female Nord, who had been watching the troops from afar. And then, with a low bow, "My King."
He waved it off though, taking in the full courtyard. "Galmar tells me there's a few out here worth looking at."
"More than a few!" Protested the woman, who seemed to be who Galmar has training the new recruits.
She led him over to two young men engaged in a spar, one of them with a quick agility and the other with brute force. It only takes a quick introduction to the stuttering, flabbergasted troops, and he's training them both, fixing footwork and maneuvering grips and feeling like a commanding officer again, out in the field.
It's a good feeling.
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"What has really brought you here, child? For it certainly wasn't to train your Voice."
Estel made a contrary expression as Paarthurnax's rumbling tone effectively destroyed whatever tentative hold she had on her meditation. Some meditation, though. She wasn't getting anything done, except for thinking herself in circles. She knew, deeply, that a part of her wanted to sort out whatever this, this problem of hers was. This escapism.
And meditating on the 'Yol' wasn't helping.
She uncrossed her legs, heaving a sigh. "No, it wasn't."
The old dragon peered down at her curiously, head cocked as he perched on the Word wall. "Yet you climbed up the seven-thousand steps regardless?" He balked, genuinely flabbergasted.
She nodded.
"Mortals." He sighed. "I'll never understand."
"I was trying to think on things." She decided upon, attempting to be as vague as possible. "I thought I'd have it figured out around four-thousand, but I ended up getting into a fight with a frost troll, and sort of forgot."
"Meditating on the Voice won't help." Paarthanux advised, giving his great, fearsome leathery wings a good flap in the cold wind. "Perhaps you should find what's really bothering you, and confront it."
"I wish I knew what it was." She harrumphed, blowing stray hair out of her eyes.
What was really awful is that she didn't know who else to talk to, aside from a centuries old dragon. What would he know about fickle mortal emotions, and an incessant need to run away? Well actually, he may have some words of wisdom on the latter subject.
"I'm always running from things." She explained slowly, almost embarrassingly. "I hate feeling confined. And the moment I think I'm trapped I just… have to get away from there."
"This has happened recently?" The dragon hummed.
"It's why I'm here." She digressed.
"Ah," Breathed the dragon, tilting his head into the sky. He was the color of the stone and white-washed mountains, and he almost looked like a statue, standing so still. "If I recall, it took you quite a bit to face your destiny as well."
The elf blanched. Yeah, that too.
"You response to the Greybeards' summons was rather slow too, even longer still, to do as they asked. Do you fear fate? Inevitability?"
She frowned, looking down. That was debatable, and she'd never gone through enough deep introspection to fully understand why she was the way she was, and had never really thought to.
"I guess." She scratched her cheek. She tried to think back, to Whiterun, arriving from Bleak Falls Barrow and facing down her first Dragon. She certainly hadn't wanted to. The moment Jarl Balgruuf had looked at her like he wanted something, she wanted to bolt out of there.
"Destiny is in us all, young mortal. Perhaps it is not destiny which you are running away from—but yourself." The dragon snorted, hot breath whipping the side of her face. It may have been his attempt at comfort, but all it did was douse her in dragon snot. "That being said, I cannot give you the answer you seek—only you can do that."
"That isn't going to help me at all!" She retorted, pinching her brows. "What kind of advice is that?"
"No one can give you advice on yourself." The dragon blinked at her, owlishly.
I was hoping you could.
Her procrastination was short lived, as Paarthanux was quick to kick her out of High Hrothgar once he realized she wasn't any closer to mastering the word than she was two months ago. That, and he seemed annoyed with her fickle human emotions. In all honesty, Estel was annoyed with herself too.
She had barely made it to the final step, not even on the cusp of Ivarstead yet when another courier bolted head-first into her.
"Watch where you're going, fool!" She snapped, irritated and more confused than she'd have liked, and lashing out at the first poor, unfortunate soul to face the wrath of a self-angered Dragonborn.
"I'm very sorry Miss—" And then, with great surprise and belief, "Dragonborn!"
Of course he knows me. She thought, exasperated. Then again, at this point who didn't?
She had the misfortune of being infamous.
"I have a message for you!" He continued on, breathless. "Windhelm has been sending out hundreds of couriers in hopes of reaching you—you're a very hard person to get a hold of!"
"That's intentional." She replied brusquely. "At the risk of sounding rude, I'll ask you to step aside."
The courier blinked at her. "…But I haven't delivered the—
"To be quite honest, I really don't want to hear it." Estel interrupted, attempting to side-step him. The courier only stepped with her and blocked her path. "I have no time for the idiosyncrasies of Skyrim politics—nor do I particularly care about them. Feel free to tell this to whichever dog sent you."
He tilted his head. "So… you refuse?"
Refuse what? And then, irritated. "Sure, yes, yes. I refuse."
The courier gaped, sputtering. "B—But no one's ever refused a marriage proposal from the High King!"
At this, he had her whole attention.
"What did you say?"
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This was how Estel found herself begrudgingly following the trail through Eastmarch towards Windhelm, a disturbingly jovial courier lapping at her heels. Apparently the one to find her was promised some kind of reward.
Estel didn't care much about that though; She was more concerned over this whole marriage proposal.
He couldn't have just written me? She thought derisively. Or even asked me in person?
She'd heard of elaborate beds of roses, kneeling in front of the statue of Mara, shouting from the mountains—but never had she heard of asking for someone's hand through a courier.
The courier, aside from providing aimless, slightly annoying chatter, was entirely useless. Their trek towards Windhelm was significantly delayed by the appearance of two trolls, a small army of wolves and at least half a dozen angry cave bears. During none of these fights did the foolish man help. In fact, for the majority of them he was already sprinting down the path.
Considering his prior behavior, Estel shouldn't have been surprised when he high-tailed it clear out of sight by the time she had finished up with the Frost Dragon.
Those things were nasty buggers, though.
Throughout the majority of the scuffles, Estel found herself slightly scorched but mostly pondering on why in Sovengarde Ulfric would have chosen her. First of all, she was quite clearly an elf. And secondly, she was the Dragonborn. That practically guaranteed a life of dragon-hunting celibacy.
And an infamous reputation. She added bitterly.
And he had certainly never… seemed anywhere near attracted to her during the war. Of course, that may have been because it was during the war. Yet his eyes had never strayed from his maps, and his praise had never carried a hint of affection. That, and their meetings had always been very brief.
Well there was that one time I had to hunt around his private chambers to find him… And found him in his bed. Even then, he had been the picture of politeness.
The elf shook her head. This is ridiculous! She thought to herself, pace quickening. Beside the path, the Black River bubbled and sloshed its icy waters. She hoped that a mud crab would chose the inopportune time to surface—if at least to release her anger.
By the time sunset came, she'd finally made it to the River Yorgrim, and made a conclusive decision.
She was going to storm right in there and turn him down.
To hell with it.
The very idea of it, of being tied down to someone, tied down to one place, hell, tied down to one country terrified her, and there was nothing he could say to change her mind. Estel had finally come to the introspective core of all her problems—her freedom was her everything. And she was absolutely frightened of losing it.
And the idea of marriage seemed to be the exact antithesis of everything she wanted.
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Meanwhile, for the High King, the idea of marriage to the Dragonborn was beginning to seem more and more appealing.
A grand feast was being held in his honor—what, particularly about his honor, he wasn't sure—and he supposed he should have been significantly less surprised to find that the majority of those in attendance were female.
Unmarried, young females, at that.
None of them were particularly appealing. Predominantly they hailed from aristocratic families, many from here in Windhelm, but a great bulk from other provinces of Skyrim. Hell, there were women from all of Tamriel here. Even, much to his disgust, some from Cyrodill. He attempted to stay far, far away from them all, yet like Draugr they seemed to appear out of nowhere and come for him.
"—And what of the Battle for Hjalmarch?" A dark-haired Nord from Morthal demurred, lavishly wrapped in fine, silvery silks. Apparently, she was the niece of Jarl Balgruuf. He was disgusted by the very thought.
"Oh, yes, my father speaks of that all the time." Her companion, a redhead from Whiterun, was quick to add. Her face was somewhat familiar, but terribly plain, and her eyes seemed to grow hungry with the very sight of him. "It was one of the Stormcloaks finest battles, wasn't it?"
"I heard it was a slaughter." The dark-haired girl replied, looking annoyed with the other's very presence. "Were you there, my King? You must've been, surely."
"Of course he was!" The redhead cut in, looking like she was attempting to elbow the other woman out of the spot to his right. "He must have been leading the battle."
Actually, it wasn't him at all, but the Dragonborn.
Which inevitably led his thoughts full circle back onto her.
These vapid, vain women seemed to disintegrate from his presence with the very thought of her, leaving him with a faintly sour taste in his mouth and a repugnance at the thought of them—all of them—crowing around him in the room.
Now that was a woman.
He could recall the day he heard of their victory in Hjaalmarch—the last frontier before the final siege against Solitude and the Empire at large—Estel being the first to reach him. She was wearing another of her masks, a strange, orichalcum green with a descriptive painted face. Like all her other masks, it was somewhat inhuman to look at, an impassivity of stone that shielded the feminine features of her face.
"My King," She demurred, the very words sending a tingle down his spine. "Hjaalmarch now bears the Stormcloak flag."
He looked up from the sprawling war map, taking bitter delight in replacing the last waving red flag. His plans were finally coming to fruition—Solitude was within his grasp—and with predominant thanks to this woman.
"You have done well, Stormblade." He replied, matching the impassive stone stare with his own. "Skyrim will once more belong to her people."
Unlike many of his troops, these words didn't seem to bring her comfort at all. In fact, they gave no response.
Finally, she tilted her head, long dark curls—the only testimony to her femininity—slid down her tanned shoulders. She wasn't wearing Stormcloak armor; she never did. The plating seemed to be made of ebony, and molded to her small form, and he would privately admit that the Stormcloak armor would not do her justice.
"And now?"
He smiled predatorily. "Now we take Solitude."
"And what of the battle of Solitude?" Cried the woman from Whiterun.
He shook himself out of his reverie. "I'm sorry?"
"The battle," The redhead reiterated. "Certainly it was glorious—fit for the High King of Skyrim."
"It was like many battles." He hedged. "Long and drawn out and fought with heart. If that is glorious—then yes, I suppose it was."
Meanwhile, the Jarl wasn't the only one attempting to pry himself out of an unfortunate situation. Ralof was sure if he spent another song dancing he'd vomit all over the floor—or worse yet, the Jarl's new furs—and make a rioting fool out of himself amongst all his dear fellow soldiers. Of course, those dear fellows were the ones goading him on, clashing their mead and clapping their hands and singing outrageously to showy Bard songs they didn't know. A rowdy, fantastic time to be sure, the perfect eruption of a good old-fashioned Nordic meadery and the higher society of modern Imperial Skyrim—and every scandalized woman in Cyrodill silks he danced around the better he felt.
Well, until now.
"Come now, Ralof, you have the stomach of a girl!" Jeered one Soldier, Harvad
"Perhaps the mockery he's made of himself in front of all these fine woman has come to him." Chuckled another.
Ralof turned to both of them crossly, somewhat doubled over. "Sod off, the two of you!" He staggered away, pushing through the throngs of tinkling laughter and glassware until he blindly reached the wall. From there he limped until his hands found a door knob, thrusting it open to relieve his stomach over the floor.
"You missed the map by mere inches. How tragic."
The blonde, quite sick soldier looked up, clammy face brightening at the familiar face. "What is this? Could it possibly be my Estel? Where'd you come from, elf? The ceiling?"
"I walked in, just like everyone else." The elf tilted her head, long hair spilling over one shoulder.
Except she wasn't dressed like everyone else. Not in that terrifying, intimidating armor. But Ralof was used to that at this point—she had many kinds, each stronger and more jealous-inducing than the next.
"Does King Ulfric know you're here?" He sat himself in one of the war room chairs, grinning despite himself and his situation—it was always good to see a long lost friend.
She shook her head, leaning against the table. "I was hoping for a… discreet way of getting his attention."
"At this party?" The blonde laughed. "Not a chance! The soiree is practically in his honor, they'd never let him go now."
The elf looked away, a thoughtful expression to her face. "He must enjoy the attention…"
Ralof blinked, holding a hand to steady his head. "Our Jarl Ulfric? Not so! Perhaps in the battlefield, yes, but he's quite out of his element here. You should go out and greet him! Surely he'd enjoy a familiar face among the wolves out there."
He was rewarded with a brief, slight smile for his efforts. "Perhaps. Or perhaps, I should attend to you, first. How much mead has passed these lips, I wonder?" She mused, reaching over to steady his head.
"Many a glass!" He cheered.
Estel huffed. "Maybe it's time to get you into a bed."
"A good idea if I ever knew one." He agreed.
With no small reluctance did the elf bear the brunt of the man's weight as he passed out cold. She peered around the room, wondering if perhaps there would be a spare cot for a late-night war councilman pacing the rooms. Not a chance. Her eyes drifted towards the door wherein she knew lay the Jarl's personal quarters. Of course, self-explanatorily they were his, personally. He probably wouldn't appreciate her duping some drunken Nord on his vast bed.
Instead, she managed to drag him onto one of the cleared off tables, deciding that he was clearly drunk enough to care little of his resting place. Hopefully he'd wake up before they found him in the morning.
She turned towards the window, where the wan, wintry moon spilled cold into the barren room. It wasn't too late to turn around—her anger had long since faded into trepidation, confusion bound tightly in her stomach.
A marriage proposal.
That couldn't be true…
Could it?
The door opened behind her, the riotous sounds of a party in full swing drifting into the quiet room, before once more muffled into the scuffling of feet against the floorboards. Her chance at a silent escape closed behind her, and the idea of being trapped stifled into her lungs once more. She braced herself, taking a deep breath and letting it out. No one was forcing her to stay here. Her left hand gripped the daedric sword hilted to her belt
—no one could make her stay here.
She looked up, her eyes catching the frost blue of the man she'd come all this way to see.
"King Ulfric."
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