18 Heartfire 4E201, Hall of Kings, Windhelm
"More mead?" asked Ulfric Stormcloak.
Ivar shook his head. "Not yet, thank you. I make it a rule never to drink so quickly that I lose faith in my own judgment."
"Wise." The jarl of Windhelm refilled his own mug, and took a long draught. "Fortunately I am surrounded by my soldiers, and I must only manage one flight of stairs to find my bed this night."
The smith nodded, watching Ulfric closely. "You still haven't told me why you've been so generous with your hospitality."
"Hmm." Ulfric stared at Ivar with eyes that seemed not at all blurred from drink. "Is it so strange, that I might want to see the new Dragonborn for myself? Especially if he's a good Nord, whose father was well-known to me in the old days."
"You already have seen me, with no need to spend such excellent mead on my behalf."
Ulfric frowned, staring at Ivar for a long moment. "By the Nine! The executioner's wagon, that day at Helgen."
"Aye. I was your seat-mate, and like to go to the gods before you if that dragon hadn't shown up."
"It would seem our fates are entwined," said Ulfric.
Ivar took a sip of his honey-wine, carefully not looking at the jarl while he took a moment to think.
Careful here. He seems to respect you, but that won't last if you reject his cause. So don't reject it. At least not so plainly that he must take notice.
"The gods appear to have an errand for me," he said aloud. "Something to do with the return of the dragons. For now, I must go wherever that leads me."
Ulfric nodded, his face calm, revealing nothing. "It's never good to struggle against fate. You still hold with Talos?"
"Always. No matter what a pack of haughty elves might demand." Ivar grinned. "I've had them waylay me on the road already. It didn't go as they planned."
"Good. Stay with that allegiance, and you will not go far astray. I won't stand in your path, even if I hope you will find your way to our faction once you are free."
Ivar nodded, relaxing somewhat, and took another sip of the mead.
"You know, I envy you," said Ulfric, his eyes shadowed. "I studied at High Hrothgar for years when I was a boy. There I learned to call up the Voice, well enough that it saved my life many times during the Great War. Somehow I never penetrated to the mysteries, and now I doubt I'll ever have the chance."
Ivar decided to gamble. "Arngeir would say that using the Voice for violence is enough to close off any chance to truly understand it."
"Perhaps he's right," Ulfric said quietly. "Although you seem to have mastered more of the Voice in a few weeks than I managed in years. I have not heard that you refuse to use it in combat."
"I can't claim any special virtue for myself. It's a gift of the gods, for their purposes and not mine."
"Perhaps that very attitude is why you have done so well. You have no ambitions?"
"Not as such. All I planned was to find a place to set up shop as a smith, make an honest living, find a wife and have children . . ."
"The everyday desires that make life worth living," said Ulfric. "Exactly why I fight the Empire, fight the Thalmor. So every man in Skyrim can work his own farm, raise his own family, and revere his own gods in peace."
"A noble cause," said Ivar blandly.
Although even if you win, you condemn Skyrim to at least a full generation of war, against both the Empire and the Thalmor. How many men will die for that cause before you're finished? How many women, how many children?
Sometimes revolution is necessary. It still carries a terrible cost.
"But this gift of the gods, it has changed you," Ulfric suggested.
"I think it begins to. I still have no craving to win battles or rule over men. Let those with the desire and the talent for such things pursue them. To stand against the dragons with sword, shield, and Voice . . . to protect those who could never defend themselves against such creatures . . . that's a life's work of which any man could be proud." Ivar raised his eyes to look closely at the jarl. "Not to mention, it seems likely to avoid the corruption that follows close upon any quest for power."
A large shape loomed in the shadows, a pair of eyes gleaming in the firelight, growling with insulted anger. Galmar Stone-Fist clenched a hand on the hilt of his great-axe, stopping only when Ulfric gestured for peace.
"You're a brave man," said the jarl mildly.
"Does it need a brave man, to tell you something you may not wish to hear?"
Slowly, Ulfric smiled. Ivar didn't make the mistake of considering it a friendly expression.
"Do you hear that, Galmar? Here's a man who respects the truth. We're already feeling the lack of his kind around us. What will happen once we've beaten the Legion, and the Moot is convinced to put the High Kingship in the right place once more?"
Galmar rumbled from his corner. "I'd be more impressed if he would put his sword and magic to proper use on our side. All the truth in the world won't make a penny's difference, if we don't win."
"All in good time." Ulfric turned back to Ivar. "All right, Dragonborn. You don't claim to care about wealth, land, or power over men, but I will make you one promise. Follow the quest the gods have given you, don't stand against the Stormcloaks, and I will guarantee your holdings no matter what else may happen in this war. It's the least I can do for an honest man."
Ivar relaxed, and took another sip of his mead. "I thank you, Jarl Ulfric."