He wasn't expecting a half-destroyed mountain, swarming with Dragons like flies over a corpse. Out of all things, that was near the bottom of his list, and it fell a few places lower as the air around him quivered and rolled with Unrelenting Force-the Dragons were Shouting the mountain down. Boulders fell and rolled down to a rubble pile that steadily climbed up the height of the cliff, cascading to fill a once-fortified valley, reaching the heights of carved windows that climbed the mountain crater.
Soskendov growled beneath him, diving fast to meet the flurry of Dragons around Hag's Rock, Ulfric's hair whipping around him, braids stinging against his skin. He easily spotted the red of Odahviing's scales glinting in the early dawn light, leading the flock of Dragons in circling approaches through hails of spells and arrows towards the mountain, Shouting as they neared and pulling up at the moment Ulfric thought they'd surely collide with the jagged peaks. Odahviing roared a command to keep going, and pulled away from the assault to fly alongside Soskendov.
"Fair skies," Soskendov sneered. Ulfric worried Odahviing would Shout them out of the fair skies if he kept it up.
"Join my Voice, brother," Odahviing said—ordered, Ulfric realized, from the tone of his voice, gesturing roughly to the other Dragons with his head. They circled high above, watching them circle, Shout, barely making boulders fall on each pass. "These wretches aren't worth their Time or their Voices."
"You gladly follow the orders of the mortal. Are you not ashamed that we are bound, even for short decades, to such a wretch of a Soul?"
"I gladly follow the orders of the one who has bested me in combat, and to whom I owe a life debt to, as is my honor and our tradition," Odahviing countered. He tilted his gaze up to meet Ulfric. "You see no issue with the mortal that leads you now."
"This one is outside of the Hierarchy."
"Hmm. And yet you are here. You have never been one to act of your own volition. Tell me, little mortal, what did you say to get Soskendov to agree to fly all the way out here?"
Ulfric raised his chin high and met Odahviing's eyes as well as he could. He swore Soskendov was flying roughly on purpose, his hover bouncing with each flap rather than the smooth float he'd felt during their assaults, and hair was gathering in tangles in his mouth, eyes, braids matting under his helmet. "I've come to help the Dragonborn."
Odahviing chuckled and banked a hard turn, Ulfric barely catching the rope in time before Soskendov followed. "Ah, a sign of weakness. Yes, I understand now. Go, put him down before we continue. Let himhelp Dovahkiin. Soskendov, come. Two strong Voices are worth two thousand weaklings. I should Shout these failures from Nirn for their disgrace."
Soskendov perched on a half-collapsed tower for not a second longer than it took Ulfric to slide off, delicately missing the razor scales and serrated spikes that ran down the Dragon's back, and, with a sneering growl, he was off to join the weaving host of Dragons. Ulfric paused at the crumbled entrance to the Redoubt just long enough to watch Soskendov's first pass on the mountain—and then to brace himself from falling as the peak was shorn off, sending boulders cascading below. One of the smaller Dragons made a line for the ruined peak, landing and Shouting a wall of flame into the mountain itself.
They'd begun to open a path, the tight courtyard and box canyon of the Redoubt made for a dangerous assault from the sky. At least one Dragon's corpse was half-buried under rubble at the bottom. The Dragonborn seemed to have no other way inside Hag's Rock, save for descending from the roof of this tower. He looked again over the lip of the tower for any sign of fleeing from the main entrance, seeing nothing, not that he expected to see hoards of Forsworn retreating. Their exits were surely twisted caves, and, this far after the assault began, they had long fled.
The Dragonguard were inside, in whatever state they'd found themselves. He secured the pack he'd brought, filled with food and hopefully helpful potions that Illia hadn't labeled—standard mage practice, it seemed—and what medical supplies he could find laying around the room she'd claimed as a workshop-infirmary, tied to his body in the tried and true Legion method to keep it from shaking around too much during combat and throwing off your balance.
He drew his sword, fought the urge to call it her Daedric sword, and pushed aside a fallen keystone to enter the tower.
Corpses haphazardly pushed to the side met him, stiff with death but not yet bloated with rot, dressed in the furs and light wool of the Forsworn rather than the metals and thick leather of the Dragonguard. He checked the side paths, most splitting to simple dead ends that had been obviously barricaded as distractions to slow down the Dragonborn and her force rather than any real defensive attempt; no bodies lined any of the auxiliary rooms, though thorough as she was, not a single barricade was uncleared lest she be caught in a flank.
The only way through Hag's Rock was forwards, spiraling down, down, further through dark, torchless rooms. Ulfric lit his way with the ruins of a once-grand table leg, a strong pine-carved thing that had been hacked to disgrace either for defense or by the attack. Either way, Ulfric supposed, this was no time for the appreciation of beauty. He made great progress, his heart rising each step and stumble as the Dragons made the earth quiver beneath his feet, weaker as he traveled deeper into the mountain, and he only encountered Forsworn dead.
And then, finally, after what seemed like seconds and hours, he heard distant echoes of voices bouncing off rough stone. He strained his ears to hear familiar rolls of Nordic accents or that Cyrodillic lilt, struggling to make out words as the Dragons knocked him from his feet once more, but from this distance, he couldn't make out much. Ulfric kept his sword drawn as precaution and advanced through one room, two, noting how the voices paused and replaced themselves with the sound of metal on leather—in wait for him to enter through the last door.
Ulfric thanked the Nine that the door opened outwards to him; whoever was behind the door couldn't kick it open and pin him full of arrows or a spell. Rather, they couldn't do it easily. He at least had the small advantage of position, if not the advantage of numbers. And neither side knew what lay beyond the door, but Ulfric had the advantage of wishful thinking, unless the Dragonguard had been praying and assumed their prayers answered. That is, unless the Forsworn had finally gotten the better of them, but judging from the numbers and finality of the bodies he'd passed the last few rooms, that was doubtful.
Now, to say something that ensured he survived the door opening, whether Dragonguard or Forsworn, and something that revealed how many Forsworn, if it came to that. "No need to worry," Ulfric decided, figuring each second was another opportunity for someone to have bloodlust take over, "it's just me." A neutral address, hopefully even the Forsworn were expecting someone who had hidden in a forgotten nook, somehow avoided the bloodshed. Someone who'd defected from Western Skyrim, with a stronger accent than most, or perhaps they were too battle weary to notice.
A flurry of activity, voices, hails to him, it's Ulfric Stormcloak!—
"What have you come for?" A cutting, scathing, curious voice. The Dragonborn, who was too familiar with magic to not expect a trick of the Forsworn. He could almost see her on the other side of the door, pretending not to lean on her staff, her sword drawn and ready to run it through him if he did not pass her test.
"To turn the Wheel," Ulfric replied, his own answer shocking him, "upon a new dynasty." I have come for you. But he couldn't say that, not out loud, not in as many words.
And the door opened, and she stood before him, not even bothering to pretend she wasn't resting her weight on her staff.
His rations were well welcomed by all except the Dragonborn herself, who waved away all refreshment except for a dull, slimy potion, claiming that every second she spent away from unraveling the wards was another minute they spent trapped in the room. Ulfric nodded, recalling her voracious appetite when she tapped too deeply into her magic; she was far from exhausted, but he set aside a section of salt beef for her to have once she did reach that point.
And once the food and a minor health potion were passed around the Dragonguard, Ulfric felt as useless and as restless as the others, and he began to fall victim to the same tedious atmosphere that had been wearing on nerves for two days. For long minutes, the only sounds were concentrated chewing, thick against dried meats and hardtack—nutritious but far from a home cooked meal, and careful scribbling and muttering from the Dragonborn at the door. Until, finally, Ulfric couldn't take it anymore, to be the only person in the room truly idle, and began to speak of how his group had fared against the Forsworn.
"Oh, sure, you'd choose the easy camps," a Dragonguard sneered after he'd finished telling of the days before. No, not sneered, he realized, when he whipped over to her, ready to quickly discipline before rebellion got out of hand—soldier's justice. No, she had the glint of a smile in her eye, even if her mouth was too full of the half-torn salt beef she'd finally taken when she thought nobody was looking to turn up.
"Well, from the way Uthgerd and Salma spoke of the Dragonguard's…varying skills, I figured they could benefit from an ego boost." It was easy, once, to walk among the ranks of his soldiers, the men and women that fought under his banner, and find camaraderie. He felt that place in himself shrunken and starved, but…it existed, barely.
"Ugh, Imming will be insufferable." She waved a hand. "And to have to be rescued."
"By Ulfric Stormcloak! Few know the honor," a Breton said, and it took Ulfric a second to realize the man was genuine.
Ulfric forced a smile and a nod. "It is an honor to bring a beginning to the Dragonguard with such talented warriors. The Dragons will be through the mountain soon, and I doubt they'll have any issues with the wards."
He found it almost easy to sink into conversation with this group; they were much less dazzled by him than the former Stormcloak soldiers, and tended to regard him as a man with a reputation, rather than the man with the reputation. Perhaps he would've been more at ease if he had been assigned even a single Dragonguard that wasn't a Stormcloak—he should've cared more during the logistics of this campaign.
Not that it was a campaign—it was a slaughter, even with the minor setbacks at Hag Rock. The Dragonborn was able to dispel the wards within a few minutes, and found a room covered in exploding runes, easily dispatched by throwing rubble in and letting the slight pressure trigger them. "Shoddy, quick work," the Dragonborn explained, noting half of them had already triggered from falling stones from the Dragons' assault. "I'm almost surprised they didn't come back to set more complex runes, ones that require a pulse within the radius to go off. It's only a minute or two more to cast." She set to work on the next door, a woven thing of blooming rose bushes so tight they made an opaque panel that glued itself to the wall. "Not like this," She said, gesturing to the roses. "This is a living spell. Much more difficult, for casting and dispelling. Something died to make this ward. Without something dying to dispel it, we could be here a while."
"How long is a while?" Salma asked, impatience just under the tone of her voice.
"Well, a day, if the Forsworn hadn't left Soul Gems around like common salt." She dug in a pouch, pulling out a crushed lump of chalk and a glowing, swirling gem. "Give me a few minutes, but we'll still need to clear the vines."
Ulfric watched as the Dragonborn sprinkled the chalk dust over the floor, muttering to herself before placing the soul gem in the center of her rune and stepping on it to crush it, releasing a pulse of energy that withered the blossoms on the bushes. She stepped back and let the Dragonguard slice through the dead vines and pull them from the wall, taking a second to eat the rest of the portion of salt beef Ulfric had set aside for her without bothering to chew.
"Status outside?" She asked simply, her voice low.
"The lesser Dragons are struggling with their Thu'um against the mountain. Things look to be going much faster now that Soskendov is helping Odahviing," Ulfric answered, matching her volume.
The Dragonborn huffed. "How much faster?" The Dragonguard tore down the last of the vines, leaving dark scars from where roots had glued to the stone. Groans rose from the group; the revealed door glimmered yellow with another ward. "The Forsworn bought all the time they needed to escape."
"Or to outlast us," Ulfric replied, though he didn't quite believe himself. It was far more likely the Forsworn had fled Hag Rock by some deep cave system through an exit miles away. He didn't answer her question on purpose, noting how infrequent the Shouting from the Dragons seemed to have become since he descended into Hag Rock, but he attributed that to the stability of the carved fortress. He'd lost track of the last time it'd been since he'd felt the ground shake, or heard the distinct sound of Shouting.
She scowled, either at his answer, the lack of Forsworn to kill, or the latest ward to dispel. "At least you're good for morale," the Dragonborn muttered. "Keep it up. Things were getting delicate." She tossed the last of her salt beef in her mouth, chewing as she went back to the ward, cursing to herself with each step.
Ulfric did what he could to elevate spirits, but things settled back into a stale boredom easily even though the Dragonborn made quick work of the next ward, opening the door into yet another large room filled with exploding runes, one triggering and blowing the door off of its own hinges as the Dragonborn pushed it open, setting off a chain of explosions as it splintered throughout the room. She stamped her foot and pulled a splinter from her cheek with a shaking hiss.
A quick survey to make sure everyone else was alright, and she walked into the room and inventoried the floor, the walls. Ulfric poked his head through the doorframe, seeing multiple glowing doors behind shredded tapestries and hasty barricades. A few more runes dotted the floor, and the Dragonborn chucked splinters and pebbles to trigger frost, fire, more explosions.
Light sighs, and the Dragonguard made quick work of the barricade directly ahead of them, moving aside half-destroyed tables, benches, bookshelves, before moving to finish tearing down the tapestries to start on the next.
But then—Roars. Screams. Shouts.
Dragons.
Muffled. Far away, but definitively inside Hag Rock, echoing off of stone walls, the sounds of not just Dragons crawling through the carved Redoubt, but the sounds of massacre, combat, feasting, dying Forsworn.
Where there had been downcast gazes were now bright, wild eyes, a peal or two of laughter. "Think you can double-time that ward?" Salma asked. "Sounds like we're missing all the action."
Ulfric almost would've preferred to miss the action, but instead had to slaughter the Forsworn that managed to survive Shouts of flame, frost, lightning, rendering from the smallest Dragons that could force their way through destroyed doors. It was crowded, inconvenient work that he struggled to find any pride in, as the Forsworn were barely more than wounded animals. Tightly huddled pockets of them concentrated in the deepest parts of the Redoubt, and after an extensive search, they could find no caves beyond a few main entrances that were decorated with charred flesh.
Few, if any, had escaped. Despite the time setbacks, it seemed Hag Rock Redoubt had been as successful as the other assaults on the Forsworn, even after the Dragonborn insisted on a second passthrough to check for hidden doors and caverns. Nothing.
That is, nothing was left.
The Dragons had reduced an entire mountain to rubble, gravel, moving to do the same with the fortress once the Dragonguard had escaped. Soskendov snapped at the lower Dragons, scolding them for their inefficiencies, daring them to fail again, demanding them to search the remains of Hag Rock for corpses to bring as penance for their humiliation. He could do nothing when Odahviing left a single body for him, devouring the rest of what few dozen were found for himself.
The Dragonguard squinted against the midday sun, readying to mount their Dragons and return to Sky Haven Temple, stretching and warming themselves in the gentle breeze. Ulfric stared at where a mountain once was, looking at the ruins, a thousand feet shorter than the peaks around it, where a nearly-clean pass would stand once the boulders were moved. The Dragonborn stood straighter, a Soul from a fallen Dragon having swirled up and around her for her to devour.
"Uthgerd is leading the others," the Dragonborn said, the only hint of a question in her words being a small twitch in her eyebrow. Ulfric nodded. "Good. I'd hate to run behind schedule. I want to have Madenach's head in Jarl Igmund's lap in three days."
Ulfric clenched his jaw. He had no desire to see Igmund; the runt sold him to the Thalmor, and was the final blow to his doomed campaign in the Reach all those years ago. "I'll separate it from his shoulders and present it myself."
"If the Dragons don't eat him," Salma said, coming up with her helmet tucked under her elbow, "and assuming he hasn't been warned and left the camps."
"Even if he has fled like a coward, he's out of places to go," the Dragonborn replied. "A thousand of their messenger hawks couldn't prepare them for our Dragons. Let's go and give the Guard their rest." Ulfric watched as she used Odahviing's rear leg as a step to climb on, crawling up him like a ladder rather than the easy jump and swing that the other Dragonguard used to mount their Dragons.
Soskendov grunted beneath Ulfric as they took off, flying behind Odahviing but before the other Dragons as they sailed towards Sky Haven Temple. "A waste," he grumbled in Dov, "to allow these weaklings to see conquest, to allow them to devour mortals. How horrible that only one was returned to our Father."
Ulfric did not reply; he had a feeling the Dragon was in a poor mood since the Dragonborn was walking ever so straighter since she devoured the called Dragon's Soul, barely injured at that. A far cry from the mortal wounds Soskendov had flown off hoping she had obtained.
"Or, rather, to be devoured by the Dovahkiin," Soskendov added. "I have wondered; how many has she stolen? Does she fight for control of her own Soul?"
"Surely you can smell the rage within her," Odahviing called back, his voice clear over the winds. "If you had tasted her Thu'um, you'd know it is all her own. She struggles against nothing, not even the sliver of Alduin she claims."
"Yet I have not heard a whisper of her Thu'um."
"Be glad, as one Word will rip the scales from your flesh, the flesh from your bones, your bones from your Soul. You will crave death. I wonder why the mortals fight against their end so desperately, if what they know is nothing but suffering."
Ulfric and Nariilu,
I hope you return in time to read this, and that everyone has returned safely with you. We've gone ahead to Dragon's Bridge and Bruca's Leap. If you haven't returned by dawn tomorrow we plan on traveling to Hag's Rock, Lost Valley, and the remainder of your scheduled camps to look for you.
-Uthgerd
Nariilu folded the letter and passed it to Stormcloak. "Thank you, Illia. Did she say anything else?"
Illia shrugged, glancing over the Dragonguard for any obvious injuries or stiffness as they doffed their armor, arms folded as she settled her eyes on Stormcloak. "She said she wasn't surprised."
Stormcloak looked up for a brief second before returning to stare at the letter much longer than it took to read. Nariilu nodded, forcing herself to stare at Illia. "It's not like we didn't expect some difficulty with the Forsworn. We'll do the same for their group if they aren't back by dawn, once we've had the chance to rest up."
Illia hesitated, finally replying, "Of course." She strode towards the armory, calling back about mince pies left over from yesterday.
"I'm starved," Nariilu said, trusting that Stormcloak would follow her inside the Temple, hearing his heavy boots behind her. She grabbed a mince pie and a skein of water, continuing down to the library, hoping the Dragonguard would retire rather than search for some obscure piece of history. She silently asked Stormcloak to follow her with a glance, listening to the sound of his steps and the clink of two bottles of mead, ale, some sort of drink in his hands.
She settled down at the long table, pushing aside a tome Esbern had left behind and swallowing one, two bites without chewing, savoring the heavy flavor of elk and deer heavy and thick in her throat. Nariilu gestured for Stormcloak to shut the door and he did, uncorking a bottle and taking a long drink, downing an easy half before turning back to her. "No food?"
"Not hungry," he replied, setting his helmet on the table. His hair was a matted mess of braids, ash, gravel, sweat. He certainly looked hungry, and the speed that he downed the rest of the ale spoke to his thirst, at the very least.
She couldn't say much, she realized, as a quarter of the pie had already disappeared. "Why did you come?"
"We wanted to make sure everything was alright," Stormcloak said, fiddling with the cork on the second bottle in a bygone conclusion. "We figured something had gone wrong, or you'd gone ahead to the rest of your camps." The cork released with a pop.
"Let me rephrase. Why did only you come?"
He hesitated. "We had to stay on schedule. I was the only one to spare, and Soskendov would make the most impact if something had gone wrong—"
"Then he was the most important to keeping your group on schedule," Nariilu countered. "You understand what you've compromised? There was a reason why you and I split. Odahviing and Soskendov keep charge of the Dragons. Nine, we shouldn't even be resting now." Forget dawn, if Uthgerd's group wasn't back by dusk, Nariilu decided she'd go after them. The lower Dragons were loosely in hierarchy, if Odahviing was to be believed, and prone to infighting. Hopefully, the promise of keeping their bellies filled and bloodlust sated would keep them in line. "So, why did you follow us?"
Stormcloak raised the bottle to his lips. "I was worried."
She barely heard him, his words were so quiet. "What?"
He swallowed thickly. "Don't make me say it again." Stormcloak stared at the ground, scowling. "My life depends on yours. I was worried you were…I had to make sure…Do you understand the position you've put me in?"
Of course she understood; it was on purpose. He had to be fully dependent on her. Everyone had to be fully dependent on her. It was the result of careful planning, political and tactical maneuvering over the last few months of the war. And it had worked flawlessly. He saw her as a god to the point where he abandoned his own soldiers and followed her. Nariilu did not respond.
"The Dragons call me your slave."
"You're beyond my equal," Nariilu argued, standing up fast enough that she hissed in pain, popping her back. "The Dragons are my slaves. They don't understand anything that isn't based in hierarchy! You shouldn't listen to them, first of all. Second of all—"
"Legally, I am a slave!" Stormcloak protested. "In accordance with the Old Laws, I belonged to you once you captured me in Windhelm. Not that it matters to you. You hold my honor before me like a piece of meat, and I am your dog, and you don't even care. I cannot leave your side or the Empire will skewer me like a skeever, the Thalmor will arrest me for heresy, and you know this. All I have is the promise that you will make me High King, and yourself Empress. Do you understand that? Do you understand how—Gods! Of course you know! I'm the only fool desperate enough to go along with your scheme!"
"I—"
"Shut up!" Stormcloak yelled, slamming down the ale hard enough that it spilled over the table, running towards the tomes. "You always have to have the last word, don't you? You and your arrogant ass. Thinking you can win my trust by killing the Forsworn. You Imperial Elven bitch, I'll never trust you. I'm under your protection by your own design, and you can't win without my help by your own stupid admission. My life depends on yours and I hate you for it."
His face was bright red, breathing hard, knuckles gripping the edge of the table so hard Nariilu thought he'd crumble the stone, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.
Shit.
What in Oblivion should she say? She thought she was just on the verge of getting him to trust her, but was it all just an act? Was he drunk? No, he'd only had the one bottle. What about that time in Breezehome when he was drunk, and he'd sworn he didn't hate her? Had she really been so stupid as to think she could get her enemy to not hate her? He…he tolerated her, right? How could she save this? What did she say? Her mind swam with possibilities, from staying silent to begging forgiveness and crying to defending herself to promising some other great victory to…to…Nine, was she really out of ideas?
You were worried about me? She finally said, whispered, only to realize she hadn't said anything at all. Because it was just another manipulative attempt, a distraction from his rage that would go over poorly. The room was still full of a stagnant, heavy silence. Nariilu swallowed heavily, forcing down the rising contents of her stomach. Perhaps she had been foolish to think she'd won him over, that he saw what she needed him to see.
"We take Madenach's head tomorrow," Nariilu muttered, sinking down and resting her head in her hands, still meeting Stormcloak's burning eyes with her own, wondering which one of them would let tears fall first.
"And then off to parade around Markarth, and then Solitude, so I can teach you how to play politics. I'm surprised you let me fight considering how important you claim my life is." Stormcloak turned to leave.
"Where has this been the last month?" Nariilu spluttered as he reached the door.
"See? Always with the last word."
She flinched as Stormcloak slammed the door behind him.
STILL planning on finishing this one before i rewrite everything but MAN is that a struggle for multiple reasons. didnt mean to take five months between updates but whoops turns out getting a phd takes time out of your life? gonna have another chapter out by pub anniversary tho mark my words (bc the chapters basically done bc i went a little crazy these last few days bc i had a cold and turns out the mucinex w cough meds (aka hallucinogen/dissociative) is cheaper than without? wild) also bc of the way this one ends (lol! angy ulfic angy!) ill prob update within the week assuming i finish most of the chapter after the next. i also dont remember what my yearly plot milestone was so who knows if i actually am gonna hit it but because i REALLY want to rework a ton of things im kind of trying to really zoom through a lot (does not mean im gonna rush/skip through things, just that I'm tryna get everything done and dusted). anyways have fun w this one!