Hello everyone! I hope you're all doing well! :) We are back with another chapter. This one is structured a little differently than others. We have three different perspectives, split into two different parts for each perspective. I hope you enjoy! 3
"How could you have been so stupid? Your dalliances have cost us everything I have worked so hard for in the last decade." Raffi Green-Kettle yells as he paces the floor of the his once great manor, the only thing remaining of his family's once great legacy.
"Me?" Ingrid scoffs. "All you have done is push me towards a marriage I do not want with a man whom I find abhorrent. What about you? What have you ever done for me?"
"It's always about you, isn't it?" He stops in front of her. "Just because you inherited your mother's good looks—"
"And you resent me for it."
"I have always put the interests of our house first, unlike you. And I have done the best I can to repair what damage you have done, but the Dragonborn is proving to be a problem. We should be focusing on that."
Ingrid crosses her arms over her chest as she stares her father down. Ever since she was a little girl, he has always been like this, pushing her for the advancement of their family and by extension himself. While she knows that this is simply the way of things, and deep down on the inside she does appreciate that he kept their little family afloat for this long, she has had just about enough.
On one hand she is nearly 40 winters, and she should be more than allowed to make her own decisions. However, on the other, her father is right. The Dragonborn is proving to be a problem. Who knew that Ulfric would become besotted with her?
She sighs. Although she does not have any interest in the man, if she cannot have him, then why should Dahlia be able to sit on the throne?
"Yes, fine. I agree." Ingrid huffs. "What is our next move?"
"Good." He rubs his hands together to warm them. The room they are currently occupying is only one of two whose hearths are lit. Unfortunately, with all of the gold he gave to the council members, they cannot afford to light more of them. "You will need to spend some time in town. The more that people see you, the more they will be reminded of your noble station. With all of the rumors about with that archaic marriage law flying around, they need to be reminded that while the Dragonborn is not a suitable candidate, there is someone else who is."
She frowns in confusion. "What exactly should I be doing while I am there?"
"Gaining favor of those you come across, greasing some palms. Whatever it takes to make sure our house is remembered. Figure it out!" He takes a step forward so that he towers over her. "You will do anything and everything necessary to make sure you sit upon the throne. I will throw you out into the street and disown you if you should choose to defy me again."
How typical of him. A threat. As if she hasn't heard that one before. "You wouldn't dare." Her response comes out through clenched teeth.
"I would, indeed dear daughter, because this time the stakes are much too high for either of us to lose. We cannot afford it, and if this doesn't work, more drastic measures will have to be taken."
"Drastic measures?" She questions.
Lord Green-Kettle shakes his head at her foolishness. As if he could trust her with the finer points and details of his backup plan. Knowing her, she will ruin it all. However, he does relinquish one small piece of information. "Some—friends—will have to be contacted, but don't you worry about that. You focus on the task I have assigned to you."
Recognizing that she is dismissed, Ingrid bows and turns to leave the room, but before she does, her father grabs her almost painfully by the wrist.
"Do not fail me."
As Galmar descends the solitary stairs to the Bloodworks, his head is anything but that: empty. Thoughts of Rikke and what he will say to her have been echoing around in his brain for the last few weeks, yet the exact words he will speak to her have eluded him thus far. He has pictured this encounter several times, imagined and calculated the outcomes of each and every one of them; however, no matter how many times he tries to devise a strategy which will get him through the confrontation unscathed, his conclusion remains the same: unknown.
Unfortunately for him, conversation is not a battlefield that he can manipulate with ease, and speaking never was one of his strong suits. He is unlike Ulfric in that aspect. While his friend draws from nearly-endless fountains of words and charm, Galmar only knows one way: curt and blunt, like the end of his warhammer. And now of all times, he has decided to come forth to speak his mind plainly to convey all the things he hasn't been able to say to this woman in the last 15 years.
Quite frankly, he'd rather fall on Rikke's sword.
Galmar continues on his long way down to the cell where they are currently keeping the Imperial Legate, saluting the soldiers and guards he finds on his way. They all bow respectfully as he passes, acknowledging his presence; however, their eyes follow him with questions in their gazes. What is he doing here now? None of them were informed that he'd be making an appearance.
"Sir, is there something we can help you with?" One of them, a boy no more than 18 winters from the looks of him, approaches the General. "Jarl Ulfric said that the prisoner was to receive no visitors."
Stone-Fist straightens his back as he sizes the boy up. He can barely even grow a beard, and yet he thinks that Galmar will be intimidated by his presence? He'll show him a thing or two about that.
"Do I look like a visitor to you?"
The boy hesitates before giving an uncertain answer. "Uh…no, sir."
"Am I any ordinary person?"
"No, sir."
"And do you know who I am?" Galmar asks, moving into the boy's personal space and forcing him to take a step back.
He swallows. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Then you should know to get out of my way." The General easily pushes the boy aside and steps into the holding room.
On the other side of the doorway, he finds the space is dark and dank.
Even with the light from the scarce torches on the walls throwing light into the room, there is something about the walls which suck the light in. It's as if the old stones themselves were guarding it and holding it close to warm their bones. Galmar has a feeling that no matter how many of them are lit, the feeling would always stay the same.
Despite waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he doesn't fully regain his vision. Instead, he walks to the nearest wall sconce, takes the torch from its place, and then walks the rows of cells. As he makes his way through the space, he checks each one carefully for Rikke's presence, and each time he does not spot her, he lets out a little sigh of relief.
Who would have thought that the General's greatest fear would be a woman in a cage?
For the most part, the Bloodworks sit unused, save for the odd thief or occasional troublemaker, normally his brother, who causes enough of a disturbance to be a nuisance to himself or Ulfric. Most of the disputes of the Hold are handled in court or between the citizens themselves in quiet. Whether that is a good thing of a bad thing, Galmar doesn't know. Perhaps, they should be getting more use out of here, then maybe it wouldn't feel so foreboding.
When he turns the corner into the final row, his heart leaps into his throat, and he drops his torch. Immediately, Galmar reaches down to the damp floor to retrieve the object, but when he stands, he almost wishes he had never come here.
"Hello, Galmar. I wondered if you'd be down to see me."
Rikke.
He knew she'd be here. He came here with the explicit purpose of speaking to her, but now that he is finally facing her, all of the words he had so carefully chosen to help him have mysteriously left. For once, he's on his own.
Clearing his throat, Galmar steps closer to her cell as he feigns confidence. Meeting her in Solitude in the heat of battle was one thing. This is another entirely.
"Rikke," he stops when he reaches the other side of the metal bars separating them.
With the torch's light closer to her, he can now see her properly. Sure, the usual tell-tale signs of age line her face just as they do his, but it is more than that. Gaunt angles and dark circles grace her once soft features, and her expression there is nothing like the fire which normally lights her eyes. Now, dull and glassy, any fight that was there vanished days or even weeks ago; she looks utterly defeated and even a touch malnourished. It worries him.
Galmar frowns. It doesn't make any sense to him. He knows for a fact that the guards bring her three meals a day, and while he knows that he would be rather unhappy in a cage in the depths of the Blue Palace, at least he wouldn't ever lose his spark.
"Haven't you eaten anything?"
"Why would you care?"
"Come now, we were once…" His voice trails off.
She scoffs. "Even after all these years, you still can't come out and say it. You haven't changed a bit. It shouldn't have surprised me that it took you this long to drag your ass down here."
"I had things to do to try to help keep this country running—"
"Oh, you mean fix the mess you and Ulfric have made?"
"This is what is best for Skyrim, damnit, whether you believe it or not. Or will you tell me that the Empire respected your Nord background and beliefs? Where is your Amulet of Talos, Rikke?" Galmar accuses.
She doesn't answer his question. She can't. He's got here there, and she knows it.
"You know that this is what the Thalmor want, don't you? By dividing us, they separate the strongest threat to make a second go at the Great War."
"Please don't tell me you believe the lies that they've fed you. You out of anyone should know better than that."
"Where was your outrage years ago then, and why does it only surface now when Ulfric has killed a king? Regicide. He should be behind these bars, not me!"
"Watch your tongue!" Nostrils flaring in rage, Galmar steps forward to grip the bars of her cell as if he could reach in and shake some sense into her.
"Why are you even here, Galmar?" Rikke yells as she echoes his move towards the bars, hands gripping directly under the position of his own. They are so close that she can almost touch him, yet she feels that they are so far away.
Despite this, there is a tiny flame of hope as her fingers barely graze his own when she turns away from him, effectively dismissing him from her presence.
In all of the scenarios he ran through his head, none of them could have anticipated that this is how things would turn out. Him with his tail between his legs, going back up to the Great Hall with nothing but a brush of the hand to show for it.
"I was serious about the marriage proposal." Ulfric says as he rises from his spot next to her on the chaise lounge they're sharing in the library.
Dahlia looks up from her book. They had been curled up next to each other and reading from their respective books for hours. This is the first time either of them has spoken to the other, and this is what he chooses to say?
"I had figured as much or you wouldn't have asked me." Dahlia quips as she goes back to the page she was reading. It was just starting to get good.
"No, I mean getting married now."
She sighs as she reluctantly puts her book aside.
"I thought we had talked about this already, Ulfric. As much as I would love to just run away with you to Riften right this moment, we cannot."
He leans against one of the many bookcases. She's being intentionally difficult. "You mistake me, my heart. What I mean to say is why don't we start preparations now. We can pick a date and start moving things."
With all of the events which have happened recently, their wedding has not been prioritized as it should be. While Dahlia is most certainly looking forward to the day she and Ulfric will be wed, it doesn't quite feel real just yet, and perhaps, this is why. No preparations have been made, and neither one of them has really talked about it yet beyond deciding that they do want to marry each other.
"How soon would you like to be married, Dahlia?" Ulfric asks her quietly as he takes her hand. She didn't even notice when he moved back to his seat.
The question shouldn't take her by surprise. It is perfectly normal and acceptable—even to be expected. Yet, it leaves her without words. She sits in silence, the hand which isn't holding his fiddling with the spine of her book as she turns the question over in her mind.
How soon would you like to be married, Dahlia?
The event has been a frequent visitor to her daydreams. The image so clear that she can almost believe she is there now.
She is draped in blue and white, hair half braided and half down as she makes her way to the Temple of Talos on some lazy Fredas afternoon. Anticipation and excitement bubble up through her like a spring, a fountain of new hope of what their future will bring—what new life they will make together.
With her sword in hand, the doors to the temple open, revealing hundreds of guests from noblemen, to peasants, and everything in-between. All of their eyes are trained on her as they scrutinize her down to the very last detail, but she pays them no mind. They aren't what is important. Instead, all she has eyes for is Ulfric, who is standing at the front of the temple and holding onto the golden cord which will be used to bind him to her forever. He is just as handsome as ever, wearing a dark blue dress coat trimmed with silver, his golden hair slicked back from his face.
The image is enough to provoke the sting of tears in her eyes because she knows she is ready to follow him anywhere. Even to Sovngarde. That much she has already proved and more.
"Dahlia?" Ulfric's voice snaps her from her current daydream.
She had forgotten that he was there and waiting for an answer.
He gazes at her in concern, a stormy look forming on his features as his lips pull downwards into a frown. It is this look which tells her that she has unintentionally hurt him, but it is too late. Ulfric has already misinterpreted her lack of answer as hesitancy and reluctance.
"Perhaps, another time is better to talk about this if you are so distracted." Ulfric drops her hand abruptly and stands, leaving Dahlia to stare after him in confusion.
As he leaves the room, several questions buzz noisily through his thoughts, each one louder than the last: Does she not want to marry him after all? Has she perhaps found someone else?
Oh, how she loathes mingling with those from the lower classes.
Ingrid has spent the last few hours roaming the streets of Windhelm as she tries to enact the plan her father came up with: attempt to endear herself to the citizens of the Hold. However, so far, none have been curious enough to approach her to take anything from the baskets of goods she carries. Before leaving her house, she went through her sparce closets to look for old clothes and shoes to make donations.
"Ungrateful, unwashed—" She mutters under her breath as she puts down her heavy baskets.
Surely, someone needs something from them.
"Good morning, mum."
Ingrid jumps, startled by the small girl who approached her. As she looks her up and down, she sees that she wears nothing but tattered rags. Perfect. She's exactly the type of person her ploy is aimed at.
"Good morning, poor dear. Is there something that you need? I have come bearing clothes for donation to the square today. Everything is free and courtesy of the great house Green-Kettle."
The little girl studies her for a moment before picking up a shoe to inspect it only to later promptly drop it back into the basket. It has a hole in the toe. The little girl wrinkles her nose. "Uh, thank you kind stranger. We had all wondered what you were doing here. Unfortunately, these are not quite my size."
Ingrid blinks as she tries to keep the expression on her face neutral.
Clearly, this approach is not working. She forgets the baskets, leaving them to sit in the square for someone else to take care of as she rethinks her strategy. Perhaps, she will be able to gather some information which will help their cause instead.
As Ingrid passes the bakery, she decides that this is exactly the right place where she might be able to hear some juicy gossip. Most of the common folk do their morning shopping here. When she opens the door, she knows her assessment is right as the sounds of gossip float into her ears.
"…and I heard that Lady Dahlia helped that poor girl on the streets who was selling flowers. Found her a new family and everything."
Not quite what she wanted to hear, so she continues to walk through the store.
Ingrid sniffs as she takes a turn around the floor, the scent of freshly-baked bread filling her nostrils. If she were of more common stock, she might even patronize this place. It smells heavenly.
"Yes, and she helped clean up the streets in the Grey Quarter as well. Things are much nicer there. My husband and I were at the New Gnisis just last week. The ash yam stew is absolutely delightful and reasonably priced…"
Her teeth grind together.
"Did you hear about that law the council recently dug up? They say Lady Dahlia isn't of noble blood, and they're trying to stop Jarl Ulfric from marrying her."
Now this is interesting. Ingrid stops in front of a shelf of brown bread, pretending to inspect the loaves as she listens.
"I have, and it's absolutely dreadful! As far as I am concerned, the Lady Dahlia is more than noble since she's Dragonborn. The Septims themselves were Emperors once and Dragonborn. And Akatosh chose her, after all, out of all of us. Perhaps, she's even related to the god himself. I say let them marry."
Her mouth puckers as if she had eaten a sour jazbay grape.
As if any of these birds knew anything about the gods. If she wants to find out anything good, she will have to go to the shop owner herself.
"Good morning, what can I get for you this morning?" Ilse asks as her new customer approaches the counter.
"Good morning." Ingrid answers, a sly smile making its way onto her face. "I was wondering what you might tell me if you have heard anything interesting about the Jarl's fiancee."
The baker frowns as she looks the woman over. Nice dress and shoes as well as a fur cloak. This is not a normal patron for her store. Her eyes narrow on her ever-so-slightly. Something is off about her. "She always stops in to buy danishes. Would you like to try one? They're her favorite."
Ingrid's hands clench into fists. She doesn't know what game this woman is playing, but she will not have it. The Green-Kettles always get what they want, and she knows that money will make anyone talk.
Reaching into her pockets, she finds 50 septims and slides them over the counter. "Perhaps this will help you remember something useful. You know, the type of thing that might help me tarnish her apparently flawless reputation."
Ilse's fragile smile turns into an outright frown at the audacity of this woman. She does not know why she is looking for information about Dahlia, only that nothing good could possibly come out of it.
"I want you to listen very carefully." The baker lowers her voice as she leans over the counter.
Finally, she will get something useful out of this whole wretched morning, and it will not be a complete waste of her time and energy.
"Go on. I'm listening." She leans forwards, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"Good. There is no amount of money that you could give me which would make me want to say another word to you. Now, get out of my shop before I call the guards."
"I don't—"
"I said get out of my shop, and take your dirty money with you. I don't need it." Ilse pushes the money forcefully back into her hands.
Quickly, Ingrid leaves the bakery as red splotches of shame angrily bust forth over the fair skin of her face. She has never been so insulted in her life. What is it that this Dahlia does which kindles such loyalty in people? It is as if she were St. Alessia herself.
Despite the fact that she has failed thus far, she will continue to try to find anything of use. She cannot go back to her father empty-handed. The only thing she knows is that she will get the upper hand. Even if it kills her.
Was Galmar always born cursed like this, or is this repayment for something wrong he has done in the past? Stone-Fist sighs as sits on a chair in his private chambers, contemplating his life choices or lack thereof. Was it always going to end up this way?
He thinks perhaps that is the case.
In the events leading up to both him and Ulfric deserting the Imperial army, there was no other alternative. How could there have been with so much corruption and so little care? The dissonance it caused within them was a gaping maw where no bridge could be built and the void it left behind an open wound which was left to fester bitterly. He still feels the phantom pains of the betrayal to this day.
If only Rikke could understand that: It is not that he truly wished to leave the Empire he once loved, but rather, that there was no other choice. She has no idea what trials and tribulations both of them had faced.
Galmar rubs a hand down his face and gets up to stretch his restless legs.
What could he do to make her see that they are not the bad guys? They only want what is best for Skyrim, and they have a common goal.
For years, he has only been unsuccessful in that endeavor. And what is worse is that before leaving Rikke to her cell, he wasn't even able to tell her of his still lingering feelings for her. As always, he found himself completely tongue-tied.
Galmar reaches down into his pocket and pulls out an old, worn piece of metal. The grooves on its surface are familiar to him, as he had been carrying it around with him ever since the end of the Great War. At one point in time, it had a cord, but its leather frayed and snapped decades ago from his constant fidgeting with it.
Perhaps, it is finally time to let it go.
He walks over to the hearth in his room and casts the object into the flames without another thought. Its hot tongues engulf the small trinket, licking hungrily at the stubborn metal as he stands in watch. Maybe it is minutes or hours that he is there, he does not know for certain, but he does not move until the last of the flames go out.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he bends down into the ashes to check what became of his small offering to find not even a blemish on its face. Instead, Mara's symbol stares up at him as if she still taunts him after all these years. He picks up the trinket, burning his hands in the process, and hurls it at one of the stone walls where it connects with a tinny clang.
He should have known better; he was meant to be alone.
This is his place, in the Palace of the Kings beside Ulfric, and he should not have ever hoped nor aspired for anything more.
After all, who could love a grizzled old bear? He knows he could not.
Dahlia runs after Ulfric.
After all, what other choice does she have?
By the time she catches up with him, he is halfway through the Great Hall, just about to walk up the dais to his throne. Probably to sulk, she imagines.
"Ulfric." She tries to reach out for his hand, but he pulls it away from her.
He doesn't even turn to look at her. Stubborn as always.
"If you want to speak with me, you'll have to wait."
Dahlia draws in a breath, praying to Mara for patience before shaking her head. "No, I don't think I will."
The servants bustling about the Great Hall either do not notice or, more than likely, have been told by Jorleif to ignore these types of situations. Dahlia doesn't want to make a scene here, but it's for his own benefit.
"Leave me be, Dahlia."
Ulfric had forgotten how how stubborn she can be as well, and while he knows that he isn't being fair to her, he doesn't have the emotional capacity to deal with this at the moment. Ever since Ingrid resurfaced, he has been reminded of his own fragility and the hurt she had caused. Old wounds might close, but the scars are there to remind him.
"I cannot." Dahlia stands in front of him, blocking his way to the throne. "I will be your wife, and there is no getting rid of me. You can push all you'd like, but I'll not be moved." She leans closer to him so that only he can hear. "Do not listen to those angry demons in your head."
Of course, she is right as usual, and only she would have the patience to deal with him in this mood. He sighs as he finally looks at her. "Does this mean you have an answer for me?"
"Yes, it does. I have always had an answer for you because it's only ever been you. I'm not—" She pauses. "I'm not her. I will have you until the end of my days or until you grow tired of me and Shout me from this Palace. And even then, I don't think you'll be able to be rid of me because I'm the Dragonborn, and I will Shout back at you twice as hard."
The corners of his mouth upturn in a small smile, and that encourages her to continue.
"In other words, Ulfric, I'd marry you today, tomorrow, or even right now. It matters not to me the time nor the place, just that it occurs because I cannot—do not want to imagine my life without you. So, make the arrangements for as soon as possible. I will marry you the second they are finished and not wait one moment more."
At that, a full smile graces his face, erasing any traces his previous mood.
"Excellent." Ulfric nods to towards the steward. "I'll tell Jorleif right away. I imagine that preparations can be ready and guests can be informed to arrive in about a month."
A series of butterflies erupt in her stomach at finally having a date. One month. 4 weeks. Around 30 days. That is all that is separating them now.
Dahlia returns his smile with a shy one of her own. "I guess I should see a dressmaker then."
"Have anything you need brought here. I will have it taken care of."
She shakes her head. "I don't need you to do that. I have quite a bit of gold stored away from my adventuring days. You'd be surprised."
"I know, but I want to do this." He leans down to cup one of Dahlia's cheeks, planting a gentle kiss to the other. "Let me do this for you because I love you and because I will not allow my wife to want for anything."
When he pulls away, she can still feel the warmth of his lips on her skin. This is one of the reasons why it's impossible to argue with him. He knows exactly what to say to her to disarm all of her logical arguments, so she concedes to his wishes. For now.
As she turns to leave him to his work, Ulfric grabs her hand, lacing his fingers through hers to stop her.
"I am sorry, Dahlia. I did not mean to be unfair to you." He whispers so that only she can hear. "I know that you are not Ingrid."
She nods to him, acknowledging and appreciating that he has realized he was wrong. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. Now, stop procrastinating."
Ulfric lets go of her hand. Of course, she knows exactly what he is doing. "Will I see you later for lunch?"
"I wouldn't miss a moment with you for all the Septims on Nirn."