Hello readers of FFN, if you're been following this story here and noticed that I just uploaded like 6 or 7 chapters...those have been up on AO3 for a while and I have just been getting around to crossposting here now...months later. At this point, I would recommend if you are really invested in the story, to check there for updates because I do not know how much longer I will continue updating on this platform. I also update VERY regularly there. I am not quitting this story but rather will (probably) only be updating on AO3 for now on. (Idk maybe I will come back sometimes and mass post updates like this, but I am not committing to that.) That being said, I appreciate so much all of you who have been reading and giving Dahlia a chance and a place in your hearts. 3 It's just that posting here is a little finicky and AO3 is my main account. I am Queen_of_the_Winter there, and you can find the stories under the same names.
"What are you going to do about space for the guests, mi'lord? I'm sure you and the Lady Stormcloak are going to want to invite a fair few. Logistically, there are only so many people who will fit in the Palace if you want to do it here." Jorleif addresses the future King and Queen as he moves a few spare pieces of furniture in the Great Hall to illustrate his point.
"And if we remove the table and replace the entire thing with chairs?" Dahlia asks as she points down at the table in question-the very one she is currently seated at in this particular moment.
Ulfric couldn't be less bothered by the current goings-on in his Palace. His mind is elsewhere as he calculates what he should do about the singular throne and focal point of the room. Ideally, Dahlia would be seated next to him, as she should be. They are equals in this; however, in order to make that possible, he would have to tear up Ysgramor's throne which is an important part of their history and heritage.
"Jorleif," Ulfric calls out to his steward. "What can be done about the throne? Have you come up with any options?"
The steward stops in his tracks, placing the chair he was carrying down abruptly. "Excuse me?"
The Jarl blinks back at him, frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Is it plausible with the amount of time we have between now and the next month to reconstruct Ysgramor's throne?"
Dahlia takes one of his hands in hers and squeezes. Ulfric has been rather testy lately since they have found out that she is with child. Everything has to be perfect and go exactly according to his vision-whether others can read his mind or not. It has been grating on her last nerve.
"Are you sure you wish to do that, sir? This throne has been here for centuries, millennia even. Any work done to it would risk damage-"
"Do you think I have not thought of this and that I would be so careless to have just anyone touch the sacred stones of our founding fathers?" He waves a hand in impatience. "What else is my pregnant wife going to do? Stand?"
Her hand squeezes his harder, but it slips from her fingers as he moves from his seat. "I'll be damned if I allow that, and as we will be moving the capital to Windhelm-as should have been done ages ago-your High Queen will need a place!"
"Yes, sir. I assure you that I understand the gravity of the situation." Jorleif folds his hands carefully over his chest as he takes a few deep breaths. In and out. In and out. This is no different from any other time his Jarl loses his temper despite the fact that he has been more high-strung than usual as of late.
"Do you?" Ulfric challenges, his boots clicking rapidly as he taps them against the newly-polished stone of the Palace floor.
Dahlia sighs audibly, feeling another headache pounding just behind her temples. He has done this at least thrice in the past week, and she is growing very tired of it. On one hand, she understands exactly why he is this way. The unknown is a scary, unpredictable thing over which he has no control in any sense of the word. The future runs away from him faster than he can process or attempt to react to. All he can do is try to keep pace as he is pulled along by the threads father Akatosh weaves for him. Consequently, he grabs at anything he can in an attempts to regain some sense of command over his own life-even if it is doing both of them more harm than good.
"Ulfric..." she starts as she begins to stand from her own seat, placing a hand down on the table to stabilize herself.
He does not hear her, and she closes her eyes as she takes in a breath and tries again, "Ulfric!"
Still no response. But of course, how is he going to answer her over the sound of his own voice?
"Kodaavijun," She Shouts this time, the barest whisper of thu'um pushing at him insistently.
This time he turns to her.
"Let it go."
His forehead crinkles in concern for her as he goes to her. "Is there something that you need?"
"I need you to stop, love."
Confusion blankets his face as eyebrows furrow in thought. Stop what? What was he doing? They've only been making plans for the coronation for the last hour of so, and he has been speaking with Jorleif in an attempts to make himself understood. Wracking his brain there is nothing that he can think of which he has done which has involved her making any difficult decisions or doing any heavy lifting. Actually, he has doubled his efforts in order to ensure she is not stressed at all whatsoever.
As Dahlia watches her husband's face, she can see that understanding will not come to him. While he is one of the smartest men she knows, he is also sometimes one of the most dull when he comes to seeing what is right in front of his face. "You cannot do everything, and you cannot bend others to your will. Do not let out your frustrations at the world with others. Akatosh works in mysterious ways, and Mara has blessed us. Let it go, and do what you can, or you'll go crazy in the pursuit of control over what cannot be changed. I would know." She smiles at him faintly and laughs. "I rebelled enough in those first few months, and even after, against the fates. It's no use, my Bear King."
Despite the fact that she is gentle with him, the meaning of her words hits him with the force of one of Arngeir's lessons when he was a young boy. For once, when he looks at her, he seems so young and so lost. Somber eyes plead with her to understand and not to be cross with him-he's only doing his best for her, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.
A warm hand reaches out to him and draws him closer to her, enveloping Ulfric in a soft embrace. "It's okay. I know." Dahlia strokes a hand down his back. "I don't know what I am doing either, but we will figure it out together, you and I. We always do."
Not for the first time he realizes that his wife is wise beyond her years, and he wonders if that is a trait which is uniquely her own or if it is a side effect of her time as the Dragonborn. Perhaps, it is both.
Ulfric opens his mouth to say something to her; however, she beats him to it. "Why don't we go do something fun? You're too stressed for your own good. We could take a turn about the city-"
"Lyssa specifically stated on her last visit that you are to stay inside, especially with the way the weather has been as of late. Thick ice has been covering most of the paving stones. What if you were to slip and fall?"
She should have expected that, but she sighs and tries again. "What if we spend the afternoon in the library? I'll even read to you."
"As tempting as it is to have you all to myself for the afternoon, the coronation will not plan itself, and I am needed to resolve yet another dispute in the Snow Quarter. Then, after that I am to..."
The words all blur together, congealing into a mass of interminable tasks as one word after another slides from his tongue in quick succession. Planning, paperwork, and politics-but never peace. She knows as well as the next that once he disappears into his study, that she will not see him again until the next morning if that.
Disappointment colors her features, watering the hue of her eyes and diluting it into a dull sheen of the softest green. And here she had thought she would be able to tempt him, but that is apparently not the case. Not this time nor the previous one nor the occasion before that. If she didn't know any better, she would take it so personally-but it isn't her, she repeats to herself like a grounding mantra. There is nothing wrong with her.
She swallows the lump forming in her throat while maintaining the carefully-cultivated smile currently plastered to her face. Briefly, she wonders if he can see the muscles in her cheeks threatening to tire and give way to what she really feels.
In the end, it hurts her all the same despite the fact that she knows he doesn't mean it, and she shouldn't feel the sting of rejection that she does now.
It's not her. She repeats her mantra again. It's the planning, the paperwork, and the politics. Someone needs to do it, and if it isn't Ulfric, well then, who? Who would take up that mantle? And it would be selfish for her to monopolize his time.
You cannot fight against the control the currents of time have on your life; the only thing you can do is swim with them.
However, Dahlia cannot help but try one last time. Maybe it is that she is too stubborn for her own good, or maybe it is that she is a selfish fool who cannot help but be jealous of her husband's time. She appeals to him once more, quietly and allowing the empty echoes of the Great Hall to carry her hopes to him. "Please."
Just as he is about to disappear through the doorway into the War Room, he turns to her, and even from this distance, she can see the sagging of the deep bags under his eyes. Her stomach flips in instant regret. How dare she be such a petulant child! She knows and understand better than almost anyone in this Palace how hard Ulfric works and what he has had to sacrifice, and here she is pulling at the last threads of his already strained conscience.
What can he tell her, and what is the correct answer here? It would appear as if they are trapped. With either decision, someone is going to be hurt.
Ulfric rubs a hand across his tired eyes. How can he say no to her and especially when she look so small and fragile standing there with her arms braced as if she the only thing holding herself up.
"Okay," he finally relents. The word comes out more like a sigh than anything resembling true language, but the meaning is carried all the same. "But I will only be able to join you for a short while."
The ghost of a smile upturns the corners of Dahlia's mouth, yet not quite reaching her eyes. While she is grateful for the gesture, she is saddened about the circumstances surrounding their current state of being. "Anything is better than nothing."
They walk together, hand-in-hand, down the corridor which will lead them to the library. Each step further from the Great Hall reverberates through the stone, and each step closer to the end brings with it an ominous chill.
She shivers, and Ulfric draws her nearer to himself as if on instinct.
Never in all the years has he felt so much cold from the inside of his own home. It drenches him as if a late Winter shower-soaking him through to the bone and leaving his old war wounds aching under his skin.
Why does he suddenly have such a bad feeling? Is it the paperwork he has left behind in favor of spending time with her? He clings closer to his wife, relishing in the warmth of her skin. It's the only thing that can successfully pull him back into the present.
Despite what most would think, the library in the Palace of the Kings is quite large for what it is. And despite what Ulfric or Dahlia wish, neither of them gets there as frequently as they would like. Bookcases line the walls on the sides and through the middle with tome after tome with everything from politics and war strategy to The Yellow Book of Riddles and the Biographies of Barenziah.
As they both peruse the shelves, dust motes float and filter through the heavy, stagnant air of Dahlia's favorite room in the Palace-other than their bedroom, of course. The flickering of candlelight beckons her warmly and draws her in further, lulling her into a fragile sense of comfort. And while for some the smell of musty paper and old leather would be a deterrent from spending more than a few minutes here, for her, it is the smell of familiarity and comfort-the words and ink on old yellowed pages being some of the first friends she can remember making.
Eventually, both of them settle on a book-the first one which looked even moderately interesting, and if you asked either of them the title, neither would be able to tell you.
For the next hour, all that can be heard are the soft tones of Dahlia's voice filling out the otherwise empty space. It calms Ulfric, soothing the aching of his wounds and the clawing sense of anxiety which has reared its ugly head once again. It is the beast which follows him wherever he may go and his oldest constant companion, but Dahlia dispels it all-makes him forget the smothering of his own shadows.
Running a hand down the barest bump of her stomach, a smile rises like mist from the depths of his soul to the corners of his lips. To be able to know such contentment is the greatest gift the Divines could have given him. He does not deserve to be so blessed.
And something had to come crashing down at some point. Like a crack from the sky, three sets of foot steps come thundering down the halls and make their way to the library.
With no ceremony nor any pomp, Galmar enters the room first while a paled Jorleif and a guard follow closely behind him. "The Emperor is dead."
Ulfric blinks. Dust motes float past his vision. Dahlia's book drops to the ground with a thud.
"And that should matter to me, why exactly?"
His tired eyes flick up to his friend's with a hardened look, his hand still making passes over Dahlia's stomach. His meaning is clear. However, despite his cavalier attitude, a chill runs down his spine at hearing the news. He knows the implications of such an event even if he could not care less that old Titus has finally keeled over and passed on to Oblivion where he belongs. He'd spit on his grave if he could be bothered to move himself to Cyrodiil.
"Because he was murdered in his sleep."
That certainly changes some things. A tired sigh passes through Ulfric's lips as his stomach flips. His eyes find Dahlia's. "We'll be fine. There is absolutely nothing to-"
"The Emperor being dead is one thing, but his murder is another, and you know it." She looks to him sternly. "I do not need to be coddled and told that everything is alright. I know what this means as much as the next person." Her eyes find Galmar's. "Do we know who did this? Has there been time for an investigation?"
The general nods his head slightly. "The Dark Brotherhood."
An assassination and perfectly timed at that. With the Civil War finished, Cyrodiil must be been scrambling to tighten their hold on their other provinces-if they even were aware of the outcome at all. And now this? By the Gods, the Empire must be a mess.
Ulfric frowns, furrowing his brow as he asks, "Are the people aware of the situation as of yet?"
His housecarl shakes his head. "No, but it won't take long for them to find out. You now how gossip spreads like fire in this city."
That it does, and time is of the essence.
Quickly, the Jarl beckons his steward forward as he speaks to him in clipped tones. "Assemble the council immediately. The sooner we can get ahead of this and come up with a plan of action, the less the people will panic."
"Aye, sir. It will be done." Jorleif turns to leave, but Ulfric calls out to him, stopping him before he can do so.
A brief look of annoyance crosses the steward's features as he looks back to him, but the Jarl chooses not to comment on it. He has more important worries at the moment. "Push out the invitations for the coronation. Grab any literate servants in the Palace and Wuunferth if you have to. He might not like it, but he will do it on my orders."
"You don't even have a date set, and planning has barely begun-"
"Two weeks' time. It will be held right here in the Palace. There should be ample enough space. Invite the other Jarls, including the newly-appointed ones. Even if they cannot get here on such short notice, they will need to be made aware of the situation nonetheless." He rubs his temples and glances at Dahlia to see how she is taking all of this.
A placid if wary expression lines her face. She can try to hide from him, but he can see the artifice of her carefully-arranged calm. He wears the same expression often enough to know the tell-tale signs: slight creases crack the façade of her mask as she strains to hold her brows into place, and he catches a slight indentation in her cheeks. A bad habit of hers, she oftentimes bites the insides of them when she's nervous.
One of Ulfric's hands find hers and squeezes them tightly. "You'll make a perfectly fine High Queen, my heart. If you were cooler, more calloused, and didn't have a head on your shoulders, then I would worry. Unsympathetic and unintelligent, you are not." He smiles slightly at her and sees her drop the tension she holds on her mouth. Good.
He then turns back to Galmar. "Double the presence of guards in the city, and make sure the citizens know that we are here, and they are protected. As soon as word breaks out that the Emperor has been murdered, it will cause a stir."
The General nods his head, but as he turns to leave, Dahlia's voice reaches out to him. "And do not forget about the Snow Quarter nor the Docks."
"I would not dream of it, your Highness." The corners of his mouth twitch with amusement, and before she can respond, he too takes his leave from them.
Sodding prick.
"I don't see how any of this concerns us. We're all the way over here in Windhelm and since severing our ties with the Empire, well, we are no longer tethered to what happens there."
The heads of several council members nod along with Lord Corolius as he speaks; but Scouts-Many-Marshes' and Torsten's remain frozen in place. The Argonian looks towards the old sea captain, eyes casually drifting towards him, and then towards the future King and Queen.
"You really do not see it?" He asks, slitted eyes blinking slowly in disbelief. However, before he can continue, Ulfric speaks.
"While we are newly independent, we are not truly isolated. The aftereffects of one country spread to the next, and we must also ask ourselves: what is the purpose of this? Why strike now?" He toys with his wedding band, twisting it on his finger as a concerned frown slides its way slowly onto his face. It is not uncommon for the ordinary masses to be blind to the larger implications of geopolitical struggles, but to be this obtuse is something entirely its own. After all, are they not still feeling the consequences of the Red Year centuries later?
Blank stares and blinking eyes meet both himself and Dahlia as they seem to contemplate their oversight. It's funny how a bit of history-not so distant or otherwise-can lead to realization. One-by-one, some of the members concede to him, nodding their heads like reeds in the wind. The slightest change in the direction seems to sway their opinion as there is not much there to push.
It would appear that he has some work to do in his court or perhaps many members would benefit from opening a book instead of sitting idly by and feeding off of court intrigue.
"I suppose I could see how that would affect us in the long-term, but still, for now, we can only assume that the Empire will try to take care of itself-or consume itself like a great oroboros. This struggles is more internal than anything else." Lord Corolius smiles, bearing several polished-white teeth, as he gestures around the room lazily. The same aura of unconcerned ease which wafts from his movements follows from his thoughts: light and airy and not with much substance, limbs swishing in the wind.
It tests Ulfric's patience. Council members have been few and far between, the upper-crusts of society giving way to hollow earth. Traditionally, this is the way things have been done for centuries: titles and landholdings gained one political favor. However, as of recently Dahlia has been trying to push him to shake things up, even if it is to the distaste to the noblemen. He's since replaced two of the smaller lords of the council with those who might prove more sturdy yet still logically lend themselves to being accepted as members. Scouts is one such person-a leader of Argonian Assemblage and new blood for them to hear a different perspective. At least, that is what his wife has told him.
"Seeing the Empire crumble to dust isn't going to help anyone, you know." Dahlia speaks out as she shifts in her chair. Although she has been rather uncomfortable due to her condition, she insisted that Ulfric not leave her behind. She's much more use here than laying in bed and contemplating Akatosh's grand design. "What we sought is only the removal of the Imperial yolk of influence from Skyrim. If it should completely collapse, so does our first line of defense."
Ulfric nods his head in agreement as Lord Corolius rolls his eyes. Of course, he would agree with her. He'd probably bend over backwards and do anything his wife said whether it's good for them or not. Has he forgotten about the noble classes? Levus Corolius leans forward on one elbow, eyes searching the faces of the remaining council members. How many is it now that Ulfric has replaced? And he certainly has not forgetten the latest casualty: Torbjorn. As of late, he is not sure if he agrees much with the recent movements; however, he'll let them play out. For now.
"She's right." Ulfric speaks, and Levus fights the urge to rolls his eyes. "Why do you think it has taken the Thalmor this long to stage a larger invasion here? The terrain and distance does not lend itself to that. The Empire kept them at bay." He begrudgingly admits while crossing his arms. "And if you think that they are not coming for all of us, then you're damned fools."
Shocked murmurings roll up and down the table, swelling until the din becomes an unbearable tangle of alarm and confusion. There it is, revealed all at once and brought into the forefront, the dark secret that all of them had shoved into the back of their thoughts: out of sight, out of mind. What harm could really come to them with Alinor so far away? Skyrim is filled to the brim with proud Nordic warriors after all, and Ysgramor's blood runs through their veins for Talos' sake!
This is what Ulfric knew they had forgotten all along. This is what he had fought for, bled for, suffered for, and had nightmares of for the past 30 years of his life. This is what keeps him up in the middle of the night, sweating with hot panic and shallowed breathing.
And this is the true end game for all those ensnared in the tangled web the Thalmor weave. He will not dance to the pull of their strings any longer. Cutting himself loose is the only option-it is that or Sovngarde which awaits him. This is his last stand.
Ulfric's eyes are unnaturally clear, calmed of the tumultuous tossing of emotions which normally clouds them like seas in a storm. As he looks to his wife, he can only hope that the future will be brighter and hold more promise for her and their unborn child than it did for him.
He blinks, tearing his vision away from her forcefully. The pits of his stomach roil with turbulent emotion, not settling on any other than the fierce determination of that which is his birthright-he is the Bear of Eastmarch, and they would do well to remember it. He would tear a hole in the very fabric of the sky, clawing his way through the stars of Aetherius to bring the heavens down upon them if that meant keeping them safe.
Sometimes it is the darkest of paths that would bring you to the light.
"...might be able to still stand and fight against the Thalmor in any Second Great War." He catches the tail end of what Dahlia says to Lord Timberwood.
"A Second Great War? Do you think it will come to that, and are we ready?" The young head councilman asks, brows raised in surprise.
"Certainly not now, but it's on the horizon. The Empire will still need to fight, and we will need to do so together." The Dragonborn sighs as she takes one of Ulfric's hands in her own. "This is perhaps that is one of the few things the Empire was right about."
"We're in no shape for any of that, and those navy boats which you are building are nowhere near ready as of yet. Surely, you cannot expect us to launch ourselves into another war and so soon. We have barely recovered from the last one." Another councilman chimes in.
"Supplies are slowly recovering since resources have been flowing with the rebuilding of Helgen." Scouts-Many-Marshes observes. "I have counted twice as much stock of lumber coming in, and in the next months, if we invest in more labor to get more workers fair wages, there should be a good supply of boats in the next few months."
"That doesn't account for able-bodied warriors. We have lost so many of them, and we will still need to recruit the other half of Skyrim to join with us." Lord Corolius points out. Like Oblivion he is going to freely give up his own guards for the cause, Thalmor or not.
The Jarl's fist tightens, nails digging into the palm of his hand as he tries to remember to breathe. Sky above, voice within. He can taste the rumbling of his thu'um threatening to coat his words. "All in good time I assure you. Now might finally be the time to reach out and make some new alliances. Have any of you thoughts on this matter?"
A few of the members cautiously look towards each other, murmuring as they do so. While it is something which has been brought up before during the Civil War, none of them thought the time was right. It is better to negotiate from a position of power and stability; however, at the same time, what do they have to offer other than the promise to see another day? Most political alliances do not run on good will and hope of what will come.
"We have discussed it," Lord Timberwood begins as he fidgets a bit nervously, "and we thought that perhaps Hammerfell would be the best approach. The Bretons of High Rock didn't seem very receptive to our pleas, and despite the fact that more magic users would undoubtably be helpful against the Thalmor, they have ignored every correspondence we have tried to send recently. It might be better to try again after we have secured something from the Redguards."
"Wise." Ulfric nods his head. "But it's still not enough, and there is the question of what we will offer them in return. Have we made any headway on that? How much do we have in the coffers?"
The War Room goes silent as none dare to even so much as glance at Dahlia. While one viable choice might be on the council's mind, none would dare offer up what they are all thinking. "We will continue to search for options. For now we believe that a liaison should be sent with an invitation for an alliance. It is our hope that sending someone along with the letter will add a more personal touch."
Since they entered the room, Galmar has not said a single word. The old general has spent the entirety of the meeting leaned against the back wall, watching it all unfold with a critical eye. More than once throughout this whole thing he has fought the urge to throw scathing looks out at the flapping table of windbags. They certainly like to hear themselves talk, but do any of them spring into action? Not likely. Not unless septims are changing hands is the topic of discussion. Pitiful really.
"If you want to get things started sooner rather than later, I have a suggestion for you." Galmar finally pushes his back off the cool stone and takes a step forward.
"I'm listening." The words roll off of Ulfric's tongue smoothly despite his irritation with his housecarl. All the while the council has been in session he has done nothing but avoid his questions. Perhaps, Galmar is not a politician, but he's been around enough of them to be able to offer an opinion-and it would do more than this lot has all afternoon.
"We send Ralof."
Truth be told, Ulfric had already thought of the young soldier, but he wasn't entirely sure that he would be able to handle the delicate intricacies of international politics. Then again, he is an amiable and mostly level-headed man, which is more than he can say for many politicians, those currently at the table included. "I supposed he is as good a man as any for the job." Ulfric scratches his beard and then looks to Dahlia who nods. It would seem that she is in agreement with the idea as well. "Alright, send him in, and we can debrief him on what will need to be done."
"It shall be done, my Jarl."