Ulfric kept the Dragonborn occupied by answering her little inquiries into how each and every Companion was doing. Every time he thought she had finally dozed off and he let his words trail into silence, she wondered aloud about some little quirk of Jorrvaskr and egged him to continue. And then he finally heard her wheezing slow, deepen, saw her arms slack on the chair.

He waited one minute, two minutes in near quiet, waiting for her to pop up and ask about the state of the Companion's beer or something of similar irrelevance. When she didn't, Ulfric slowly stood up and made his way to the back door as silently as he could.

Lydia was outside, shooting arrows at a practice dummy with passable accuracy. Ulfric walked behind her. "Your arm is too tense."

"Nariilu's lost her damn mind." Lydia loosed an arrow; it missed the dummy completely and bounced off the stone walls of the house. She stopped her foot and cursed as the arrow dropped. "Stealing Akatosh's Soul, talking to Kynareth, she's gone too far this time."

Ulfric wanted to agree with her. He wanted to assure Lydia that, yes, the Dragonborn was going mad. How had they let her go on unchecked for this long? Surely, she was in need of intervention. Ulfric bit the inside of his cheek. But stealing the Soul of a dragon, even if that dragon was an avatar of a god, that was simply what the Elder Scrolls had prophesized of her. And talking to Kynareth? How was that any different from any priest receiving a visit in a dream from their chosen Divine? He wanted to push aside the almost flippant claims of the Dragonborn as nothing more than delusion. Instead, he shrugged.

Lydia couldn't see him; she nocked another arrow and continued. "Damn what I said about her secrets; you know she wants to be Empress?" She fired the arrow for emphasis. "Yeah. It's those Graybeards' fault. Crazy Elf thinks being Dragonborn makes her Talos or something. I think that's why she got obsessed with saving your life." Her arrow hit the target in a small cluster of arrows. She had a tendency to aim slightly up and to the right.

"What do you mean it's the Graybeard's fault?" Ulfric asked. He wanted to march back inside and wake up the Dragonborn, force her to give a complete rundown of every tiny detail that'd happened since she flew away on Odahviing.

"She wasn't the same after coming back from High Hrothgar," Lydia explained. "Especially not after taking them that horn. Says the Graybeards called her Talos, and she decided that means she gets to found her own Empire."

Well, the last time all the Graybeards spoke was to recognize Tiber Septim as…well, Tiber Septim. And now they'd spoken for her, three times. Talos himself only received two recognitions from them. Still, he'd assumed the Dragonborn had such lofty ambitions simply because she was the Dragonborn. Not because she believed herself to be a god reborn. "So, you knew of this for how long, and are just now taking issue with it?"

"I thought she was joking."

"The Dragonborn is out here founding cities and marching on Holds and making deals with Jarls and you thought she was joking?"

"Not about the Empire thing, I knew she was serious about that," Lydia snapped. "The…the other thing. Maybe she's still joking. Laughing at us for believing her." She reached down to an empty quiver and chuckled.

Ulfric crossed his arms and watched the Housecarl relax. Lydia lowered her bow and tapped it on the ground. "Two questions," he said. "One, what if she's serious?"

"Then she's crazy and needs help."

He wanted to agree with her simple answer. "Two, why does this change anything for you?"

Lydia turned and stared at him. "Isn't it obvious? All of her goals are because she thinks herself to be a Divine. She's not, obviously, but she's been helping people all this time. Empress has never been obtainable to her. She's just a woman with her heart in the right place and her head in the clouds."

"She's 'just a woman' who happens to have the Soul of a dragon, and just returned from Sovngarde!"

Lydia sputtered. "You actually believe her! Ulfric, you're so desperate to move back up in the world-"

"Do you think Tiber Septim's allies had the same discussion about him when he walked on Nirn?" Ulfric argued, cutting her off. "You can't deny that she is Dragonborn, blessed by Akatosh, as was Talos before her."

"That doesn't make her Talos," Lydia dropped her voice low, tapping her bow to his chest with each word. "That just makes her Dragonborn."

"What about the other things she said?" Ulfric pressed. "About Alduin's Soul? About Kynareth?

Lydia wiped at her face with her free hand. "Hold on, hold on. You actually think she's telling the truth? Come on, Ulfric, you're exhausted. You nearly died yesterday, and I can tell you didn't get much sleep last night."

Ulfric frowned and threw his good hand towards Breezehome. "By Ysmir, Lydia, you were just trying to convince me she's dead! Why don't we just wait and see before we pass judgement?"

"Because I don't want to be skeptic about this!"

"If the Divines strike her down," Ulfric said, "then she is delusional. A false god in the Thalmor sense of the word. If not, the Dragonborn isn't serious or…or actually-"

"Pelinal Whitestrake? Which is it, Ulfric? Is she Shor or Talos? Maybe Akatosh? Baren-fucking-ziah?"

"Maybe we wait and see what she says when she isn't half dead!" Ulfric argued. "You say I'm too tired to form my own thoughts, what about her? I wouldn't be surprised if we have to carry her corpse to the Hall of the Dead before Balgruuf arrives."

Lydia bit her lip. "Fine. But she is not a god. No one is."

"You sound like the Thalmor," Ulfric spat back. Lydia fumed at him and thrust her bow on the ground, shoving him back as she turned and left the yard through the ruined wall.

4E203 FS 29

Nariilu,

Word arrived yesterday morning on the end of the war. I suppose I owe you a case of Illiac Brandy! I hope to share it before my wedding. I'll be hard-pressed to have a reception that outclasses these celebrations! You'd best return to Solitude in time for my vows! Sofie asked to be my flower girl-act surprised when she tells you. I assumed you'd allow it.

I can hardly believe my wedding is only five months away! Oh, I know you hate talk of love, but let me be as much of a romantic as Mara herself. Asgeir…I fall more and more in love with him every day. Of course, we can only correspond through letters, recently. He's been so busy in Riften now that Maven Blackbriar is the Jarl. She doesn't have as much time for the business, but the Meadery is exploding!

How I look forwards to these times of peace. Hopefully with the end of the war and my marriage into a Nord family (and vice versa) will be just what the Empire needs to rally itself and stop all this infighting. Titus wrote me recently about the need for a symbol of unity, so I've written back for him to officiate my marriage.

Blessings from the Eight (and your favorite neighbor)

Vittoria Vici

4E203 RH 3

Nariilu,

Rumors are flying. Did you take Ulfric Stormcloak as your prisoner? How long were you planning this? Please know I was joking about having him propose to Elisif upstage my wedding.

Speaking of our capable Jarl, she's barely been seen since news of the end of the war. I had tea with her two days ago, and she was quieter than usual. I think she's afraid of having to follow through with her promises to take over her late husband's position. Poor girl doesn't have the heart for politics; she's far too much of it. Erikur and Bryling have apparently been seen conversing, which is about the most concerning thing I've ever heard. But, that's only according to

Anyways, not to worry you with foolish rumors. You'll likely soon arrive. I imagine returning order to a conquered city isn't the most timely activity, especially the seat of the Rebellion. Give Ulfric Stormcloak my best, if he truly is with you!

Blessings from the Eight (and safe travels)

Vittoria Vici

4E203 RH 14

Nariilu,

You absolute madwoman! News of that dragon in Whiterun has traveled faster than any scandal. Oblivion, my dear cousin could be assassinated (Divines forbid such a fate) and I'd find out slower than this. Nobody quite believes it, but could you blame them? Capturing a dragon, only to let it go free? I trust you've planned this further than I, and see some benefit to it.

My last letter to you was on the life of Ulfric Stormcloak, at least briefly. It seems rumors fly around you (just like that dragon has flown away), though you've gotten him out of the town gossip with this little stunt. I fear for your reputation; Ulfric wasn't the most popular man here, for obvious reasons. Discussion on his escape from death at the end of the war has been centered not on him, but on you. Nobody quite knows why you spared him.

I believe consensus was more or less that General Tullius wanted an execution in front of the Emperor and Senate, and you're simply escorting him to the Imperial City. On the other hand, I've also heard a rather convincing drunk claim you've been shacking up with each other for years now, and the rebellion was all a ruse to run away to Atmora together.

I suppose only you two know, but, please, at least attend my wedding before fleeing the continent with your scandalous lover. And name a child after yours truly!

Blessings from the Eight (Dibella especially)

Vittoria Vici

4E203 RH 27

Nariilu,

I doubt you've been receiving my recent letters, so I'll forgive you for your slow responses. I ran into Jordis in the market today and she's told me that she received word from your Housecarl in Whiterun that you've gone and flown away on that dragon! Even more, apparently your destination was the Nord afterlife (the specific name of it escapes me) to kill Alduin. Now, I'm as familiar with Nord myths as any upstanding Imperial who lives in Skyrim, but I do recall you telling me of Helgen. Isn't Alduin the dragon at fault for that catastrophe?

My dearest neighbor, I've been in the Temple praying for your safe return since I heard and until the priests kicked me out. Even writing it makes me laugh. A safe return from the afterlife? You'll return necromantic to compliment my romanticism. But do not worry; I'll find a dying Nord to pass along my greetings to you.

Blessings from the Eight (seems you've great need of them)

Vittoria Vici

Ulfric scanned over the Dragonborn's letters, fallen from her lap and scattered across the floor. Some had landed close enough to the fire that their corners curled and darkened, ink moistening under the heat. Only the letters from Vittoria Vici and a few that were almost unreadable under frequent use of single-letter substitutions for words and phrases signed only as cities they originated from had been opened. Ulfric didn't dare break the wax seals on other letters; some decorated with simple stamps of initials and others with ornate crests, including one that was obviously an Imperial general's official seal.

He folded the letters closed and gently placed them on the low table next to her, removing an empty potion bottle. Up close, Ulfric noticed her breathing was just out of sync. He studied her wounds; they almost reminded him of the kinds unfortunate travelers received if they took a 'shortcut' through the hotmarshes. But, her wounds were scabbing over where they could rather than bubbling with pus and heat.

Ulfric wondered how far they reached beneath her robes, whether the injuries on her face connected to the similar scabs on her hands or if they were completely separate affairs. And what else was hidden from sight? The gash on her head wasn't clean around its neat little stitches; it was jagged and rough as if someone had cut through the wound over and over with a dull knife. At the very least, her robes were free of blood. Perhaps that's why he couldn't see any visible bandages; the Graybeards weren't equipped for injuries beyond headaches from meditating too hard. Treating the Dragonborn had likely used up a century worth of medical supplies.

And that's likely why they allowed her to leave in her condition, he realized. If she could walk enough to…well, to ride a dragon, she was well enough to seek more equipped healers than a handful of old monks. Which she hadn't, not really, not beyond getting a few health potions. How had she escaped an overnight stay with much worse injuries than him?

"You look like Ysgramor."

Ulfric stepped back, he'd been leaning in far too close to inspect her. The Dragonborn's eyes were still closed, her eyes sunken with dark circles ghosting her lower eyelids.

"You woke me up. Quit stomping around so loud."

"Oh. Sorry."

The Dragonborn rolled one shoulder after the other. Her bones popped louder than the fire. "It was her spell wasn't it?"

He froze. Ulfric refused to think about who had given him his own injuries. He'd much rather focus on who gave the Dragonborn such painful looking scars. No, it'd be no use to crawl into his own head and drown in whispers of guilt, to let himself focus on that little tingle of lightning that lingered and ran over his skin every time he moved just a little too fast.

At least the Dragonborn hadn't said her name. Ulfric could at least live in ambiguity; there was another female Thalmor with…Yes, the one who had paralyzed him. He'd already forgotten her name. It was nice to be able to forget little useless bits of information like that. Useless, just like all he'd amounted to over the years.

"Ysgramor, huh?" Ulfric replied, digging his nails into his palm. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he felt uneasy on his feet. He moved to lean against the wall, trying his best to make it look natural, instead of an attempt to keep from collapsing. He'd collapsed, yesterday. More than once. The quilt behind him gave way; he'd put his weight right over the hole where his Dossier was hidden.

"Yeah. Same face. His beard's far more impressive though," she said. "Don't worry, he's had a few thousand more years to grow it out than you. And Ysgramor's taller. Somehow."

Ulfric opened his mouth to respond, to try and go along with her little mood-lightening banter, but couldn't find anything that fit. Of course he'd never live up to Ysgramor, even if it was something as mundane as in beard-fullness or height. And if Ulfric couldn't grow a beard worthy of an Atmoran, how could he ever hope to live up to Ysgramor's leadership, his wisdom, his strength?

"Oh, and Wulfrend Stormcloak says hello," the Dragonborn said. "Says he's proud of you, for all that's worth to you."

His mind swam with the names of his ancestors, little quips of their great deeds clearing the fog of his own failures from his thoughts. Wulfrend, his great-great-grandfather's younger brother who went and actually completed his training with the Greybeards. Or, she could mean Wulfrend, however many generations back, from the mid-Third Era, married to the Count of Bruma. No, she definitely meant Wulfrend, the Jarl of Windhelm appointed by Tiber Septim himself.

Yes, she definitely meant Jarl Wulfrend. Ulfric had ended the six-hundred year Stormcloak dynasty in Windhelm. What an awful insult for him to say he was 'proud'. Proud that he'd destroyed the legacy of his entire Clan. And the Dragonborn had missed the dishonor in his message, provided she hadn't made up the entire conversation with Wulfrend. Lydia would probably claim she'd been digging in some history tome just to get a rise out of him.

"I've never heard of him, but I don't go climbing around in your family tree," the Dragonborn continued. "He was Thane to High Queen Sidgne. Never heard of her, either. He was Dragonborn, though."

That Wulfrend. One of the first prominent members of the Stormcloak Clan, from all the thousands of years back in the closing days of the First Era. While his family tree didn't quite take root with him (that honor went to Ysgramor), Wulfrend was the foundation of a solid trunk that twisted and turned through Housecarls and Jarls and High Kings and Queens. And while the little list of deeds included his marriage to Sidgne's sister, his ferocity as a warrior, his mastery of the Thu'um, his status as Dragonborn had been lost to history, if it had ever actually been the case.

Even worse, Wulfrend's cause of death was listed as a dragon attack; his twin daughters' deeds listed the avengement of their father. Dragonborn were exceptionally equipped to fight dragons; the Last Dragonborn sat before him admittedly worse for wear, but having survived a battle with Alduin himself. Wulfrend wouldn't've fallen to a dragon had he truly been Dragonborn. Ulfric cursed himself, perhaps Lydia was right about her mind.

Unless. He'd fought more dragons alongside the Dragonborn in a scant month than he'd received reports of across all of Eastmarch in two whole years. She openly admitted they sought her out for challenge; she wouldn't fare well unprepared or in old age. Who better to die against a dragon than a Dragonborn, now that he considered it? But, still, for all he knew or cared, the Dragonborn had raided Wulfrend's tomb, read about his great deeds on his own sarcophagus, perhaps even in Skuldafn. Not entirely proof of having a conversation with a dead man.

"His daughters weren't Dragonborn, though. Jhunya and Marla, right?" The Dragonborn continued. Ulfric studied her; her eyes were still closed, though her forehead was pinched in a frown. "They started the tradition of carving their tutor's names in the wall of their nursery. Wulfrend wishes he'd told his girls to carve smaller if he'd known it catch on. Instead, he made them polish the guard's helmets."

Ulfric leaned harder against the wall, feeling a bit of burnt wood break off behind him. His heart beat in his chest; the nursery off-limits to all but the most trusted few guard, the family of the Jarl, their handpicked nursemaids. Not even the steward was allowed that deep into the quarters. Even more, the wall in question carved with hundreds of names by little hands, was covered with a grand tapestry.

A quick glance or even a short stay in the room wouldn't reveal all the choice words children had immortalized towards their tutors. No, it'd taken nearly a decade for Ulfric to get bored one day and peel back the heavy cloth to hide behind it. And he'd seen his father's name clumsily carved alongside a certain 'Avesthar Milk-Face'. He hadn't finished adding his own and his tutor's names by the time he left for High Hrothgar.

But, sure enough, the biggest names, right in the center of the wall had been Jhunya and Marla Stormcloak, and their tutors, 'Rat Bottom Botriva + Svalof the Stupid'.

"How do you know about that wall?" Ulfric asked. His voice sounded like no more than a whisper by the time it reached his own ears an eternity later. No one knew about that wall. Even he had almost forgotten about its existence over the years.

"You've quite a few ancestors in Sovngarde," the Dragonborn said. "I thought you'd like a little proof that your family still watches over you."

No, they couldn't-shouldn't watch over him. They saw failure after failure, weakness and disaster and downfall of everything. Ulfric's eyes stung with exhaustion, his stomach churned with the weight of all he'd done. And to think the Dragonborn meant to reassure him by reminding him of the great deeds that he'd undermined. Destroyed.

"And…" she trailed off into a deep sigh. "I'm not supposed to say anything. But Sovngarde is a place outside of time. Alduin himself was outside of time. I've seen great deeds from you. Your family is so proud of you-" Ulfric clenched his hands into the quilt on the wall, trying to force himself to feel each woven thread, each stitch rather than listen to her. How could they possibly be proud of him? "-not just for what you've done, but for what you will do."

Ulfric shook his head. "You're lying. I know what my ancestors value. I am nothing to them." He was nothing to anyone, really. He'd just be a footnote in history, no matter who wrote it, and that would make his Clan proud. He'd no longer be a stain on them once he was dead and gone. Maybe it was a blessing that the Dragonborn was here since she'd overshadow him and his misdeeds in every song just by virtue of being the Dragonborn to slay Alduin.

He realized he was crying for the second time in a day; the burning behind his eyes wasn't exhaustion, not completely. Ulfric decided the gods had some mercy for him since the Dragonborn still had her eyes closed, but the gods wanted to laugh at him since she opened them and looked at him just as he felt another tear run down his cheek and catch itself in his beard. "Stormcloak, I swear on my life, I'm not trying to make you feel worse than I do," she said, sitting up straighter. Now she was pitying him. "Your father told me to tell you this: 'After every winter, the bear wakes'."

Ulfric slid down the wall, trying to convince himself he wasn't collapsing. Those were the last words he'd ever heard his father say, right before he marched his army to Markarth. And those were the words Ulfric's father said to him every time he was unsure, nervous, about to go off to his mother's funeral, to High Hrothgar, to war. Words that the Great Bear of Eastmarch never wrote down, and he surely hadn't, either. Words that were only whispered in reassurance on a handful of occasions.

She really had spoken to his father.