Those were his memories she was rifling through.
Wulfrend almost wasn't aware of it at first. The pain of death was beyond comprehension; his body shattered into a thousand frozen shards and scattered, dissolving, nothing. Perhaps that was because he hadn't felt much since he ascended to Sovngarde. Perhaps dying a second time hadn't hurt all that much, but instead he'd been overwhelmed with the first true sensation he'd felt in two thousand years.
And he focused on that pain for a while, since the only alternative was to rage at her. The Last Dragonborn. His murderer. Her Soul lorded over his own and a hundred others in…well, Wulfrend wasn't entirely sure where he was. He figured he had been absorbed by her in some twisted fate that Akatosh had set into motion for his own amusement.
There were others, too. Most of them were dragons that idled around, occasionally pushing against the invisible walls of a dark, swirling void. Their souls were multicolored, large things that seemed to have already contented themselves with being prisoners of their murderer. They whispered songs of revenge, of power they would take from their self-proclaimed overlord, how they would rise once her mortal body finally failed and they were released. The dragons Wulfrend himself had devoured in life followed him, sharing similar sentiments towards both himself and this Elf that held them all.
Six others raged along with him, the other Dragonborn he'd grown so fond of over the millennia they lounged in Sovngarde. Smaller than the dragons, and a different kind of multicolored. Wulfrend had seen the Aurora form over a golden sunset, once, the Dragonborn's Souls reminded him of that beautiful scene, rather than the white base of the dragons.
And Nariilu Therel's Soul-Wulfrend cringed, she hated him thinking her name-had started out that same golden color, too. He'd only seen it briefly, before its gold began to swirl with an impossibly deep black above them all. The dragons had screeched out for the death of Alduin, watching a new Soul stream in, almost forming into another to crowd up the space with an endless void before it disappeared almost completely, save for a sliver that embedded itself in her own Soul.
If Wulfrend stared at her Soul enough, he could almost see through it. It was different than seeing, feeling, experiencing life through her own body, which, granted, was awfully painful at the moment. Her memories were close to the surface of her Soul, yet buried deep. And it felt like every time her Soul lashed out at them, to get the dragons, the Dragonborn to submit to her, he came that much closer to breaking through.
He realized with growing dread, anger, fear, that connection went both ways.
She pinned him down and dug through his essence almost methodically, looking for something she could use. Wulfrend fought her at every step of the way, but not having a body was disorienting and the dragons were helping her. Helping her keep his Soul still and vulnerable, helping fight back the Dragonborn that could never get close enough to her to do anything to stop her. She'd beat them into a sort of scornful subservience since she devoured them, and they raged against her even as they dutifully obeyed, like a child making a show of chores.
And then Wulfrend saw his memories play out above him, heard her voice portray their events. His two little girls-don't you dare touch them-complaining of their noses burning from the polishing he'd made them do, with their bright little eyes and red heads. He'd not gotten to see them like this in forever; they were grown women in Sovngarde. And tears came to his eyes, because he'd never get to tuck them in again or even remember tucking them in again without her taking all that emotion for her own.
But he felt his sadness drip into her, if only by so much.
She dove deeper into his memories, looking for…for…something. He heard his descendant's voice, Ulfric Stormcloak, sounding in an echo above him. And then Wulfrend heard his own voice, layered by Nariilu Therel's-how dare he speak her name-as she spoke his own words again, twisting them for her own means. Sifted through what he'd seen watching over his Clan as if she was playing in the snow. Her Soul laughed as he tried to resist, and she finally found what she had been searching for with a satisfied glow.
Wulfrend shouted at her with all the voice he had in him. He tried to remember what it felt like to breathe, to Shout, what it felt like to swing a weapon, to fight back an enemy that wanted to destroy you and all you stood for. Nariilu Therel-she roared above him, pushing a sharp cold pain through him-did not care what he tried to do. Her body had opened its eyes; Ulfric Stormcloak looked so much like his father, but where Hoag's shoulders were firm and wide, Ulfric's were fallen upon his chest.
He looked through Nariilu Therel's-his Overlord-eyes and into Ulfric's, begging him to get rid of that spark of trust, pleading with him to kill her.
Balgruuf arrived with a choice bottle of wine in one hand and another tucked under his arm, knocking once before he let himself in. "Make yourself at home," the Dragonborn muttered. She'd been dozing on and off all afternoon, only rising a few times to drink water like she was trying to drown herself or to poke the fire back to life with her new staff. Ulfric almost managed to take a nap himself, but decided to busy himself by plucking all of Lydia's arrows out of the target (and unfortunate surrounding areas) and sharpening them for her after he woke from a dream of corpses and pain. She hadn't returned from earlier, though it was well into dusk by now.
"It's my city," Balgruuf responded. He dragged the free chair opposite the Dragonborn, a simple cloak and tunic replacing his usual embroidered garb and fur cape.
"It's my damned house."
"Consider it a tax on unlocked doors, my Thane. Where are your glasses?"
Ulfric pulled four glasses from the cupboard. Balgruuf thanked him in a grunt and poured too much wine in each glass from a dark green bottle. "Water mine down," the Dragonborn said as Balgruuf filled the last glass. He grabbed his glass and sat down opposite her. "I'm serious. I know how strong that is. You'll kill me." Ulfric took a long drink of the dry, earthen wine until the glass was closer to half-full. He ladled water in the goblet, watching the deep blood red turn to a light crimson.
The Dragonborn glared at him, but still took the glass from him in a slow, stuttered movement when he offered it. He shrugged at her and sat down backwards on the dining bench, waiting for someone to speak. "Well, Jarl, let's hear it."
"First trial's tomorrow," Balgruuf said simply, "For the entire Graymane Clan. Other arrests haven't started yet. Those four Justiciars that you saw are staying. From what I can figure, the Ambassador is staying long enough to decide if I should be put on trial for that Shrine and then leaving."
"She won't get you, Jarl," the Dragonborn said. "It's likely nothing more than theatrics to scare you in line. Where are they keeping the Graymanes?" She raised her cup and took a sip that barely wet her lips.
"You're not breaking them out, if that's what you're thinking," Balgruuf stated. "They're in my dungeon, and she knows what happened to the last Justiciars she sent my way. Whiterun is on very thin ice."
"Well, since there's a trial, I suppose you and I'll be on the court," the Dragonborn said. "There's that, at the very least."
Ulfric bit his tongue. "Actually, the Thalmor are holding the trial," he said.
"What? No, Talos Trials are the same as treason trials," she mentioned.
"Turns out, having a Talos shrine in the city center makes you biased," Balgruuf spat. He took a long drink from his cup. "I…The Graymanes may be beyond help."
The Dragonborn was silent for a while. "I think it might be time to start thinking long-term. Where will Whiterun be in a year, ten years, a century?"
"What kind of question is that?" Balgruuf raised his voice.
"Do you intend to stay Jarl of Whiterun?"
"Of course!"
"Then you can't get arrested. Or dethroned." The Dragonborn put her glass down and leaned forwards. Ulfric almost missed her wince as she moved. "They want a second Great War, eventually. Now that peace is here, all they need is one incident. One little thing to justify retaliation. How do you think your people would react if you were arrested and executed for Talos worship?"
They'd rally. A martyr of one of the most popular, no, the most popular Jarl in Skyrim would have swords raised throughout the province. Even if they ghosted him away and had him killed in some backwater town, word spreads fast. Ulfric had seen a harsh jump in recruitment after rumors of his almost-execution in Helgen started to get around. "You want me to sit back and do nothing," Balgruuf formed each of his words slowly, deliberately. "Watch as my people are killed."
"I really think you're overreacting, Jarl. Markarth's had a Justiciar for years, and he's not managed to arrest a single-"
"Do you have any idea what's been happening in Windhelm?" Balgruuf cut her off. Ulfric looked up, Balgruuf was staring at him, that same strained look on his face.
"What did those bastards do to my city?" Ulfric pressed. He bit his tongue. It wasn't his city, not anymore, but-Kyne's Breath, he wished it still was. Someday, perhaps it'd be his again. Return to Windhelm as its ruler, return Windhelm to its former glory.
"Windhelm got three Justiciars," Balgruuf explained. "And three hundred dead. Three thousand more are set for trial."
Ulfric felt his heart drop. What was Free-Winter doing over there, to let such devastation happen? But, on the other hand, he knew damn well that over half the Hold could be tried and executed for Talos worship. Those numbers could easily inflate to the tens, hundreds of thousands, if the Thalmor cared to make such a statement.
"That's not that bad!" The Dragonborn protested. "Not compared to what happened in the Imperial City, and the rest of Cyrodiil after the War. Hell, even my Siege took far more…What I'm saying is, we have to look on the bright side of things. For all we know, the Graymanes will be let off and things will settle down, like they have in Markarth."
Yes, Ulfric thought, things settled down in Markarth quite well after thousands of deaths. The place went backwards in terms of peace; sometimes Ulfric wondered if he should've ignored the call for aid and just let the Hold work out its own chaotic equilibrium. He realized his wine had been long finished; he hadn't noticed himself drinking.
"Markarth isn't a place I strive to emulate, my Thane."
"Talos was never exceptionally popular in the Reach," Ulfric muttered. Balgruuf had also noticed his empty glass and refilled it without a word.
"Forget about the Reach," the Dragonborn said, waving away their words. "I should've led with this rather than that fool of an Agent they've got over there. The Dominion can't afford another war right now. The Great War devastated them, and Altmer age slowly, even by Elven standards. Their first generation after the Great War are barely in their first years of magical training. They've got to be on their best behavior so as not to provoke anyone, even a weakened Empire. They want a war, but to end us, not themselves, which is exactly what they'd get if they mess up in the near future; five years to a decade."
Balgruuf sat back and crossed his arms. "Regardless, you want me to sit back and play along? With the Thalmor? Ulfric, you're hearing this, right? And you're not complaining? Screaming insults at them, how they undermine the True Nord Way?"
Ulfric shrugged. "'Playing along' is likely just what the Thalmor expect. They've made puppets of us all," he said, trying not to outright agree with the Dragonborn, not in front of Balgruuf. He'd never let him live it down. "However, their arrogance could be to our advantage. Lure them into a false sense of security by playing the good defeated Jarl."
"Like you have been, eh?" Venom slipped into Balgruuf's words, whether he meant it or not.
"I-don't try me, Balgruuf," Ulfric warned. "Take the gold and sign the treaties like everyone expects you to."
Balgruuf moved to stand, Ulfric began to push himself up as well, but the Dragonborn's shrill wheeze caught them both in their tracks. "And since I've found myself the leader of an army of dragons, the Thalmor's days are numbered. Would you two like to hear the story, or bicker like children?"
Nariilu realized she'd have to pause to catch her breath during her retelling of her time in Skuldafn and Sovngarde. And Lydia would just have to miss it, wherever she was. She'd been vaguely aware of a shouting match of sorts that'd occurred in the yard, but about what, Nariilu couldn't say. And she wasn't sure if she even wanted to know, after seeing the state Stormcloak had been in all afternoon.
If she didn't know any better about her Housecarl, she'd think Lydia had decided to give men a try and gone and broken Stormcloak's heart. Which he apparently had one of. One that could be poked and prodded, just like Elenwen detailed in the Dossier. He was exceptionally susceptible to family, and family secrets that he thought he only knew of had just solidified that much more trust in her. And considering his deep eye circles and the ghastly wounds Elenwen had given him, she'd almost felt bad lying to the man.
But he'd never really trusted her in the first place, and rightfully so, after everything she'd put him through. Destroying his army and philosophy, dragging him from place to Thalmor-infested place, putting him in front of danger after dragons, even managing to sour his opinion on Maven Blackbriar, and whatever other slights he definitely held against her, it was nothing short of divine intervention that he was still here. And while they shared a goal or two of destroying the Dominion, of strengthening whatever Empire she crowned him in, shared goals were alliances at best. Not trust. Not like what she'd need to actually pull it off without making enemies of the entire continent.
She knew it'd be damn near impossible for her to get his trust, he was the famed Elf-hater, Empire-damner, Ulfric Stormcloak, after all. Nariilu figured she'd have to find a way to remind the man that she was Ysmir, Talos reborn, which would be easy enough to do if she could get him to climb to High Hrothgar, but it was so convenient for Wulfrend to lend his Soul to her. She made sure to thank him after he'd shared his memories, thank him for keeping such a close watch over his Clan for all those millennia.
Still, Nariilu wasn't just Talos, was she? No, Talos was Dragonborn, Dragonborn were all Akatosh. Hence, that giant dragon avatar of Martin Septim in the Imperial City. Even the blood of a Dragonborn diluted a hundred to one could invoke that kind of power to close the Oblivion Gates, to stop a rampaging Daedric Prince. And in its pure form, Nariilu could ascend to her rightful place as Divine. Head of the Divines, Dragon-God of Time, yes, those titles rather suited her.
"Well, I suppose I'll start at the beginning, then," she said. "Riding a dragon isn't that difficult, surprisingly. Fairly comfortable, all things considered, as well. It was only a few hours to Skuldafn. There really is a portal there, powered by this staff." Nariilu picked up the staff from where it leaned against her chair and twirled it once, almost twice-she sat it down, feeling its magic start to get restless, her arms pulling against the weight of the metal. "Well guarded, of course. Whole city is untouched and crawling with Draugr and Dragon Priests and dragons. All of them under Odahviing's command, which means my command, now."
Balgruuf uncorked the second bottle of wine, having emptied the rest of the first into Stormcloak's glass. Nariilu figured they'd both be heavyweights when it came to intoxication, but even the slightest buzz would keep them from protesting the few embellishments she'd decided to add. The Jarl's method of drowning his sorrows would drown any confusion he had concerning her tale. She continued, "So, after a week of crawling through the city and the crypts-I really could spend a whole day talking about it. Fascinating place, full of well-preserved…everything." She paused to cough. "Regardless, Sovngarde is what you're interested in, no?"
"I'm most interested in what's got you looking like a Draugr," Balgruuf said.
"Alright, I'll save the details of my trek through Skuldafn for the ballad they'll sing of my great deeds."
"Short damn ballad," Balgruuf muttered. Stormcloak snorted. Nariilu chose to ignore him. At least the men were finding some levity, even if it came in the bottom of a bottle.
She huffed. "Well, every Nord since the beginning of time was right; Sovngarde is to die for." Nariilu made sure to follow up quick, lest one of them make some quip about her admitting Stormcloak was right about something. "Even more to die for now that Alduin isn't devouring every single Soul. He Shouted a horrible, deadly mist that enveloped the land that took my breath away. Still haven't quite caught it back.
"So I Shouted for Alduin and he didn't answer my challenge, the coward," Nariilu lied. "He hid in the mist, and every time I tried to Shout and clear it, it would come back thicker than before. So I went to the Hall of Valor to find some old Tongues who could help get rid of that fog." She paused, half for emphasis, half to catch her breath, half to gather her words before the next part of her story. Because it was quite possibly the most critical part to get Stormcloak and Jarl Balgruuf to accept her as Divine.
"I should've read up on Sovngarde," Nariilu said, "because, well, you two probably know this, but it caught me quite off-guard. There's a giant whale skeleton bridge you have to cross to get to the Hall of Valor, and the bones are so far apart I thought I'd fall into the Void." The two men looked contentedly bored, each sipping wine at occasional intervals. "But there's not actually a gap; it's a solid force, though it doesn't look like it. So do try and remember that after you die. Honestly, the worst part of the whole ordeal was opening the heaviest damn doors in the entire Aurbis. But Ysgramor greeted me as soon as I entered-"
"Wait," Stormcloak protested. Nariilu barely kept her smile to more than a twitch of her cheek. "What about Tsun?"
She put on her best 'trying to remember but can't quite place the name' face. "I…Was it someone you knew? Because I don't think-"
"The Master of Trials," Jarl Balgruuf said. "The Guardian of the Whalebone Bridge."
"Oh, yes, him. What about him?"
"Well? What did he say about a Dark Elf trying to pass through to Shor's Hall?" the Jarl pressed.
"He didn't mention it," Nariilu continued. "He greeted me as Ysmir, just like the Greybeards do, and he let me pass."
Stormcloak's eyes narrowed. "And you didn't fight him?"
"No, he fought Alduin with me. Can you let me tell my own story in order?" Nariilu paused and took a sip of her wine. It was still a bit too strong for her liking, but she'd grown tired of thin broth and vegetables stewed to easily swallowed mush. "Nobody fought me, not even Ysgramor. I know, I couldn't believe it either! But I suppose he never saw a Dark Elf in his life, and I kept my helmet on."
The Jarl held up one hand. "Hold on, hold on. Tsun tests all who pass to Shor's Hall."
Nariilu would've shrugged had she been able. "All dead, maybe. His exact wording was 'Welcome, long awaited Ysmir, Dragon of the North, blessed Breath of Storm and Ghosts.' And he knelt and let me go on the Bridge." And she paused for them to process what she'd just said, watching the gears turn individually between them both. "Anyways, Ysgramor-"
"What about Kynareth?" Stormcloak argued.
"Kynareth comes later."
"What about Kynareth?" Jarl Balgruuf asked.
"No more interruptions! By the Nine, I'm trying to keep this fairly short, my lungs hurt enough as it is. Ask for detail at the end." She took a breath, not as deep as she'd like. "So, Ysgramor."
The Dragonborn was utterly hopeless, when it came to things that mattered. She'd expected Ulfric to trust her blindly not an hour after she captured his city, captured him, stripping him of his honor. It was like she didn't understand why he didn't go along with her every whim, and he was fascinated with how she frustrated herself when others couldn't read her mind like she seemed to expect. No, demand.
And now, he wasn't even sure if she understood the scope of what she was saying. Because Shezarrine didn't quite cut it. Ulfric wasn't quite sure if calling her Talos would be entirely true; the Dragonborn almost flippantly quoted Kynareth heralding her as 'The Last Twilight Dragon of the North', a title that invoked Alduin more than he was comfortable with. But he supposed that devouring his Soul gave precedent to such a name.
It seemed her titles almost fell over themselves as she continued on to her recovery with the Greybeards. Ysmir, Last Twilight Dragon of the North, Breath of Storm and Ghosts, Stormcrown, Dragonborn. He wasn't sure if he should present her to the Thalmor as proof of a mortal Ninth Divine or start invoking her name in curses or what.
Balgruuf seemed just as dumbfounded as he did as her story went on and on, getting more outlandish as it developed from a meet and greet with half of ancient Skyrim into a brutal fight against Alduin alongside Tsun and the three warriors from the Elder Scroll she read at the Throat of the World (and a quick aside that Elder Scrolls won't cause blindness if you read one about yourself-Ulfric had chosen to ignore the undeniable about the Dragonborn being the center of a prophecy written before the beginning of time), and finally into a reception just outside of Sovngarde with Kyne and Mara where she all but ascended to divinity.
"And so Kynareth sent me back to Nirn, and I landed at the Time-Wound of the Throat of the World. Drug myself to the Greybeards and they healed me as best as they were able. Then, I called Odahviing and flew back here," she finished in between gravely pants, motioning them to speak with a weak wave.
Ulfric didn't even know where to start. His mind jumped from memories of the meditative chants the Graybeards drilled into him over and over to the theories scholars of the Divines put forth, hundreds of years of arguing over the unity of the gods throughout Tamriel.
Balgruuf spoke first. "And how does this help us with our little Dominion problem?"
"What are they going to do against a bunch of dragons?"
"That's not a solution in the slightest."
"How so? If the Thalmor are dead-" Nariilu stopped and held her breath. She heard the faintest crack of a spell being cast, or it was just someone stepping on a stick.
"What-"
"Shh!" The Men perked up, glancing around in tandem. Stormcloak placed his unbound hand on his sword, Balgruuf carried a simple axe on his belt that he didn't reach for. "Laas," she Shouted, barely forcing the Word from her throat. Nariilu gasped for air as a purple wave ran across Breezehome, lighting up the two Nords in bright blue, moving through the walls and identifying two tall, red figures standing and leaning at the side of her house.
She stood up and clutched her staff heavily, speeding towards the door by her standards, hobbling by anyone else's. The two figures stood up straighter, moving to the door faster than she could. And a knock sounded just as she reached the door to throw it open. And sure enough, two Thalmor Justiciars stood before her in enchanted robes, almost masking that they'd just been pressed to her wall.
The woman carried a staff of her own on her back, decorated in pearls and opals, a style of staff Nariilu wasn't versed enough in to name the school of magic it represented. And the man's fingers danced with fading purple whisps; he'd been altering the wall to be thinner, more likely than not. Listening in. Probably not long, unless he'd just had to recast the spell. Jarl Balgruuf and Stormcloak scrambled to their feet, making far more noise than necessary; both bottles of wine rested empty on her table, her own glass was barely touched.
"Alteration, eh? I'm rather fond of Destruction, myself," Nariilu said. She tapped the staff on the ground, shifting her weight so she rested more on the doorframe than the staff. "Speak. You know damn well you're interrupting something."
The woman reached inside her robe and pulled out a letter, ornately decorated with fine golden ink. "An invitation, from the Honorable First Emissary Elenwen, Aldmeri Dominion Ambassador to the Kingdom of Skyrim," she said.
Nariilu snatched the letter away, hating how she had to look up between them, though smooth skin and plump cheeks marked both of them as not quite past early adulthood. They weren't much older than thirty, and for a second Nariilu felt nostalgic for her first position after she graduated as a fully-fledged battlemage. She took a second to thumb open the wax seal, skimming over the…invitation to a party…at the Thalmor Embassy…(please refrain from trespassing, stealing, murdering, freeing prisoners, and causing spectacles while on the premises). "Ha! You know, you two look awfully young," Nariilu said. "What, were you promoted after the untimely deaths of your predecessors? Did you hear of what happened the last time I was at the Embassy?"
The man blinked once, the only emotion that showed on his smooth face. "The Honorable First Emissary Elenwen, Aldmeri-"
"Get on with it, kid." Nariilu smirked as the woman made an almost imperceivable motion to move her hand towards the strap that held her staff. She wondered why she held a staff; they were useful for novices as a source of magicka to supplement ones' own natural ability, and for masters to channel powerful spells too dangerous to hold in the body for long. Either was troubling; apprentice mages were little firecrackers of danger, and giving a staff unsupervised to one was asking for someone to be turned inside out. On the other hand, a mage this young and still powerful enough to hold a staff confidently would speak volumes of the training the Justiciars received.
"…Jarl Balgruuf the Greater's invitation is waiting for him with his steward," he finished after a pause and a breath to recompose himself. "Good evening to you all." And the pair turned and left without any fanfare. Nariilu slammed the door shut behind them with all the force she could muster.
"Well! Jarl, it's been a pleasure, but we've both got a rat problem to deal with," Nariilu turned and said. "Until then, I'm afraid I'll have to conclude our discussion."
Jarl Balgruuf stomped to the door. "A dragon army isn't a solution. It's a problem."
"Well, then I suppose it's a rather good thing we're friends, my Jarl."
"You're living in a fantasy of your own devices. If dragons bow to power, how long until they notice you're half-dead as it is? What about after you're dead and gone? You'll pave the way for the dragons to enslave all of Tamriel again."
"I never said I wouldn't slay every dragon. Just that they have their uses."
The Jarl chuckled as he opened the door, letting in a night breeze that made the hearth stutter before it roared in warmth. "Perhaps…Perhaps you are cut out to be a scheming politician after all. You've been a horrible influence, Ulfric."