Ulfric laid still in the Jorrvaskr barracks, listening to the soft snoring and tossing of the Companions. He wondered how they were able to sleep so easily, so soundly, knowing that two of their own had just been murdered. How long until the Thalmor decided the Companions were blasphemous? While they didn't worship Ysgramor they certainly idolized him, a Man with as much Elven blood on his axe as Talos.
They needed to die. Soon. Now. Years ago.
He wanted to be the one to do it, to watch as the life left the eyes of every single Thalmor by his hand, but storming the Isles with thousands of dragons was the next best thing to storming the Isles with hundreds of thousands of mortal men. Dragon lives were expendable where they weren't immortal.
A dragon army, if it could be controlled, would be the most powerful force Nirn had seen since, well, since Alduin commanded them. And the Dragonborn had killed Alduin, commanded Odahviing, desired the destruction of the Dominion, coveted the Ruby Throne, wanted him to rule Skyrim. At least two goals of theirs aligned; Ulfric had allied with others for far less.
And, sure, perhaps it wasn't quite the most developed plan, but who could have planned to find themselves the leader of the dragons? An entire army of dragons…Ulfric shuddered at the power the Dragonborn had. The power she accidentally stumbled into. The prophecy she never intended to fulfill. It was amazing how the gods had granted her what she'd never dreamed of, never seemed to work for, when he'd spent his entire life living up to a legacy he'd never earn.
To think a poor Cyrodillic Elf would find herself a reincarnation of the god of Man, an avatar of the god of Time.
To think that he'd spent his entire life fighting for the freedom of the Nords from the Empire, from the Elves of the Dominion, only to find the path to salvation in an Elf of the Empire.
And she had no idea what she was doing; all goals with only vague paths towards them. But Ulfric was nothing if not a politician, a strategist, a powerhouse of influence and ideology, a puppet newly aware of the puppeteer. He was sick and tired of being used by others; the Empire, the Dominion, the Jarls, by Oblivion probably the Princes and Divines, too. And how he'd never caught on, how he'd always believed himself to be one step ahead of his enemies, his allies-Ulfric felt the shame of ignorance, arrogance rise in his stomach, his heart beating that much faster against the sleep he'd told himself he'd finally get.
Everyone else likely felt that way too; a step or ten ahead of whoever stood in their way, stood alongside them. But they all had something left to lose, no matter how small. Ulfric had given up everything, and in turn, gained the opportunity for everything. And the Dragonborn wanted to deliver it to him, even if it was nothing more than a byproduct of her own goals.
He couldn't wait to help her reach them.
Jon knocked on the door to Breezehome softly; it was late and he didn't want to wake anyone up. He could come back in the morning easily enough, but he wanted to get this over and done with before word spread of what his father-what Olfrid had said to him.
The door cracked open, a heavily wounded Elven face peered out from around it, shadows dancing from her enchanted robes. The Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun and just about everywhere else. Hero of the Civil War. This was a mistake. "What?" She asked simply, her Cyrodiilic accent sounding harsher than it had months ago. Granted, Jon had only briefly heard her speak to the Clans before the Siege, and then jovially addressing his…Olfrid, both of them exhausted after a hard fought battle.
"I…uh, is Ulfric here?" And for what? Like he'd help. Like he wasn't allied with the Dragonborn for whatever reason Jon didn't care about. The end of the War was supposed to bring peace between the Graymanes and Battleborns, not more bloodshed and hatred and true loneliness-Jon was getting ahead of himself, acting rashly after everything that had happened that day.
The door opened wider. "Who's asking?"
"Jon…" He trailed off before he said his former Clan name. "I have information he'd like to have." Or not. He was traveling with the Dragonborn. A Legionnaire, just like Olfrid had been, just like Idolaf was.
Her eyes narrowed up at him, looked him over, settling on the sword at his waist. Not like she had much to be worried about, even if she weren't as renowned with a blade as she was. The steel weapon had been neglected, allowed to dull in its scabbard, ever since the feud started. Adrianne never had the time to sharpen a blade with no enemies to draw it on. "Well? Let's hear it."
"I'd rather tell him." He'd never get anywhere like this. Sure, he'd seen Ulfric leave the Graymane Clan Hall, sure, he'd seen him take that spell for Vignar, but why would he care? Why would anyone care? It was probably too late to do anything about it.
Because Olfina had died wanting her brother back, praying her unborn nibling would be able to meet the man.
"Lots of people in this town have things they'd like to tell him," the Dragonborn said. "Here's some advice: next time you try to kill a man, don't knock on his door."
"I know where they're keeping Thorald Graymane!" He blurted. Jon bit his tongue and looked around; there was no one to be seen.
She opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.
"Let's make this quick," Nariilu said, shutting the door behind them and leaning against it. "Where is he, and how do you know?" Northwatch Keep of course, like all but the most worthless of the war prisoners, they ended up in shallow graves at best, but she was far more interested in why this man was knocking at her door in the middle of the night, looking like an absolute wreck, why he had information available to nobody lower than a Tribune could know. If this was all a ploy to kill her or Stormcloak, she figured she could take him, as nervous as he looked. She was looking for a distraction, after all.
"Northwatch Keep," Jon said. Thorald was either dead or close to it. "My…my father's the one who ordered his capture."
"Your father is-"
"Olfrid Battleborn."
"Ah." That's where she recognized him from; this was the even-voiced bard from the Bannered Mare, the one who was sweet on Olfina Graymane. Judging from the shaking hands and blotched cheeks, the day had been rough on this young man. Still, Olfrid had been invaluable during the defense of Whiterun; a shrewd strategist who rightfully predicted most of the Stormcloak army's moves even without the knowledge held in the Dossier-the Battleborn patriarch thought like any Nord Barbarian. And his son, Idolaf, a Praefect with more than enough talent to work up to Legate and eventually take over Whiterun Hold from Quentin Cipius. "When and why did he order this capture? And to whom?"
"Because of the feud. With the Graymanes," Jon explained. "He said he wrote to General Tullius-this was not long after the siege, but I think he might have ties with the Thalmor. And the Thieves Guild."
Nariilu paused. Then it'd been nearly half a year since Thorald's capture, far too long for the Thalmor to still have him alive, unless he was being used as target practice for their young mages. "You wouldn't make such serious accusations with no evidence. Against your father, at that."
"He's not my father!" Jon's voice cracked at the end, and he took a few shaky breaths, eyes glistening in the low hearth light. "I…I've lived with him my whole life. He told me things that he didn't tell anyone else, I think to try and scare me into line." His hands clutched his shirt. "I've seen letters, from the Embassy, I think. Letters with golden eagles around the paper. And the ledgers for the farms always include a few hundred bushels of apples, but we don't own any orchards."
She waited for him to continue, but he lingered in silence, perhaps figuring that what he'd said was enough to convince her to march up to the Winds District and…what, arrest Olfrid on the spot? "What do you want me to do with this information?"
That simple question threw Jon for a loop. He shocked from being on the verge of tears to staring at her, wide eyed and sputtering. "What?"
"You wouldn't be telling me this without a reason," Nariilu answered. "What's led you to come here in the middle of the night to accuse Olfrid Battleborn of treason and thievery?"
"Because you can do something about it, right? Free Thorald and exchange his place for my Da."
Nariilu bit the inside of her cheek. She felt so much pity for the young man, his life turned upside down with the death of his lover having been the last straw against Olfrid. She recalled the sobs she barely heard when she visited the Hall of the Dead-It had probably been Jon that the priest was trying to protect, his fault she had been kept from visiting J'zargo's ashes. No, she wouldn't be doing much for him, not that she could if she wanted. Thorald was beyond help and taking down the only influential Clan left in Whiterun, the longest standing Thane of the Hold-She had other political affairs to meddle with.
But Jon wanted to take down the Battleborn Clan for his own reasons. And while Nariilu needed a stable Whiterun now, she couldn't discount the possibility of using her relative popularity in the Hold for a complete takeover sometime in the future. And why should she discount a potential ally, one with evidence of such serious crimes performed by a Thane, a respected elder, a former General? Any one of those titles held enough influence in various places to upset the natural order of things. "I can't make any promises," Nariilu admitted, "but I will give you my word that I'll see what can be done. If what you've said is true-not that I doubt it-I'd advise you to watch who you mention this to if you value your safety. Especially in Whiterun."
And Jon was a blubbering mess of thanks and appreciation, of blessings to the Divines in her name. Nariilu held his arm and gently led him to the threshold as he swore to find some way to repay her for even considering avenging the Graymanes, all the while blaming himself for their execution for on being complicit and idle in his father's actions. "Please, please, if you ever need anything of me; a bard, a steward, a servant, anything," Jon sobbed, "I…I'm leaving for Solitude on the next carriage, if there's space. The one after that, if not. To the Bard's College, hopefully. If not there, one of the taverns in the city."
"I look forward to hearing you play after you've graduated from the College," Nariilu said, cracking the door open and holding it with her staff. Yes, a possible heir of the Battleborn Clan in her debt could come in use, even if-especially if-he hated his family as much as he seemed to at this moment. "Give Giraud my name when you get there."
Ulfric was sure dark circles were growing under his eyes as he squinted against the midmorning light; he'd spent most of the previous night deep in thought and contemplation, how to assure that his goals were reached alongside-or perhaps in spite of-the Dragonborn's ambitions. At the very least, it had kept his sleep short enough to make dreaming impossible where wine or ale couldn't quiet his mind.
He took breakfast with the Companions who handled their memorial alcohol better than others either through experience or personal restraint; the barracks below were full of whelps still passed out or groaning from a late night and deep cups. Tilma had prepared an easy breakfast of nut bread, eggs, and honeyed tea, the same little meal she'd made the morning after Ulfric was accepted into their ranks, probably the same meal she made whenever the ale flowed more freely than normal. The atmosphere in Jorrvaskr was almost similar to how it normally felt, back when they would count the minutes before Vignar would show up in time to complain about how no one understood the proper way to pin down an opponent anymore, when Eorlund's hammer and bellows would be a steady metronome to time the hours by.
And that tension kept stable as the other Companions rose one after the other from the basement, rubbing eyes and heads, lumbering straight for the tea or hurrying outside to empty the drink their bodies couldn't hold anymore. The quiet little conversation about nothing in particular, nothing of consequence Ulfric half-heartedly participated in-all of them half-heartedly participated in-left enough of his mind free to wander back to his fatigue.
Mid spring was turning to late spring, threatening to give way to summer. Ulfric held his hair back with one hand as he got used to the sudden heat of the sun, so different from the chill of the night, from the springs of occasional snow flurries he was used to in Windhelm. He suddenly realized he'd never thought to consider that he'd need to change to a linen tunic rather than the wool that was necessary even in the summers of Eastmarch. At the very least, a cool breeze typical of the Wind District followed him even as he made his way down into the Plains District.
He circled around the back of Breezehome, half-expecting to see Lydia there practicing her form with a sword, adding weights to her shield and doing her damnedest to knock down the training dummy securely set deep in the ground by charging the thing with her full weight, but of course she wasn't. During the funeral, she hadn't said a single word to either himself or the Dragonborn as far as he knew, save for a curt greeting of "my Thane" and the stiffest nod in his direction that Ulfric had ever seen, which was really saying something. She was still beyond pissed at him for daring to think that, just maybe, the woman who made it back from killing a god in Sovngarde might just have a bit of her own divinity, still beyond pissed at the Dragonborn for daring to compare herself to the others that held her title throughout history.
Ulfric didn't blame Lydia one bit for being pissed off; he would've been ready to condemn the Dragonborn of blasphemy not half a year ago. Divines, he could easily see himself scheduling her execution for making such a mockery of the divines, especially of an Elf claiming to be Talos…adjacent. But she had still helped her Thane dress yesterday in what should have been an easy garment to put on; the Dragonborn's College robes were nothing more than a tunic and cloak, with no difficult fastenings or lacings or buttons. The pins in the lock clicked harshly as he turned his key in the backdoor. It opened with a nasty scrape along the stone floor. He stepped in and paused, waiting to hear signs of life beyond a single pop from the hearth.
Nothing. He turned to shut the door behind him, eyes drifting over the Dragonborn asleep in the single bed, curled up tightly on top of the covers in a bloodstained chemise carefully embroidered with what was obviously dragon language. She laid so still Ulfric nearly panicked to think she was dead, but a small twitch of her nose stilled that fear-fear? Ulfric cast the thought that he could be afraid of the Dragonborn's death from his mind, instead distracting himself by comparing the black dragon runes on the wool to what he remembered of his own shaky needlework done and chastised and torn out and redone over months of meditation over the Way of the Voice.
And he couldn't tell, because what a horrible distraction it was to study the embroidery of a half-dead woman's chemise when it was of greater importance to study the size and age of bloodstains blooming across the fabric, if he had to study it at all. And Ulfric decided quite firmly that he didn't; he noticed the color of the dried blood indicated that it was probably from the night before last. Probably caused by him throwing her over his shoulder like…like a fool of a young man Ulfric sometimes wished he'd been given the fate to become. And that was all the mental energy he'd dedicate to reminiscing on how Balgruuf's alcoholism led him to finish entire bottles of undiluted fruit wine that was sweet enough to drink like juice.
Perhaps it was simply Whiterun that caused Balgruuf to turn out the way he did. Ulfric had to get out of the Hold before any more of its corrupting influence affected him. He stepped away to the main hall to let her sleep, over a discarded pile of her gray and brown robes, finding the hearth nearly cold. Ulfric grabbed the flint and steel off of the little shelf under the stairs and knelt down to strike it, pausing when he heard soft, uneven footsteps behind him.
"You're up early," the Dragonborn said, her voice rasp with sleep. She cleared her throat, nearly choking on her own cough.
"It's past midmorning," Ulfric mentioned, watching a promising spark burn out just as it hit tinder. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Then learn to walk quieter."
A spark caught. Ulfric struck another just in case and let the tinder smolder for a bit before the smoke gave way to a small flame. He placed it along some kindling and watched the fire grow until he was certain it wouldn't go out if someone walked past the hearth too quickly. It was colder in Breezehome than it was outside; he wondered how long the hearth had been neglected. It had already been low when they left for the funeral yesterday.
The air was too tense, but it was a tension Ulfric wasn't in charge of. This was different from him actively deciding to be as cold to the Dragonborn as he could, to ignore her for all but what he felt necessary. Instead of hostile, it felt more like guilt, on both sides. Like they both felt they'd failed. Ulfric didn't know what the Dragonborn had to feel guilty about; Alduin was dead. She won the war. She lived to tell about everything.
"We're leaving for the Blades headquarters soon," the Dragonborn said.
Ulfric stood and glanced over to her. The Dragonborn leaned heavily on the doorway with a cape pulled around her shoulders, its hood resting inside out on her shoulder. "Any reason?" The Blades. She'd mentioned them before, mentioned them as a safe haven for him if she hadn't returned from Sovngarde. He'd always respected the Blades, even if the Graybeards scolded them as weak-minded mercenaries who cast aside allegiances in exchange for power-perhaps it was more apt to say Ulfric respected what the Blades once were, before the Empire corrupted them to be nothing more than a private guard for a weak old man, ignorant of all their thousands of years of history.
"Well, to give the couriers time to deliver my letters, for one," she said. "I'd rather not have to face the entirety of the Solitude guard."
"What? You think some little letter will keep my head on my shoulders?"
"No, no, not that. We're flying there on Odahviing."
"What?" Ulfric waited for the Dragonborn to laugh and say it was a strange little joke, but she didn't.
"I flew from Whiterun to Skuldafn in a few hours," she continued. "From the Throat of the World to Dragonsreach was an hour. I'll bet Odahviing could fly from Solitude to Riften in under a day. Have you any idea how much time that would save? Not to mention we won't have to spend time camping and risk bear attacks or bandits." She supported herself along the wall with one hand, making her way to sit down heavily on the table bench, the other clasping shut the cape. "If you want to walk there, that's fine."
He didn't even know where to begin to protest this. The Dragonborn was unable to walk unassisted, barely able to dress herself, and she wanted to fly to the headquarters of the Blades, wherever it was. If she fell off that dragon, either through losing her shaky grip or just plain passing out, she'd be dead. If she was betrayed-Ulfric didn't put it past Odahviing to be playing some sort of long con to gain as much power as he could-she'd be dead.
"I…Hold on. You want to fly a dragon to the Blades? The group descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard? The same Blades that killed all the surviving dragons from the Dragon War?" The same Blades the Dragonborn said were murdered down to a handful of Agents, Ulfric left unsaid. They'd have little chance against Odahviing with their numbers in such a state.
"Not the same Blades, for the most part," she said. "I'll tell you more after I've checked around for rats and their little listening runes. But yes, getting there on foot is…more trouble than it's worth."
Of course they were being listened in on. He was one of the Thalmor's most valuable assets, after all. He vaguely remembered those Justiciars showing up through a haze of drink-he remembered more the sound of the door opening and the rest of the night was a blur of surprisingly easy conversation. Ulfric waved his hand, because who the Blades currently were didn't much matter, especially when at least one of them had made her so angry to elevate to screaming at the mere messenger. She didn't seem to be much on good terms with the Blades, but she seemed to be on much worse terms with her own health. "Regardless, how soon were you thinking?"
"Well, when's the soonest you can leave?" The Dragonborn asked. "Have you taken any contracts for the Companions, or something of the sort?"
And that's exactly why Ulfric asked, because the Dragonborn came off as allergic to taking a moment to rest, to recover. Ignoring his own arm, bandaged tight to the point where he'd had some difficulty holding forks, let alone a sword or even a dragon, the Dragonborn was obviously in much worse shape. At least he could walk without assistance, if his leg did get a bit numb after all the stairs from the Winds district to the Plains district. It was only the second day since she returned from the land of the dead, and she looked the part. "I'm supposed to get my wounds inspected after a week of healing," Ulfric said. It was the truth, after all, and perhaps a small push was all the Dragonborn needed to go to the Temple of Kynareth herself. He quickly added, "At the Temple of Kynareth."
The Dragonborn frowned. "How many days from now? I'd rather leave as soon as we can."
"Four." Long enough that maybe the Dragonborn would take some time to heal, short enough that she might not complain about the delay. She shrugged, but didn't immediately argue or sigh or scowl. "Perhaps you should go to the Temple-"
"What, so they can delay us even more?" There was that scowl, or most of it. One eyebrow didn't knit; it stayed firm under the stitches keeping her forehead gash intact.
Ulfric weighed his next words carefully, tasting a sour silence in the air. The Dragonborn knew she was wrong and was daring him to disagree, but he had no desire to hear her argue some bullshit point with the same nonexistent logical backing of how she'd keep him safe in Haafingar. "Most people I know with such high self-importance tend to prioritize the care of even minor wounds."
The way she narrowed her eyes, Ulfric figured the next thing out of her mouth would either be some protest or a grudging word about how she'd go just to get him to shut up. And then her face softened to the point where it was almost on the edge of being nonconfrontational, and she opened her mouth, shut it again, and Ulfric decided she couldn't bring herself to admit that he was correct and was scrambling for some semi-related point to deflect the subject.
And then she opened her mouth once more. "What has you suddenly concerning yourself to such lengths about my wellbeing?"
Ulfric blinked for an answer. "I'm not concerned with your wellbeing any more than I would be for anyone else who looks as close to death as you," he said, and the Dragonborn scoffed and shrugged.
"I suppose if you care that much about me, I'll give into your whims and visit the priests," she said.
"I don't-" Ulfric started, but stopped himself halfway when he realized that he did care about her, if only in the way that the Dragonborn cared about him; as a means to an end. "How much do you trust Odahviing?" He asked, trying her method of changing the subject whenever he didn't have a sufficient quip to deflect away.
"In terms of suddenly betraying me? Less than I trust you," she admitted, "but more than I trust the Jarl."
The Dragonborn trusted him more than Balgruuf? She probably meant Jarl Blackbriar. "You understand he's dangerous."
"And? We're both soldiers. Not exactly a profession known for its security."
"Beyond that. Beyond most dragons you've fought, save Alduin," Ulfric pressed. "He commanded the entire dragon army in the closing months of the Dragon War."
"He still commands the dragon army," the Dragonborn said, playing with the tie at the neck of her robe. Her fingers shook as she twisted the loose strings; she couldn't tie it if she tried. "And now I command him."
Ulfric paused. What was her obsession with commanding the leaders of opposing armies? He briefly wondered if she would try and have the Thalmor pledge fealty to her rather than destroy them outright. "He could be playing a long con. Now that Alduin is dead-"
"By my hand," she cut him off. "Were you too drunk to remember that I told you all of this already? I am the strongest dragon. By their timeless customs that makes me their leader as much as Alduin himself once was. Odahviing serves me, his army serves me." She stood with a slight wince and stretched. "Not quite Numidium, but no matter. Let me check that these damned Thalmor haven't been scrying, and then you can make sure I don't stub my toe and keel over dead on the way to the Temple."