"Right, then," the Dragonborn wheezed. She sheathed a sword and brought her hand to hold the hilt of the dagger in her abdomen steady. "Where's Esbern?"
"He's a healer?" Ulfric asked. The enchantments on the Dragonborn's robes flickered around the dagger and died like a candle out of wax, replaced with blooming red over the dull grey and brown fabric. What useless enchantments mages wore, to allow that small dagger to slice through to the hilt.
She shivered and repeated, "Where's Esbern?" The Blades in the courtyard mostly stared at the scene, a few hurrying over to examine it closer, to surround the Dragonborn and inspect Delphine's stilling body, rasping breaths coming in shallow and more of a last reflex than any proof of survival. Ulfric stumbled back, an easy few steps turning to a near fall as his wounded leg burned with every movement on uneven stones. "Go get Esbern!"
"Nine, Nariilu, what did you just do?" A thickly built Nord woman offered a hunched shoulder to the Dragonborn, the other arm holding a greatsword as tall as Delphine had been. The Dragonborn shuddered and half-doubled over, and the woman dropped the sword with an echoing clatter to bring her free hand to hold her chest still. Ulfric almost reached to grab the blade, but it fell away from him.
A Redguard woman moved in, sheathing her sword and taking off her helmet in a smooth, practiced motion, kneeling beside Delphine. She clicked her tongue and closed the woman's eyes, stepping out of the way before the pool of blood from Delphine's neck hit her boots. "Do you think the poison will hurt her? Since she's got dragon blood?" The two Blades stared at each other for a half second. "Someone go get Illia." A Blade covered under armor-Akaviri helmet, Orcish plate mail-nodded and jogged towards the open Temple entrance. She turned to face the small crowd of idling Blades, all clutching weapons. Unsure if the battle was over, if an arrow would come streaking through the skies to strike them down, if the Dragonborn's sword would turn on them next. "And don't bring Esbern here!"
"Poison?" Ulfric asked, the wound on his leg suddenly burning more than it should.
"Don't you get Illia!" The Dragonborn called after the Blade, softly groaning as they disappeared into the Temple. The others in the courtyard idled closer, staring at the scene with wide eyes darting from Delphine's corpse-their Grandmaster-to the three women huddled together to him, grateful to be hidden behind Ebony.
"Calm yourself; it only works on dragons," the Redguard woman said without looking at him, drawing a blue scarf from her waist and balling it up in her hands, a quick jerk of her chin towards the corpse. Delphine twitched once in death, one glassy eye flew open. Nobody seemed to notice the way she stared at him.
"Oh, I've survived worse, you two," the Dragonborn said, still panting. She suddenly ripped the dagger from herself, a choking cry of pain escaping her lips. The Nord woman grabbed her wrist an instant too late, changing her aim to press down on the wound. Blood dripped from her hem. The Redguard woman cursed and thrust the scarf towards her stomach.
"I was there to watch your foolish back," the Nord woman muttered, "and keep you from doing things like that. Sit down."
"Did you give Delphine my message, Uthgerd?" The Dragonborn picked up one foot and tried to walk away; the Nord woman's grip was too strong and she didn't move an inch. Uthgerd, Ulfric figured. He barely recalled seeing her briefly in Whiterun.
"I'll tell you if you sit down," Uthgerd repeated. She pressed her hand over the Redguard woman's, applying more pressure to the wound. "I've got that, Salma."
The Dragonborn didn't sit. "I'm fine."
"Sit down anyways," Salma said, standing to address the courtyard. "Hadran, Anette, take Delphine to the Crypt. The rest of you, go about your day. These…developments don't change anything." She paused and stared off in the sky where Odahviing had disappeared into the mountains. "Go! You all look lost. No reason to be out here in this weather. Gather your thoughts before dinner."
The sky was clear, but most of the Blades seemed to understand and began to shuffle inside, those that didn't were dragged along by others. Hadran and Anette carried Delphine's corpse, both of them obviously inexperienced with hauling dead weight. Ulfric watched a blood trail drip along their path, unmistakable sounds of whispered gossip carried along the wind as the Blades cleared the courtyard.
"Did you tell her or not?" The Dragonborn shivered, doubling over with a hiss, choking out, "Did you?"
"Yes! Yes, I gave her your message!" Uthgerd answered, shifting her weight to grab her under her shoulders, catching her and trying to coax her down. "Just sit."
"Then she knew what was coming," the Dragonborn said, straightening herself. "She made her choice." She pulled her staff out from behind her and leaned heavily on it, pushing into Uthgerd's support, the bloodstained scarf on her stomach. Salma handed her a potion, tipping it back with a free hand and taking a sip. She grimaced and shook her head, taking a longer drink before pulling back and coughing. "That is vile. Stormcloak, try this. It'll make your leg feel like nothing in comparison to the burning in your stomach."
And with that, attention from the two Blades stressing over the Dragonborn moved from her to him. Eyes moved up and down, Salma's deep brown eyes settling on his wounded leg. "Ulfric Stormcloak, huh?" She chuckled, a high, even laugh. "You've got to meet the bear."
Ulfric raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think you'd be the one to threaten him," the Dragonborn muttered, her grip white-knuckled around the staff.
"It wasn't a threat," Salma replied. She gently tossed him a second vial of the potion. "A Wood Elf joined up a few months back. Brought a bear with him, and nobody can pronounce its real name."
"So you named it after me," Ulfric finished. He took a sip of the potion and nearly gagged. Vile was an understatement, but he felt the sting around his wound lessen. Salma shrugged. He bit his tongue against demanding a reason; he didn't know if it would be worse if the nickname was an insult or compliment.
"Should've just called it 'bear'," the Dragonborn said. Her brow glistened with sweat. "Oh, you weren't joking about the poison! What does it do?" She gasped. "Other than-gods, are you feeling this?"
No, out of all the times Ulfric had been stabbed in his life, this was one of the least painful ones. The glancing blow was deflected by leather, the blade sharp enough to leave a clean-feeling gash. And, as nauseating as the potion tasted, it worked quickly against the pain, already down to a distant throb. He shook his head. "She barely grazed me."
"Barely grazed by Mara's Curse, more like, by the stain on your pants," Uthgerd muttered, pressing down harder on the Dragonborn's wound when her laugh quickly turned into a biting cry. "Shut up, it wasn't that funny."
"Compared to being stabbed?" She finished the potion. "It was side-splitting."
A grim Imperial woman in simple purple robes hurried out of the Temple, her shoulders hunching as she sped up towards the Dragonborn. She-Illia, Ulfric figured-rubbed her hands together as she walked, glowing golden light building around them with each movement. "Move." A simple command, and the women made way for her, Uthgerd pulling away the scarf, revealing bloodsoaked robes.
She knelt down in front of the Dragonborn, blocking Ulfric's view. "This is a simple wound. The potions are enough to take care of it," Illia said.
"Well, yes, but the poison-" Salma said.
"The poison only affects dragons," Illia bit back, the glow intensifying. "You know this. I have more important things to do than this."
"She is a dragon!" Uthgerd snapped. "She's the Dragonborn."
Illia paused and sat back. "Oh. How much does it hurt?"
"Could you just go ahead and heal me?" The Dragonborn answered through gritted teeth. "It hurts about as much as a dagger in my stomach usually hurts."
Illia nodded and leaned forwards, her tongue clicking as she inspected the wound again. "Let's get her to the healing room," she said, wiping blood from her hands on a small cloth at her belt. Uthgerd nodded, taking most of the Dragonborn's weight off of her staff.
"What? No, no, you can heal a stab wound here," the Dragonborn protested. "Damn it, I'll close it myself."
"It is healed." Illia stood. "Can you walk?"
Respectful nods turned to whispers behind them, glares and stares in equal measure from Blades and ancient busts. Ulfric followed behind Illia and the Dragonborn, doing her best to not double over in pain, clutching her staff and barely giving more weight to Illia to hold with each step.
Ulfric followed more out of the sheer inability to decide what else he should do than out of obligation from the Dragonborn curtly mentioning that they were finally away from spies and could speak freely; the knowing glance she cast his way sent a chill down his spine with a reminder of her promise to explain 'things'-whatever 'things' were-later. Blades came and tossed water over the blood on the courtyard without waiting for him to step out of range of the splash, making it clear enough that he wasn't particularly wanted outside at the moment.
They passed through intricately carved stone tunnels out of a main chamber, each wall decorated with full-sized reliefs of fully armored Blades facing not-full-sized dragons. Ulfric realized each carving was made so he was able to get a good handle on the forms the Akaviri greatsword required to be used, with the warrior shown making only small movements from one image to the next. Then, after striking the small dragon, a bust or tablet with words in Akaviri separated one form from the next.
Illia pushed at a large stone door, it's stone carving was of a man on his knees with arms outstretched with what must've been Nirn above his head, an infant in one hand and a mess of Daedric symbols in his other. Reman, the Dragonborn ruler of the Second Empire. The Blade Tamer. Ulfric paused at the door to run a hand along impossibly intricate details; perfectly legible labels were wrapped delicately around potions at Reman's knees, and it looked as if his skirt should've swayed when the door opened.
Muffled conversation, a broken cry of pain, came from inside, centering at a grand firepit with carved stone beds along the circular walls. Most of them were stacked with crates, rolls of fabric, pots filled with thriving plants; only three beds were in any usable conditions with thin mattresses laid across them. Light pulsed from glowing mushrooms running up the walls to a neglected skylight high above, casting the place in a dusty orange-blue glow.
The Dragonborn sat leaning on one elbow on the bed closest to the door with Illia sitting beside her on a low stool, wiping a bloody knife on a cloth. The Imperial mage conjured silvery orbs in her palms before pressing them to the Dragonborn's wounds, all the while whispering spells under her breath. The Dragonborn gasped when Illia suddenly drew her hands back in a mimic of pulling a rope, a black and green dripping mass following Illia's spell. "Bowl," she suddenly commanded, staring at the swirling mass she'd pulled from the Dragonborn. Ulfric grabbed a pewter bowl from a stack on one of the beds.
He held it out for Illia to drop the orb into. It settled with a sickening plop, and a sour, rotting smell. Ulfric glanced up at the Dragonborn, and she frowned back at him, a bead of sweat dripping into her eyebrow. This had been removed from her body? "What is that?" Ulfric asked. Illia steadily returned to tending the Dragonborn's wound, pulling another, smaller glob of…something from her, ignoring his question.
She dropped it into the bowl, letting it splash and threaten to spill over the sides. "Dragon poison. An old recipe Esbern found. Dartwings, crushed soul gems, mouse hearts." Illia peered into the bowl. "It's bright orange, usually. Only turns this color after it…well, does whatever it's supposed to do to a dragon."
"Which is?" Illia shrugged in response.
"It hurts is what it does," the Dragonborn said. And it must've been excruciating for her to even admit it.
Ulfric's leg throbbed, despite knowing the potion would've more than healed the cut by now. "And on Nords?"
"It only works on dragons," Illia answered, jerking her chin at his wound. "Worst'll happen to you is a bit of anxiety, if anything. Nausea, perhaps." She pulled more beads of poison from the Dragonborn, finally letting the last drop fall into the bowl. She sat back and sighed, shaking out her fingers. "There."
"Thank you, Illia. I can handle the wound myself, if that's all the poison," the Dragonborn said. She moved a hand over her stomach, worming fingers through the slice in her robes.
"At least take a potion."
"Of course, but a little stab is well within my abilities," the Dragonborn cut off, a furrow in her brow, a muted golden glow from beneath her robes. "And if you could ask Esbern to pull tomes on the founding of the Blades, or the Dragonguard, if the records go back that far, I'd appreciate it. Tell him to expect me in the library…what time is it?"
"Nearly mid-afternoon," she answered.
"Oh, how time flies when you're flying," the Dragonborn laughed once at her own joke. Illia let a snort slip. "Ugh. I suppose tomorrow morning. Old man needs his sleep."
Illia nodded, wiping her hands on her robes and standing. "Consider it done. But, if you do need help with that wound, everyone here knows how to find me." She took the bowl from Ulfric, muttering at him, "Don't let her do anything stupid."
"Stop talking to Uthgerd," the Dragonborn scoffed, waving off Illia with her free hand until the stone door closed behind the mage. "Alright. So, two things."
"We just killed the Grandmaster of the Blades," Ulfric blurted, the adrenaline from flying halfway across Skyrim, from battle finally leaving his blood. He had no idea why the Dragonborn sliced through her neck, why the woman had tried to tackle the Dragonborn, why he jumped between them without even thinking. That was almost the worst of it, how he'd tackled her out of the way the same way he'd risked his own life to come between Vignar and…
Surely the Blade they killed-Grandmaster or not-was less dangerous than her. And, besides, the Dragonborn had her back turned, defenseless with no armor to guard her from poisoned sword and dagger.
The Dragonborn paused. "Delphine's paranoia is the reason we're here. She's-she was-utterly convinced that the dragons' return was the work of the Thalmor. Everything was the work of the Thalmor, to her."
"Is it not?" Ulfric replied. "For all we know, it could have been them that brought back Alduin."
"Alduin was Shouted outside of Time by the first Tongues. I saw it myself in the Elder Scroll."
Ulfric shrugged. "Something had to have brought him back into Time."
"Regardless," the Dragonborn winced and took her fingers away from her side, "Delphine decided that all dragons need to die. Even the loyal, nonviolent, helpful ones." She looked up at him. "Like Paarthurnax."
"Paarthurnax?" Ulfric almost laughed. To think she would consider Alduin's most fearsome ally anything other than cruel, the finality of his own name. He'd wondered a time or two where the dragon was hiding, the only dragon he could think of that was stronger than Odahviing. "Paarthurnax is likely the one brought Alduin back!"
"Paarthurnax and I fought Alduin together," she replied, wiping her own blood on dull robes, "before he fled into Sovngarde. It was actually his idea to capture Odahviing in Dragonsreach."
An awfully cruel fate, knowing that Numinex went absolutely mad within a few years of captivity. Paarthurnax wanted to take control of the dragons, to truly be the uncontested strongest, and he had to take out Alduin and Odahviing to do it. "So, Paarthurnax is dead," Ulfric stated, ignoring how she correlated him with nonviolence, of all things. She'd be his next target, if not, as Odahviing's new master.
"Paarthurnax is a devout follower of the Way of the Voice."
He waited a beat for her to laugh, to follow with a redaction and a quip that she couldn't believe the look on his face. Instead, she met his eyes and watched him go from disbelief to confusion.
"And," she continued, "he's recruited a cabal of dragons to the Way. Seems any dragon that doesn't want to serve me has put their lot in with him. That's the first thing."
"The Way of the Voice," Ulfric repeated.
"Yes."
He sat down hard in a chair. "Paarthurnax is following-"
"The Way of the Voice. He's a Graybeard." The Dragonborn paused. "The Graybeards…Master Arngeir might've mentioned their Grandmaster lives at the top of the Throat of the World?"
"No! It conveniently never came up in a decade!"
She shrugged, and Ulfric felt as if he had dropped in on a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear. He supposed he had. The Graybeards kept the identity of the true master of their order a secret for a reason. "They're not much for conversation."
"I was a Graybeard!"
"Was."
The word hit Ulfric like a knife. The Graybeards had been right to keep him in the dark; he'd left to fight a war, the antithesis of the Way of the Voice. To fight more than one war, ignoring their teachings and Shouting down his enemies. He…he couldn't blame them, not when he'd never made it past Initiate status, his prodigal progress condemned as festering arrogance rather than respect for the gods. He took a deep breath and let it out, automatically falling into the breathing pattern taught to him in High Hrothgar's thin air. "Why would a dragon follow the Way of the Voice?"
"Atonement," she answered. The Dragonborn looked genuinely surprised at how he was taking the fact that the monks who had taught him how to get into contact with the gifts of the gods, who shunned him as he left to fight losing war after losing war, had kept things from him. The same way they kept the more offensive Shouts from him-they certainly knew he would use them, the hot-headed boy he was. Is.
She continued, "Paarthurnax has decided that it's in a dragon's nature to…to dominate." She tripped over the word. "He says it's more effort to control himself than to control others. The Way is, well, his way of redeeming himself from his past."
Ulfric filled in the blanks of what the Dragonborn wouldn't say. That is why you want to be Empress, why you love to have the last word and hate others helping you, even if they're trying to keep you alive. You're a dragon, the strongest dragon, and domination, control is what your Soul is made of. And you don't want redemption, you never think you'll need it. "If the Greybeards accept them as their leader, I have nothing but respect for him." He watched her eyes widen; she'd expected him to take this poorly. And he would, later, when he had the time and mental stability to analyze how the Greybeards knew from day one that he was a flighty aggressive boy who would never follow the Way in anything other than outward appearances. To be a Graybeard as nothing more than a façade of tradition; what else of his culture was a farce? "Turning to benevolence when all he ever knew was cruelty takes a rare fortitude."
"Well, seeing as he and the Greybeards want to keep his existence a secret, I've told Uthgerd-she's the Nord woman who was in Whiterun, briefly, did you see her?, and she was out on the courtyard, with the greatsword-that most of Paarthurnax's deeds were fabrications by Alduin, embarrassed to have a brother with wings too weak to fly and too much compassion to senselessly murder," she said. "I didn't have to lie about how damned nice he is. He'll teach anyone to Shout, if they can make it up to him."
"If the Greybeards allow it." Ulfric bit his tongue.
The Dragonborn shrugged. "If I allow it. I can take you to meet him, if you want. We can fly there, or walk up the Seven-Thousand Steps the traditional way. I'll Shout away the storm for you-actually, I could teach you the Clear Skies Shout. Or another one."
"Do you even know how to teach a Shout? It's not natural for me," Ulfric replied. "It would take years of near-constant meditation for us both, synchronized in thought until I harmonize with your understanding of just one Word. And your understanding of Words of Power is different from mine; a dragon Soul and a mortal Soul don't Shout in the same way."
"On the other hand, it might be more efficient for me to teach, since I have an intrinsic understanding of the Thu'um rather than an acquired one. It might be worth a try, regardless. Anyways, that's the first thing, keeping Paarthurnax's true location and identity secret. I figured you'd want to know," the Dragonborn said. Ulfric wasn't sure what to make of the fact that she told him the maybe-truth, the hard-to-believe-but-somehow-made-everything-fit facts the Greybeards kept from him rather than the of-course-that-makes-perfect-sense lie she gave to the Blades. "She wanted me to kill him. She said the Greybeards were traitors for harboring a dragon, that they were being corrupted by Paarthurnax." She paused, looking up at him.
She wanted him to weigh in, to agree with her, or maybe with Delphine, tell her that the Greybeards should never have any dragon influence on their philosophy. But half their philosophy was reverence of the dragons' knowledge, their blessings from the gods to be able to use the Thu'um with such power, and the other half was focused on returning the Divines' blessings to them through meditation and silence and disuse of the Voice. Ulfric had always considered it a bit hypocritical to worship a gift they were never supposed to actually use as it was most effective.
The Dragonborn continued. "So I want to reform the Blades. I discussed it with Master Arngeir a bit, and you can imagine the ideas he had. He and I agreed that there's no reason to kill any dragons that don't pose a threat."
"You mean Odahviing, and any other dragon that does what you say."
She shrugged. "Well, yes. Delphine was paranoid before anything else. She spent most of her life in hiding, and the rest of it trying to destroy the Thalmor by herself," she said. "She obsessed over threats that weren't even there. One time I saw her kill a rabbit because she swore it's eyes flickered, and so it was enchanted by the Thalmor to spy on her."
"They can do that?"
"No, that's not how Illusion works. Illusion enhances what's already there," the Dragonborn explained, "like fear, courage, aggression; emotions only. I tried to tell her that the dragons were either revived by Alduin or in hiding for the past thousand years. That only made me more suspicious to her."
Most people weren't rushing to sympathize with dragons, Ulfric figured. And of course a Blade would hate the Thalmor almost as much as he did; once, the roads had been lined with heads of Blades who were lucky enough to get a swift death.
"Esbern is a lot more well-adjusted," she said. "He was a Lore-Keeper, the historian of Cloud Ruler Temple. He's the Blade that was hiding in the Ratway. I guess we'll be discussing things with him, unless you've been hiding a knack for necromancy this whole time."
"What, exactly, are your plans for the Blades?" Ulfric asked. He quickly added, "How long have you been planning this?"
"This this?" she pointed at the floor, "Or this this?" She gestured around to the entire room. Ulfric bit his tongue. "The Blades have been a part of my plan since I found them, even more so once the Greybeards named me Ysmir after I returned the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller."
The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the Jagged Crown, the Dragon Claws, was there a lost artifact she couldn't find?
"But this," the Dragonborn continued, "I knew I'd have to make changes with how Delphine believed the Blades should operate after she somehow found out about Paarthurnax and then ordered me to kill him. You know they withdrew from the Emperor's side after the Oblivion Crisis, right? For one, it's a certain level of legitimacy for me, both as Dragonborn and as Talos."
Ulfric shivered as she referred to herself as Talos. He shivered again when she didn't drop dead from drawing Talos' ire with false claims. "So, you want your own personal Blade bodyguards." It seemed rather mundane, compared to suddenly gaining control over a dragon army, mantling Talos.
"Well, I think there's a certain amount of nuance here," she explained. "Personally, I don't trust the Penitus Oculatus in the slightest. They certainly have to go. But bodyguards? I'm not sure I need bodyguards, not for a while, at least. I'd much rather the Blades serve as a Dragonguard around Skyrim. You see, I've started a few settlements-this isn't entirely relevant-"
"Lydia told me," Ulfric cut in, "about Lakestad and Windview. I figured they were more for economic holdings than political gains." A source of income outside of robbing crypts.
"Lakeview and Windstad. They are political, since I had to own property in half the Holds to become a Thane there." The Dragonborn sighed. "They won't turn a profit for years, decades maybe, for all the Septims I was charged for the land. But I haven't got any defenses for them except for my Housecarls and a few of the settlers are soldiers, and people might be a bit more fond of a Dragonguard defending them rather than, well, actual dragons. Or mercenaries. Officially, the Blades were destroyed in the Great War, and I say we keep it that way. It'll give us plausible deniability to recruit openly to the "Dragonguard", instead of taking whatever survivors of dragon attacks the Blades come across.
"I also hate the idea of the Blades more or less hiding in this Temple," she continued, "and there isn't much need for them to slay every dragon they come across, anymore. I'm sure there will be a few stragglers, but I'd rather risk a dragon than a person's life. The Dragonguard will start out small, in Lakeview, and, hopefully, be popular enough to spread throughout the Empire. And, eventually, to end the Thalmor."
'I want a loyal army with garrisons in every city.' Ulfric wondered if this was how Galmar felt when he first explained his grand, flawless plan to kick the Empire and Dominion out of Skyrim once and for all. "You already have the dragons. Why would you even risk the Blades?"
"Dragonguard. The Blades were slaughtered in the Great War," she clarified. "Do you think a dragon could do the work of a town guard? Or even that of a shieldband? The rebirth of the Dragonguard aligns with the rebirth of the Empire, the True Empire, as Akatosh intended, as well. But I wouldn't mean to risk them for much, since I have a dragon army. I don't mean to use the Dragonguard like a Legion. Not nearly enough of them, for one."
"But enough of them to do your bidding," Ulfric said. Bidding, he hated the word. Wuunferth always tossed it in with a chuckle when Ulfric asked for potions, enchanted weapons to distribute to his army, to identify a scroll the guard confiscated from the Grey Quarter, the impossibly old man's idea of a joke added on to an otherwise stiff agreement.
She nodded. "The last time I was here, it was months ago. Before I even found the Elder Scroll. So, about a year ago? Anyways, there were only five Blades recruits, and now-well, you saw how many were in the courtyard. I'm sure there's more than that; they go around hunting dragons, mostly in the Reach. So, yes, I imagine more will join once the Dragonguard spreads beyond this damned mountain."
"And what if they don't accept your ideas, reforms?"
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Well, you just killed their Grandmaster, for one."
Her lips thinned, and, to Ulfric's swell of pride, she paused a second too long before responding. "She wasn't fit to be Grandmaster in the slightest!" She took a sharp breath. "She wouldn't've even gotten into her precious Sky Haven Temple if it weren't for me. That bitch had no idea what I've done for her. Oh, damn." The color drained from her face.
"What is it?" Ulfric asked. "The poison?"
"No, no, I'm fine. Really, this time," the Dragonborn said. "But…but I didn't mean to keep this from you. I try not to think about it-I don't look back on it fondly, I honestly forgot I did it? Or try to forget. It was a bad situation that turned out…alright in the end, but-"
"What is it?"
"The first time I was in Markarth, I was framed for murder." She paused. "And Talos worship. I was arrested in the Shrine. Framed! Framed, for the murder, that is. I didn't kill anyone, not in the criminal sense, at least."
"You think I'd have an issue with you being framed?" Ulfric asked. Like they hadn't both been framed for better and worse than murder. Like they both hadn't committed treason. Like she hadn't just killed a woman ten minutes prior.
"It's more about why I was framed and what happened in Cidhna Mine. I went there to investigate the sudden death of an Imperial spy on orders from General Tullius. Long, complex story short, the spy had been killed by a Forsworn because she was getting close to figuring out that the Silverbloods were paying off Madanach to run the Forsworn from the Mine. All Madanach had to do was keep the Forsworn from bothering the Silverbloods' business."
"Madanach? He was executed twenty-five years ago! I personally turned him over to Igmund."
"And Jarl Igmund turned him over to the Silverbloods."
And the Silverbloods put him in Cidhna Mine, a horrible place with a horrible reputation of having petty thieves die from backbreaking labor in mere days. Better than an execution. Much more befitting a fool who would call Daedra worshipping and murder 'liberation'. "Where he rots."
"Where he commanded the Forsworn on the payroll of the Silverbloods."
Ulfric scoffed. Few were hurt more in the Forsworn Rebellion than the Silverbloods. He'd cut down many flayed corpses of their cousins and allies on his campaign, the lucky ones held up by nooses, others reanimated by their hags. "Ridiculous."
"You said the same thing about Maven Blackbriar," the Dragonborn blinked, her face steeled and still pale. Ulfric frowned and sat back, letting her keep telling her story. He liked it less and less with every word. "Anyways, the Forsworn tried to have me killed, the Silverbloods tried to have me killed, the Guard had me arrested for meddling with getting their cut of the money, the Thalmor Justiciar in the city added on a second life sentence for getting arrested in the Talos Shrine, it was all a very messy situation." She held up her hands almost apologetically, like she was embarrassed for putting salt in a pie instead of sugar. "But to get to the point, after…after I was…in Cidhna Mine, I met Madanach."
"You're here to kill me for him," Ulfric said, standing and drawing his sword. For no reason, because if that were true, he'd be dead a hundred times over. But, more importantly, Igmund was proud that few survived to serve their entire sentence in the Mine, and here she was, walking free after two life sentences.
"What? No, no, no, what would that help?" She genuinely scrambled for words, a bit of color back in her face, and Ulfric felt ridiculous. He sheathed his sword with as much dignity as he could muster; the Dragonborn relaxed a bit back into her cot, biting her lip. She let her hands drift to the belt holding her sword sheathes, working the buckle free. She placed her swords on the table. "But have you figured it out yet? How I escaped?"
Ulfric stared at her sheathes. Murdering half the Markarth Guard was the more agreeable method swirling through his mind, the other-
"How we escaped?"
Ulfric fumed, stood up, picked another bowl from the supply table, threw it hard enough against the wall that a chunk of stone flew. "You let Madanach go? Do you have any idea what he's done to Skyrim? Thousands slaughtered for the crime of having Nord blood in their veins, honest farmers and miners turned to slaves and servants of the Witchmen!" He ranted, and the Dragonborn pressed her lips together and looked off to a point somewhere on the floor. "The Forsworn cut children open for their still-beating hearts."
She frowned. "I'm not sure if that's-look. There were about thirty powerful Forsworn in Cidhna Mine, and I was the only one with enchantments on my chains, the only one without a blade. No magic, no weapons, nothing! Madanach escaped, and was grateful that I revealed the Silverbloods' betrayal to him. He let me follow along down a tunnel they'd been mining out for twenty years. So, yes, Madanach is out there. But that's beside the point."
"How is that beside the point?"
"It's impossible to get to Sky Haven Temple except through Karthspire!" The Dragonborn argued. "Do you have any idea how many Forsworn live down there? We never could've made it here if it weren't for Madanach's blessing."
"What in here could be so important that you'd ally yourself with monsters?" Ulfric scoffed and chucked another bowl. "Some dusty carvings?" He tasted blood in his mouth as a carving lost his head. He bit harder against his cheek, tongue, grimacing against the sharp taste, horrible words of the Dragonborn.
"Dammit, Alduin's Wall is here, about my Prophecy and how to defeat him. Did you want me to go chasing after Alduin with no idea if he could even die?" She winced as the destroyed carving scraped along the floor. "Stop that."
He threw another, savoring the sound of pewter against stone against stone.
"This is stupid. You're a politician. You should know-"
"I was a politician."
The Dragonborn bit her cheek. "And you will be again, if you quit acting like…this! How many difficult alliances have you made in your life? I just needed to get passage into this Temple. He'll die, the Forsworn will die, as soon as they've moved beyond Sky Haven. I've killed my fair share of Forsworn Cultists, too, if that makes you feel any better."
Ulfric frowned. "You've allied the Blades-"
"Dragonguard."
"-with the Forsworn, no matter how small that alliance is, it still exists," Ulfric spat. "You can say you had to all you want-"
"I did, Stormcloak. By the Nine, I did 'have to'!" the Dragonborn spat back, rising to stand. "You and an entire army couldn't break through Karthspire's defenses! I had myself and six others. An opportunity arose and I took it."
"What did Madanach get in return?"
"From me? Nothing," she said. "All I did for Madanach was tell him how the Silverbloods betrayed him. That's it. He was planning his escape for the coming weeks, regardless of if I'd ended up in that hell or not. I don't even know where he is now, but the Forsworn in Karthspire know not to attack any Blade-Dragonguard that passes through."
Ulfric scoffed. "Madanach doesn't grant requests in exchange for carrying messages. No, he's notorious for killing messengers, even his own, sacrificing them to whatever Daedra he cares to.
"Maybe he didn't twenty years ago." She placed her hands firmly on her waist. "But now? He's old. He won't last long, and the Forsworn will collapse into a dozen tribes once their leader is dead."
"You didn't want to make a martyr out of him," Ulfric hissed.
The Dragonborn had the gall to roll her eyes. "No, Stormcloak, I would've gladly made a martyr of Madanach. But when you're defenseless and surrounded by dozens of people with weapons, magic?" She thrust a finger at him, stepping towards him, each word just shy of anger. "Don't try and say you wouldn't've done your damnedest to live another day."
"If it meant compromising all that I stood for? I'd sooner fall upon my blade."
"I didn't compromise shit." Step. "I didn't even have a choice!" Another step. "Perhaps I don't have the history with him that you do, but I wasn't exactly pleased with the circumstances I made my little 'alliance' in. And that 'alliance' is in a position where I can end it, alright?" A third step, a finger poking into his chest plate as she glared up at him, a gentle chill radiating from where she pressed on his armor. "So, do you want to kill Madanach? Or, we could just let Odahviing eat him; I do not care in the slightest."
"I'd rather kill Igmund for keeping that witch alive," Ulfric admitted. That rot of a boy had betrayed his trust, his own father's legacy and vengeance, for…for what? For the Silverbloods? He had long known Igmund was a milkdrinker who only looked out for his own slimy ass, but the Silverbloods were to be put in power when his armies conquered the Reach again. The Silverbloods, who put Madanach in Cidhna Mine, a horrible place with a horrible reputation of having petty thieves die from backbreaking labor in mere days, a sentence arguably more appropriate than an execution in its own way. The Silverbloods, who, if the Dragonborn spoke truthfully, let Madanach rule the Forsworn, all while likely providing him all the wine and cakes he could ask for.
And the Reach was such a swill of a Hold, the only Hold other than Hjaalmarch that openly accepted a Thalmor Justiciar, the Hold that had arrested him with a shrug and such nonchalance after he half-liberated it, the Hold that was such a fortress of secrecy he could never get any reliable intel, barely a letter in and out; Ulfric could easily accept that it was as corrupt as she claimed. And her discomfort with the topic, this wasn't like when she discussed her own treason, no. Her tone was more akin to when she gave him his Thalmor Dossier, all unpleasant memories met with firm resolve. If he'd met her unease then like he was now, he'd have accused her of forging the entire book.
"Then we can kill him, too," she replied. "Never liked him. Truth be told, I hate Markarth. We should make an example out of the entire Hold. Demonstrate the dragons' power by wiping out the Forsworn." She paused, face softening, cold pressure dissipating from his chest plate. "The 'alliance' with them was just to secure passage into the Temple. That's it. I swear on my life, and even at the time I said that we'd clear Karthspire as soon as we could-you can ask Esbern or Uthgerd, or even Lydia about that. I told you this in pursuit of full transparency. If we hadn't flown here, I would've told you as soon as we were away from the Thalmor's prying ears."
"Fine. Let's kill them," Ulfric bit. "All the Forsworn, all their camps, before you drag me to Solitude to die." The Dragonborn bit down on a smile. He held up a hand and took a step back; she was too close, where she could just reach out a hand and touch him again-some spells required touch, right? "And, now that we're away from 'prying ears', we need to discuss everything else. Everything."