The draugr led them inside a carved chamber and city that dwarfed Sky Haven Temple. The walls weren't as ornately decorated, but totemic pillars reached high above their heads, channeling smoke from fires burning along their bases. The tiered city of Skuldafn was mirrored inside, growing grander as the main road inside the mountains deepened. And deepened. And deepened. Buildings rose two, three stories along the road, side roads disappearing every so often to other parts of the city. Ulfric was almost struck with the knowledge that Skuldafn wasn't even close to the largest dragon cult stronghold.
But, he was exhausted from a day of keeping himself upright, always prepared if Odahviing would suddenly toss them like an unbroken horse. Exhausted after a night of poor sleep; another night of poor sleep in a long string of nights with horrible sleep. And the Dragonborn looked just as exhausted, having started her morning with the beginnings of a massacre that would rival his from twenty years ago.
The thought of her finishing two wars that he had started left a sour taste in his mouth.
Finally, the draugr saw fit to lead them into a temple, ancient and imposing, carved in that grand Nordic style that Windhelm was built from. The Dragonborn must have noticed it, too, judging from the uneasy look over her shoulder she gave him as they paused at the entrance.
The draugr opened the massive doors for them-a dragon had no reason to do her own manual labor, one of the priests explained- revealing a grand hall decorated in flaked gold leaf, sparkling with thousands of gems. A full-sized statue of a dragon in flight took up the center of the temple, offering trays of incense and overflowing with gold and gems laid at regular intervals along the circular dais it rested on.
Tiered stairs wove around the walls, apexing on the opposite side of the entrance. And a real dragon dozed in the corner, opening one eye lazily. The draugr bowed in his direction, and the dragon huffed back to sleep. One of the escorting priests floated above the dragon statue to the top of the stairs, knocking on the door with the heel of his hand.
The doors opened with the same red spell that the Dragonborn had been using earlier, and a dragon priest in tattered golden robes emerged, looking far better preserved than the rest of the draugr, greeting them with a snarl that, after a quick explanation from the other draugr, became a comparably pleasant-sounding drem yol lok and an introduction that her name was Koraav. And then she stumbled along Ulfric's name, confused that he didn't have a title like the Dovahkiin did. Aavii, her servant, she decided.
"Deinii," Ulfric firmly corrected, even if calling himself her Guard, predecessor to Housecarl, gave him a weight in his stomach. It wasn't lightened knowing that the Dragonborn had no idea what he was calling himself. Better than her servant, even if that was the technicality of his position, even if she saw him as some twisted near-equal. Definite equal. The dragon cult would never accept a Nord to be on the same level of someone with a dragon's Soul.
Koraav led them to a neglected, cobwebbed, dusted room that had once housed the lower priests in life, a room that connected easily to both the catacombs and the main temple. It was a sparse place-the dead had no use for such a living-oriented space-ten metal bedframes on either side of a moth-eaten rug, ironically embroidered with Kyne's moths, desks and wardrobes for each priest that had once called the place home. The draugr soldiers laid down the bag of supplies, most continuing on to the catacombs, four moving to stand at attention at the open temple doors, another four getting to work making the room somewhat presentable for the living, a final two carrying wood to hearths and lighting them with a spell.
Ulfric almost felt bad when a draugr's finger fell behind as he shut the catacomb doors. And then he felt worse-that had been someone's son, it could be his however-many-greats uncle for all he knew. They'd been forgotten for centuries; he'd known and done nothing about it while he went about respecting and honoring the more stationary, easy to access dead.
The Dragonborn made short work of leaning her staff against a wardrobe, digging in the bag for the bedrolls, setting them aside, digging again until she pulled out a sack of food. Traveling food; preserved meats and hard cheeses and dried fruits, all foods that Ulfric had grown sick of decades ago. She ate like she had been starving for days. Handfuls at a time disappeared. "Are you alright?"
"Magicka fatigue," she replied, like that explained everything. She must've caught his blink, interpreting it as confusion rather than understanding, continuing thickly around a mouthful, "It happens to mages when we run low on magicka." Swallow. "Some get headaches, nosebleeds. Some get…get nauseated. Others, starving." She shuddered around a bite. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed before now. I've probably eaten my body weight every day since going to the Temple of Kynareth. Don't usually replace breakfast with a potion, though."
"I saw it in Whiterun," Ulfric reminded her, before the Porch. He prayed she wouldn't pass out for a day; the Draugr eyes were piercing even if he knew they couldn't understand a word he was saying. "Has it been that red spell?"
"Telekinesis? No, no," she said. She started to grab more food, pausing and clenching her fist instead. "I've been healing myself each day, and I used more magicka this morning than I meant to. And, you're not supposed to take magicka potions multiple times a day. But, I'm alright, much better compared to a week ago."
"I didn't know you could use spells that weren't…ice." He didn't know what the technical name for them was, but Ulfric hoped that was enough to prod her into explaining. He had her honestly on his side; she would do about anything to get him to trust her.
"I was a Battlemage. Certainly you've seen a few in war," the Dragonborn replied, and she seemed unwilling to continue. Ulfric was almost unwilling to hear her out, even if she did. Battlemages were…deadly. He refused all but Wuunferth during the Great War, citing how similar their techniques were to the Thalmor Justiciars. Rage, Battlefury, artificial health coursing through his veins as if he were still on muddy, bloody fields decades ago- "I'm more specialized than most, but I still have an amount of general knowledge in the magical arts."
He nodded, letting it sit at that. Ulfric didn't want to discuss what a Battlemage should and shouldn't know, how he'd seen them sunder and kill and rip flesh from bone on the battlefield. How the Draugr's pinprick blue eyes stared ahead at nothing, straight through him. Ulfric busied himself inspecting the carvings on the wall, letting the ancients' totemic gods wash over him, judge him.
"Let me teach you Dragonrend," she suddenly said, breaking a long bit of silence.
Ulfric scoffed before he realized what she'd said. "You've no idea what it takes for the rest of us to learn to Shout."
"Let me at least try." He looked at her, meeting adamant determination with his own skepticism. "The Greybeards gifted me knowledge, and I think I could try and do the same to you."
Ulfric raised an eyebrow.
"I saw you on the Great Porch; you realized what I was doing to Odahviing," the Dragonborn said. "At least try. It might save your life, if one of these dragons gets some stupid ideas."
Joor zah frul. Mortal. Finite. Temporary.
Words that rarely showed up in ancient dragon cult texts, never appeared in any sort of Shout. Joor, that curse they'd both been taunted with by Odahviing.
Words that brought dragons to their knees, Alduin to his death.
Words that he knew damn well. Years spent wasted in captivity had taught him that, ruling over ungrateful Elves that would long outlast him had given him some knowledge of just how they cursed him over watered down drinks.
Temporary. His life on Nirn was nothing but a few decades to spend, to do his part and hope that his successor-Freewinter-would do something to honor that life. But other than that? He had no successor, none that would fight for his Clan. The Stormcloak line ended with him, a legacy thousands of years in the making.
Finite. Not a thing could stop the Wheel from turning upon his death, sooner or later, he didn't care in the slightest. He wished he cared, almost cared. Cared only as much as he could improve his position in life.
Mortal. The curse both he and the Dragonborn shared. Him more than she; with her divine mantling. The best he could hope for was Sovngarde, the worst awaiting her was reincarnation thousands of years in the future to some other hotheaded Soul. The worst he could pray against was to be sundered by Tsun, his Soul cast into fragments along with thousands of others.
Yes, he knew what the Words meant. He'd seen what they could do to an immortal dragon.
And he had no desire to make them suffer as they did to him.
But-"Alright, how do you suppose you'll teach me?" More of a curiosity than anything else. When the Graybeards had taught him the Words he knew, they left all but the barest definitions for him to discover on his own. They'd forced him to learn the true meanings through grueling meditations, long days and nights spent contemplating every possible way he could understand Force. Balance. Push. Weapon. Hand. Defeat. It was no wonder he'd gotten better at Disarming over the years.
She bit her cheeks. "I think you already know the Words."
He did. But to embrace such a horrid consequence-Ulfric could hardly bear to imagine how much agony it brought to a dragon. That agony he'd have to embody to Shout at a dragon, to leave it in an excruciating truth that the rest of the world experienced without a second thought.
"You have to accept it," the Dragonborn said, like she knew what he was thinking. Perhaps she did, perhaps that was another of her Battlemage talents, perhaps she reveled in leading him to conclusions he'd thought he'd come up with himself. "What it does. What it feels like. Do you want to know what it feels like to a dragon?"
He hesitated, knowing how Odahviing suffered each time she decided to Shout at him. What it must be like to be timeless, immortal, to be faced with death. Death, Ulfric had faced too much. He nodded.
"Go ahead and Shout at me," she said, shifting her weight until she was almost centered. Her leg was still bothering her, her shoulder had been set back into its socket but pained her enough that she was taking great care to only move her arm below her elbow.
Ulfric had a sudden flashback to the last time he'd Shouted at her, sending her Daedric sword flying across his throne room the second she entered, Tullius and his other Legate behind her.
"Joor, zah frul!" he Shouted. Didn't Shout, not at all. His throat hadn't opened in the way it was supposed to, he hadn't felt the Words travel through his body and leap from his tongue. Ulfric tried again, "Joor, zah frul!" Nothing. "It probably doesn't work on people."
"Joor, zah frul!" The Dragonborn Shouted at him, and Ulfric felt his hair gray and his joints freeze, aches in his bones and dust in his throat. A second later, he felt…his right age again. "Did it work?" He must have paused a second too long before shaking his head, because she followed with, "It looked like it did. The ones who created the Shout, they hated dragons with every fiber of their being. What do you hate that much?"
That Thalmor bitch-he didn't dare even think her name lest he break down in sobs, nausea. She didn't need to know how badly he was still affected by her. His arm tingled under bandages-the wounds had faded to pink scars that he couldn't bear to look at. Who else did he hate? The Thalmor. The Empire. Fools. How the Empire and the Elves saw fit to walk over whoever they wanted just to line their purses and weave gold into their tunics. Those who were content to wallow in pity rather than getting off their sorry asses to do something about it-
"Good. Try imagining that you're Shouting at that."
He did, and it didn't feel any different. "I told you; nobody can learn Shouts like you can," Ulfric said. "Give me a few months, and maybe I'll know the first Word."
"Let me at least try to teach you," she protested. "Do you know how the Graybeards did it?"
"How should I know?" It came out harsher than he intended it to, but he hadn't even known that was something the Graybeards could do. They loved keeping secrets from him. "I had to learn the proper way."
Her eyes twitched and she bit her lip. "Then let's meditate on the Words together. That's how the Graybeards-and Paarthurnax-taught me."
"It won't work."
"It'll at least be a start to your 'few months,'" she argued. "Got anything better to do? Want to go talk to the draugr? I think one of them looked a bit like you-"
"Fine. Let's try it," he nodded, more to get her to shut up than anything. Every day, she was getting closer to her normal ranty, bantery self, and Ulfric wasn't sure if he was excited to hear her go on and on about the gods knew what at most waking hours.
She nodded back, spreading out one of her bedrolls on the floor of the temple barracks. A cleaning draugr growled lightly in protest, more surprised than any malice in its tone. The Dragonborn sat down cross legged, gesturing for him to join her. "The Graybeards did this standing, in the snow, but I don't want to go back outside, and here's just as good as any other-"
Ulfric sat down, silencing her rambling. He placed himself on the far side of the bedroll, barely on the fabric. The stone floor was uncomfortable, and his armor did nothing to help. The plate pressed through to his thighs, a memory of Delphine's dagger stinging on his leg.
Her lips disappeared, fingers clenching and unclenching on her knees. "Now, breathe like a dragon."
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" He pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside, resting his hands on his knees.
"Shut up and meditate."
Ulfric dropped into a meditation too easily out of pure fatigue; he skipped his normal rituals of counting down to a deeper, slower place within himself, instead falling right into a blank, empty darkness with the ease of a lifetime of practice. It had been his normal center for meditating for years, and a good reason for why he'd been slipping down to meditation multiple times a day, to once a day, to a few times a week, to maybe once a month. Gone were the snowy peaks overlooking Windhelm, only a dark void to keep him alone with his thoughts. Except the Dragonborn was there, across from him, sitting in the void. A good sign, that they were on the same vibration level.
She wasn't quite into her meditation yet, Ulfric could tell by the tension in her body. The stillness, deathly cold that held her firm in its grasp. He didn't dare coax her down as her translucent, shimmering Soul slowly expanded from her physical body until it rest just over her like an enchantment. The Dragonborn wrinkled her nose, shook her head, blinked. "What?"
He bit his tongue against a taunt about how long it had taken her to fall into meditation, an electrifying jolt against his right side from…"Nothing," he answered. "This is going well so far." Ulfric looked down at himself-he was wearing his Jarl's robes, rather than the ebony armor he was actually wearing. His throat thickened; he couldn't change his attire without her noticing, and that would invite questions of why he felt he still deserved a Jarl's attire, why his subconsious hadn't caught on to all the failures he'd faced over the past few months.
"You would say that," she replied, and instantly tried to take it back. She wore her same Graybeard robes, in touch with her physical self, no inward lying about her current state. Only, when she gestured with her hands, they were covered in fresh wounds. Her face was, too. Her lips were split at three different places, one eye swollen and bloodied to the point where the whites of her eyes weren't visible-she almost looked full-blooded Dark Elf. He didn't dare look down to check the state of his own wounds, scars. "Damn. Sorry, it's been a while since I've meditated with anyone. I forgot how things just…you know, spill out. I did this with Paarthurnax, last."
She really did have no idea what she was doing. This was stupid, beyond stupid, allowing her to try and show him how a dragon understood the very Shout designed to decimate them. "Concentrate," Ulfric found himself saying, extending his hands like he was the one teaching her and not the other way around. "Take it slowly. Simple. One Word at a time." Words he could just as easily hear Master Arngeir saying, soft voice clear over relentless winds in the monastery courtyard.
The Dragonborn placed a single fingertip on each of his palms, the lightest, barest, damning of touches.
Mortal. Mortal! I am mortal, like no other, like none before after evermore. I am mortal. We are mortal. Mortal, a burning horrible failure, we are a failure, we will never be great, because we are mortal, never immortal, never never never never never! How awful it is to be doomed to death-we will never die, never. Living through tomes words tales legends praise worship. We will survive until time itself is doomed…but we are mortal. We will die like the worthless.
Ulfric yanked his hands back, shivering from the overwhelming assault of her energy towards his. The Dragonborn herself stayed in her meditation, eyes uncomfortably closed, arms outstretched, palms down. Connecting to him, not the other way around. She hadn't felt his discomfort-this is what she lived with constantly. And who was the we in her Soul? Some horrible shudder ran through him-a mortal dragon's understanding of what it meant to be Mortal. The Dragonborn muttered to herself, words running into each other so quickly that Ulfric couldn't comprehend. He listened a bit closer, she was speaking Dov, her understanding of the Words was in Dov. It made enough sense, he figured.
He considered returning from his meditation, breaking them both out of it. It was an easy return; they hadn't been meditating for long, and they were floating just under the surface of consciousness. The Dragonborn sat across from him, physically and spiritually in the same state. She'd gone deeper as she focused on the Words, a tension locked in her body, a shimmer as her Soul didn't quite match up with her body.
Ulfric stood and circled her physical body, her spiritual body, looking for a single difference to note. Nothing. Not a hair out of place, her Soul looked like…her, not a dragon. He counted the months since Helgen, the months since the Graybeards had Shouted a summons to her-a far cry from the decades she'd need-they'd both need-to master the metaphysical side of Shouting.
No, her Soul was different, just in that ghostly wounds marred her soft hands, clean and smooth with new skin on her physical form. She sat with her palms down, unreceptive to any energy, wisdom the gods could send her way. Ulfric reached for her wrists to turn them over, so that he would be the one in control of receiving whatever she had to give-he had been trying to guide her through teaching a single Word of Power, why had it twisted into a near assault?
And he brushed against her wrists-
Finite. How we are limited in number. Limited in power. Yes, our power is finite. Finite. Finite! What a failure we are, to be nothing more than quantifiable power. Quantifiable numbers. We will never be true, true power. Limitless. We were destined to be limitless. Steal the gods, seal the gods, become the gods. How shall we take what is ours? How, how, how dare you keep us from our destiny? Destiny, written before the beginning of time, written by the gods we will overthrow. Delusion, he'd said, she'd made him say, was our-my destiny. Mine. And I will rule…finite. Bound by my body. How cruel it is that I have been blessed so, to be cursed with such horrible fate as death. My wealth will always be finite, my power will always be finite, my life…will always be…never enough…
Ulfric fell to his knees, sobbing. The sheer hopelessness she felt in the Shout…the sheer rage. At the gods, for cursing her to be a dragon in everything but body, at herself, just for being cursed. That fear, that pain. He choked on his tears, his own failures, his worthlessness…would be used to Shout down a dragon. To protect the good people of Skyrim against the dragons that wouldn't bow to her.
Rage, helplessness, that's where she drew power from. A legacy she never felt she could live up to; the legends of old are legendary for a reason. The Dragonborn was caught between two halves of herself-Ulfric wondered if she hated both. He certainly hadn't picked up on any positivity, but, granted, they were meditating on a horrible Shout that was created to destroy the very essence of dragons.
He dreaded going back in for the third Word, wondered if he should give it a rest and leave her to meditate by herself. Leaving her to…to this, what she embodied each time she Shouted Dragonrend. Hatred, for herself, the gods, Ulfric couldn't decide which was more prominent. Self-hatred, Ulfric could understand. He could use that, twist it into a Shout that would turn a dragon to dust. If her understanding of the last Word was more loathing, anger, disgust at herself, it would be no issue to take those feelings for himself.
The Dragonborn shuddered in her meditation, rolling her shoulders and baring her teeth. A low growl escaped her between curses in Dov he knew she didn't understand, not really. He sat down across from her once more, hesitating to make the connection for a third and final time. One more word, one more damned word. And then he'd be done forever. Maybe. This was probably all for nothing; all this hatred and pain and rage he felt rolling through her into him was nothing more than a way to waste an evening. How could he understand a dragon's-a Dragonborn's-understanding of Words of Power? This was a waste of time.
He opened his mouth to say as much, to break her from her meditation, but stopped. Here she was, baring her Soul to him. What she hated, what she craved, what she cursed-it had very little to do with dragons at all. Mostly it was about her, her failures to live up to impossible standards. Mantling Talos…she felt more pressure from that than from being Dragonborn, from being destined to slay Alduin. And it didn't seem much like she wanted to talk about it.
Ulfric stared at her outstretched hands for too long, listening to her whispered words, too quiet for him to understand. She'd made herself vulnerable, far too vulnerable to him. He could attack and kill her at any point, if he wanted revenge. She was foolish for leaving herself so utterly defenseless to him. For trusting him. Why in Oblivion did she trust him? Why had she always trusted him, from the second she tied him up and thrown him in his own dungeon?
Why did he trust her, despite everything she'd done to him?
He didn't even want to begin to consider the implications that he…he trusted the Dragonborn. Ulfric reached out and wrapped his hands around hers, feeling velvety beginnings of calluses along her palms, a harsh contrast to his rough hands. And he focused on that cold, snow-soft skin beneath his own before he let her pain, despair, hatred of the last Word wash over him.
Temporary. I am nothing but temporary. Akatosh has cursed his Lastborn with time, how dare he? The names of dragons are carved in stone, mine will rot on paper, slur on bardic tongues with each retelling until I am lost and forgotten and nothing. I steal Voices, Knowledge, Souls from the dragons, yet their years stay laughing, returned to our glorious father in a mockery of what I could achieve were I not cursed to be temporary. My rule will falter, a joke from the gods, a mockery that Talos would be an Elf, Akatosh would abandon me to be nothing but a gilded stain upon time-Akatosh and his children shall pay for what he has done. I will steal the centuries from the dragons-their Voices are mine, their Knowledge is mine, their Souls are mine. I am temporary, how dare time refuse to bow before me. How dare they refuse to bow.
Yes, how dare the dragons refuse to bow to her? Completely bow, as all should? How dare he not bow to her?
He tore his hands from hers, a lingering feeling of loss ghosting over his body even as he forced himself out of the meditation. Ulfric took deep, uneven breaths, waiting for her to return from the meditation. Her knowledge of the Words was so overwhelming, painful, he wondered if he'd gotten anything out of it beyond unease and a feeling like he'd been stabbed through his heart. He watched her, no longer seeing that shimmering overlay of her Soul, as she remained meditating on the words for another minute, ten minutes, maybe an hour. Long enough that the Draugr contented themselves with the cleanliness of the room, long enough that they had to return to stoke the fire.
And he kept watching as he face slowly knotted itself into a scowl, tears falling soundlessly from one eye, the other, in time with her slow, rattling breathing. Finally, she opened her eyes, blinking back into full consciousness. "Did that help?" She asked, pressing her palms to the floor to ground herself. Ulfric shrugged, and regretted it. She looked away to inspect the metal bedframe next to her, dust still coating the carvings of moths along the bronze detailing.
He wanted to say something, reassure her that her fears and self-hatred was unfounded but…even if he knew where to begin, he'd never been one for comforting others. He'd never been one for being comforted, either; the horrors he'd faced had no upside, no matter what soft-hearted Senators wanted to put a medal on him for, what healers claimed was for the greatest good. She wasn't looking for sympathy, no. She was looking for revenge. Revenge for wrongs that had been written before the beginning of time, and he had no idea what to say to that.
Instead, he Shouted at her, "Joor, zah frul!"
She screamed, fell to her side and writhed on the floor, draugr doorguards snapping to attention and snarling towards them. The Dragonborn clawed at her throat, her stomach, seizing in horrible motions that made Ulfric cringe and curse, lunging forwards to hold her head still after it cracked on the stone floor. She coughed, vomited blood onto herself, her chin, and choked on her own sick; he tilted her head sideways and yelled at the draugr to bring a healer, a potion, an anything-
The Dragonborn coughed again, her shaking turned to shivering. She relaxed limp beneath him, eyes rolling listlessly around the room before she finally blinked slowly, focusing on him, swearing that she was fine. "I…think it helped," he said. He decided that, in her state, she didn't notice how his voice cracked. He also decided that his voice only cracked because of how rarely he Shouted; his throat wasn't used to it, he'd strained it.
She laughed once, weakly. "I think you'll be fine around the dragons tomorrow." She stilled in his grip, relaxing into herself. "Perhaps I shouldn't use Dragonrend as much as I do." Her hair was soft with oil and sweat, the scars along her scalp were rough and dry in harsh contrast. Rough-chopped ends caught between his fingers and he relaxed his hold in case he was pulling her ink-dark hair. Her ears poked sharply into his hands-did elves have a bone in their ears? "You can let me go, now." Ulfric startled, realizing he still had a grip on her head; he pulled his hands away too fast for her to react and winced as her head hit the floor. "Ow! Nine!"
Ulfric mumbled what could've been taken as an apology, and stood just as quickly. He told the draugr to stop their search for a potion, and made quick work of unrolling his bedroll as far from her as he could, making an excuse about the fire the draugr built being too hot for his Nord blood. Her gaze lingered on him and his excuses-and he suddenly wondered if their meditation on the Words had gone both ways.
He ignored the ghost of her hair wrapping itself around his hands, for once not dreading the nightmares that sleep would bring.
"Five thousand, three hundred and eighty-two."
It was impossible to miss the smug glee on the Dragonborn's face when Odahviing announced the result of his count. An entire legion of dragons was at her command, and after a few Shouts from her and a reminder that he'd killed two dragons with a single Shout on the Great Porch, the six most powerful dragons in Skuldalfn were bowing to both of them. Mostly her, but Ulfric stood nearly beside her to the point where he could imagine they knelt and scowled towards him. He didn't Shout Dragonrend at them at her suggestion, just in case a truly mortal Shout was weak enough to put a target on his back.
He doubted that, after he'd seemed to nearly killed her last night. Ulfric wondered if she asked him to keep his Dragonrend to himself out of fear that her Shout was much weaker than his.
"Excellent," she hissed. "Our first victory will be against the Forsworn, who dwell in the Druadach mountains to the far west. Which dragons would you recommend for agility, stealth, and resistance to magic?"
A laugh traveled through the dragons. "We are all beyond your mortal measure in all regards," the pure golden dragon, Qokrenvul, Odahviing's Second (the Dragonborn's Third, he reminded himself), snarled. Of the six dragons assembled, Ulfric liked him the least; the others were at least subtle in eyeing him like a meal. Odahviing growled and whipped his tail at the smaller dragon, punishment for speaking over him. The others…the Dragonborn's words danced in his mind. He needed to choose one of these for his own.
"Congratulations," the Dragonborn answered. She scowled harder each time a dragon spoke, not caring to hide her disdain for their arrogance. Arrogance that wasn't even unfounded, Ulfric noted, trying to keep his face as blank as possible, staring at the back of the Dragonborn's head. Dried blood flaked in her hair where she kept scratching at the wound every few minutes. "By a dragon's measure, since it wasn't obvious. Let me know if I need to keep dumbing down my orders for you."
The dragons met her with silence, two of them, the Fifth and Sixth, eyeing each other up for a fight instead of focusing on what the Dragonborn was saying. They had Shouted at each other upon arriving to the courtyard, lighting up the blue dawn with an array of multicolored light from Shouts Ulfric didn't recognize, swapping positions after their argument had settled and standing on tense guard ever since.
"We want the weaker dragons," Ulfric found himself saying, standing firm as all attention shifted to him, the dragons not bothering to hide their surprise and joy that he'd spoken over her. The Dragonborn only acknowledged him by uncrossing her arms and moving them to her sides, a little flick of her wrist in a signal that Ulfric didn't recognize. Probably anger that he'd spoken over her, that he'd gotten straight to the point of the dragons they'd already decided they wanted with them. The ones that the Dragonguard had a chance of slaying if everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
"If all dragons are incomprehensibly powerful to us mortals," Ulfric continued, "then we should have no issue giving them the glory of proving themselves in battle." And they would be less likely to turn against the Dragonguard, but it was almost impossible the Forsworn had no experience defending against dragons. But against five at once? Ten? Twenty? He almost couldn't believe they'd be using dragons as fodder.
"They do not deserve the glory," Odahviing answered. He stood just in front of the other five dragons, ready to knock any one of them back into line if they decided to test his position as First.
"There will be many more opportunities for glory," the Dragonborn replied. "Much more glory than killing a few camps worth of Daedra-worshipping witches. And, if they fight amongst themselves less than this group, all the better."
"The positions are less stable lower down, as there is less distance between strength, skill, and cunning."
"Then why haven't I heard a single Shout from any but you lot?"
Odahviing rumbled deep in his throat. "Their Voices are too weak to carry across Skuldafn."
The Dragonborn held out her arms. "What a wonderful trait to have to sneak up on my enemies. Gather them up. I want to inspect my troops."
Ulfric translated the dragon's names, letting the Dragonborn pick a few dozen entirely based on how fearsome they sounded. Odahviing was nearby as they went down the line of a hundred of the weakest dragons, giving short lists on the dragon's accomplishments-even the lowest dragon had once enslaved a Giant's encampment, devouring them all when he tired of them.
"Don't forget to pick your own," she muttered near the end of the line. "Or do you want me to pick a dragon for you? It's getting crowded on Odahviing."
"I'll use whichever one is free," Ulfric replied. They had at least double the number of dragons as Dragonguard; he wouldn't be starving for choice.
"No, you don't want one of these weak ones. Choose one of them." She jerked her chin behind her at Odahviing's lieutenants. "It'll be better for leading your group, too."
He eyed up the group of dragons waiting behind Odahviing, body language ranging from aggressive towards them to aggressive towards another dragon in the group. They were all fearsome with larger spikes and claws and teeth than the weaker dragons they'd chosen for rank and file fodder, and carried a palpable air with them that, yes, they knew how deadly they could be, and, yes, they hated how their ways and honor kept them in line behind the Dragonborn.
Qokrenvul, Lightning that Breaks Darkness, was out of the question for his-his-dragon. Too unstable, too aggressive, unpredictable; there was more hatred in than in half of the assembled dragons combined. And those other two, the ones that had fought the second they both touched down in the courtyard and again when gathering the weaker dragons, they seemed more focused on their rivalry than anything else. Ulfric had been braced for another set of Shouts between the two the entire time.
And so that left two choices between the six most powerful dragons assembled at Skuldafn. The Fourth, a bronze and silver metallic dragon that caught the light and only looked around with his eyes, otherwise staying deathly still once he'd landed. And the Seventh, a brown and blue dragon with streaks of blood red scales, who had the most spikes of all the dragons assembled with many of his scales twisting to razor points.
"Which one would you choose?" Ulfric asked her, keeping his voice low.
"Whichever one you feel like you can Shout down easiest, if it comes to that." A hand moved to the back of her head, flaking dried blood onto her robes. "But, if it comes to that, just kill the beast."
The Seventh, then. It seemed that the rankings were entirely based on Thu'um, seeing as how absolutely massive dragons found themselves down at the bottom, well below others that they dwarfed. He bit his lip, turned and strode towards the Lieutenants. "You." Ulfric said, commanded, forcing his voice to stay firm even though he rest a hand on his sword less than casually.
The Seventh turned towards him, smooth and fluid, summer green eyes tracing him, settling on his pointing hand. He growled in acknowledgement.
"Your name and deeds?"
"Soskendov." A name with no easy translation. Blood Warrior, perhaps the simplest, Bravery Attested by Inborn Strength, the opposite. "Before I was slain in the Great Rebellion, I ruled the great city of Volskygge after defeating the fool Kahvozein and taking his place. Thousands of mortals were under my command. Thousands more fell to my Thu'um during the Rebellion. I was resurrected by Zeimahthuri (Alduin) as Twentieth. Through my own strength and determination, I am now Sixth."
"Seventh."
Soskendov flexed his wings, eyes darting to where the Dragonborn counted the dragons she'd pulled from the line. "So it would seem."
"How do you feel about mortals?"
"They have their uses. Though they number few."
"Such as?"
"You are easy to tame."
Ulfric nodded. "Easy to tame, hard to keep from rebelling."
"Mortal lives are short. You have no need for memory. We must remind you of your place often."
"And what is your place?"
"I am Seventh. For now."
Short, pragmatic phrases. Not a single word wasted on the flourishes and threats Odahviing loved, Qokrenvul relished in, the lesser dragons had dressed their deeds in.
"You're coming with us to end the Forsworn."
Soskendov rose, stretching his neck high and snapping at the air. "May all mortals follow their fate."