Ulfric held it together until he returned to his closet of a room, not even bothering to light his lantern before he collapsed to his bed and finished the half-bottle of wine he'd left from the other day, it's taste sharp and warm from being left out and open.

He was worried.

That's all he'd needed to say.

Instead he went on an inane rant about…well, it hadn't entirely been untrue, but it certainly hadn't been helpful—she'd been nearly ready to cry, by the looks of her. And so was he, and she'd seen him like that…again. And he'd lied and said he hated her, and…Nine, and called her an Elven bitch.

Ulfric groaned, finally groping to light the lantern to search for more drink stashed in the room, finding nothing but empty bottles. Over a dozen empty bottles. How long had he been here, again? He'd rather die than leave his room, this closet, and risk running into her, just for the relief of a drunken afternoon. Hopefully the wine and ale was strong enough that it'd kick in and haze his mind enough that he'd be able to sleep tonight.

Should he apologize? What would he even say? It's not like he'd said much that he didn't feel. Except for the hatred.

How did he even feel about her, if not hatred? He did owe her so much, even if she did take so much from him.

Gods, she was probably still there, gorging herself in the library because she pushed her body so far to do something as a gesture to get him to trust her. Granted, it was a huge gesture, but still, just that. A symbol. Nothing more.

And he didn't hate her. He…he what? He trusted her, because nobody would come up with such inane schemes, nobody else in Nirn had such a chance of overthrowing Mede that the Dragonborn did. Nobody else would've kept him alive so long, put so much effort in gaining his trust just to reinstate him to a position she stopped him from achieving himself.

Oh, he trusted her so much. She could hold a blade to his neck again, and he'd know she'd never swing. His blood would never spill unless he thrust his own skin against the edge.

He'd follow her to Oblivion and back, just to see what kind of plots she came up with.

He…he…Gods.

He was drunk, he realized, swaying on his cot, recalling how he'd cut his wine with whiskey the other night to make it stronger—sharp with whiskey, not from the air. Ulfric thanked his past self, perhaps he'd get dreamless sleep tonight.

He should apologize. Because all he'd been was worried that she was alright, because his life depended on hers, and her throne depended on him, and…and surely nothing else.

A door shutting softly, almost too quiet for him to notice—the Dragonborn had gone to her room. How long had it been since he'd ruined everything? Thirty minutes? An hour? He could apologize to her now, even more listening to her uneven steps and taps of her staff, sniffs and muffled breaths…was she crying? Nine, he'd made her cry. He'd only ever seen her cry once, in Riften, when she'd spilled her heart out to him about her betrayal during the Great War, her first attempt to gain his trust. And, damn her, it worked more than a bit.

And the other night, when he'd heard her sob, which was probably more than a little his fault, too.

Ulfric decided he simply needed to stop running his mouth.

And, if he were to apologize, he needed to keep it short. Otherwise, he'd be prone to ruin the whole ordeal by saying something idiotic, making her even more upset, when all he needed to do was say, 'Sorry for being such an ungrateful fool. We will lead Tamriel to a new Era of prosperity,' and leave to go to sleep, because Madenach's head was waiting for his blade in the morning.

It was decided then. He stood with no small effort, realizing that leaving to apologizing could have the bonus of leading to a trip to the store room for another bottle of mead or ale or wine or whiskey or beer or any combination of the sort. He paused to collect his balance on the wall, leaning heavily on the door and then taking the few steps from his storeroom-turned-bedroom to the Dragonborn's next door.

He realized a second too late that he probably should've knocked.

Ulfric opened the door to a Dragonborn dressed in blood and pus covered bandages, her robes pooled around her waist, vomiting into a bucket, pressing one hand into her side.

"I'm sorry I'm an idiotic fool. And ungrateful," Ulfric said as fast as he could, and tried to force himself to close the door, but couldn't bring himself to move. His eyes fell on a half-eaten mince pie she'd laid on the lone shelf in the room, it's heady smell mixing with acrid sick in an awful way. He remembered the second half of his apology as the Dragonborn looked up at him and pulled at her robes with one hand, the other wiping at her mouth. "And that we'll bring Tamriel to a new Era. A prosperous one"

She was so skinny, Ulfric couldn't bring himself to look away from where her bones protruded under her bandages, covering her torso like a shift from collarbone to waist, down her arms. A far cry from the large, corded, firm muscles he'd seen on display when she'd practiced her swordplay, hammered his armor at the forge. It was a wonder she could carry her sword, her staff. She'd hidden her physique under the loose robes, how much of it simply…wasn't there anymore.

"Stop looking at me." She winced, finishing covering herself and spitting out the last of her sick. A wave of nausea rolled through Ulfric at the sight—he'd drunk too much too quickly. How long had it been since they'd gotten back from the Redoubt? And he was already pissed. In more ways than one. Pissed and pissed off. And he could go for a piss. He laughed.

The Dragonborn frowned, holding up her robes and wiping her eyes, sniffing, acting like she hadn't been crying, but her eyes were blood red, even more than usual, drowning out the whites of her eyes that normally shone like starlight.

Shit. He was messing everything up again. "Do you…need help?"

"No. Please leave."

Ulfric couldn't've left if he wanted to, which he'd've much rather'd figured out why she'd been crying. And bleeding. And was covered in bandages. Perhaps, he put together, the three were related, and hopefully had nothing to do with him. The room was spinning under his feet too much. He swore to himself he'd never drink again, which he knew was a lie. He bit back another laugh. "You're bleeding."

"You're drunk."

"I've helped put a lot of people back together before on…on the battlefield," Ulfric said, even though the thought of clashing swords and flying spells and poorly scabbed wounds brought the taste of metal and acid to his mouth. "I'm no mage, but I can…" He trailed off, wishing she would say something to cut out the sounds of young men and women moaning and screaming their deaths in his arms.

Usually drink kept it away, when he'd gone through Wuunferth's medicine too quickly. Maybe he wouldn't have a quiet night tonight.

He ducked for the bucket, barely making it before he vomited more liquid than anything, harsh acid that burned his throat and nose.

A sigh, and the bucket was replaced with a mug of water. "Sip on this," the Dragonborn ordered.

Ulfric did as he was told. "I'm sorry," he muttered, tears threatening at his eyes again. "I should leave." He vomited again. "It smells too much like war."

"I know, I know. It's fine. Let's…let's get you in bed, alright? Can you stand?"

Ulfric realized he was on the floor, and tried to push himself up. He looked at the Dragonborn, kneeling before him, her face not spinning, full of lovely concern, and sipped at his water again, feeling much better. A meal sounded wonderful. He'd love to discuss everything with her all night. He shook his head. "I should probably eat. Do you want to eat? With me?"

"I need to change my bandages and sleep," she said, but she reached with a shivering wince and handed him the mince pie.

Ulfric took it and nearly spilled it, but held firm as he sat back hard against the door. "Oh, I'll help and then we can go to bed."

She sighed. "Let's get you to your room. I don't know if I can help you stand."

Ulfric glanced around for the bandages, finally finding them on a shelf and grabbing them. He took a deep breath, promising himself he wouldn't startle again. He'd only startled because he'd been too drunk; he was fine now. "Alright, let's get started." He reached out to grab her.

She jumped back too fast for him to track, suddenly speaking from across the room. "Stormcloak, stop. I can change my own bandages. I've been doing it for days. Get out."

"But it'll be easier—"

"Stop!" She snapped. "Gods! Ulfric you're drunk. Don't touch me."

Oh. That's right, she would be…bare underneath her bandages. His mind backtracked to when he walked in, replaying how her bandages hugged her emaciated figure, scanning for any revealed sliver of skin, how she now clutched the sides of her robes at her neck. Ulfric's cheeks burned, and he handed over the bandages. "I…I'm-I didn't…I'm so sorry."

"It's fine."

"For everything, I mean. Earlier, too."

The Dragonborn took a shaky breath and sat back down on her cot. "I don't know if you have anything to be sorry for." Silence. "I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. I'll apologize again when you're sober."

"I'll apologize again when I'm sober, too. I promise." Ulfric said. "Remind me if I don't. Do it first thing in the morning."

The Dragonborn chuckled, then took the bucket back from him. "I promise. Can you stand?"

Ulfric tried, and shook his head. It sounded like a good idea to crawl onto the mattress pad before she did, since he doubted there'd be enough room for them both to spread out, and it'd be more comfortable for them both if she laid on top of him. She looked so delicate, and he knew he'd need to be careful with her in case he rolled over. She could kill him in a second, but gods he had to keep her safe.

He blinked. "I should go," Ulfric said, failing once again to stand. He managed to turn around without falling over, leaning hard against his hands. "I can't see."

The bucket appeared beside him. "In case the smell gets to you. Do you want to talk about anything?"

"I don't know." The first rip of a bandage and a shaky moan. He wondered what her skin looked like; if it had improved at all since Whiterun. This same thing happened in Whiterun, and he woke up next to her. He swallowed hard. "What was your family like?"

"My grandmother was a maid in the Blue Palace for High King Erling before she got pregnant with my mother and moved to the Imperial City," the Dragonborn said around hisses. " She kept working as a maid for Senators until the day she died. My mother was a maid too, but never could get as good jobs being a half-Elf bastard, you see. Mostly worked for merchants that wanted to feel wealthier than they were. I never knew which one…if one was my father."

"Oh." Ulfric stared at the wall, trying not to think about what part of her she was bandaging, or the smell from her blood or the bucket.

"You won't remember this tomorrow, right?"

"No." Ulfric prayed he would. "I thought you said you grew up around the docks?"

"I did," she said. Ulfric closed his eyes, quickly opening them when he felt like he was spinning. "Lots of half-born bastards out at the docks. Cheap rent, too. I ran cargo manifests from the shops to the ships before I was big enough to haul crates. Made me strong. Strong enough that a Smith traded me for his old Apprentice when I walked through the door with two sacks of coal on each shoulder."

"Is your mother still alive?"

"She died in the Sack of the Imperial City, as far as I can tell."

She killed her own mother, in a way, Ulfric thought. He wished he could see the look on her face and comfort her. Instead, he gave a mournful hum. "I grew up with too many tutors to count before I left home for the Greybeards in my twelfth Summer."

"I would've killed for a tutor. Didn't know how to read before I joined the Legion."

He hummed again, hoping it sounded less mournful. The Dragonborn clicked her tongue and sighed in frustration. Silence for too long. "Do you hate me?" Ulfric asked, and instantly regretted it. He felt saliva pool in his mouth, grabbing the bucket in preparation to be sick.

"Do you think I hate you?"

"I-" Ulfric vomited. "I hope you don't."

"Do you hate me?"

"I'm supposed to. But I can't, not anymore."

Ulfric's head pounded on Soskendov, thankful that the Dragon preferred to soar rather than flap. He'd drunk too much, far too much last night, remembering his conversation with the Dragonborn like a dream. But, he remembered the way he woke up shivering, fighting for the blanket she'd stolen back in her sleep, blessedly with his back to her.

And he felt nearly fine, just dehydrated. And stupid. Stupid and foolish. He hadn't spoken to her this morning, only kept his gaze steadily forward and nodding at all the right places in her speech, riling up the Dragonguard to take Madenach's head.

He should've been more ecstatic. Thirty years ago, such a feat would've guaranteed his ascension to High King-his assault-though failed-still held sway with the Moot four years prior for how damn close he'd gotten. Oblivion, he should've been close to happy, but he couldn't bring himself to smile.

What had he said?

Gods, what did he want to say to her?

An arrow whipped past his nose, and Ulfric realized he was on the ground, the assault had begun, his blade was wet. Shit, Ulfric thought, cursing himself for drinking enough that he was still tipsy midmorning. He roared, a battle cry to those around him, a damnation of whiskey to himself.

Ulfric reached past the bone and obsidian blade of a Forsworn berserker, crushing his neck and pulling him into his sword, throwing the limp body shorter than he'd've liked. He scanned the battlefield, taking stock of his surroundings, of the Dragons flying overhead picking off warrior and fleeing noncombatant alike, Dragonguard sprinting from hut to hut and emerging with dripping blades, the Dragonborn ahead of him throwing piercing ice at any who approached her on her trek towards the apex of the mountain.

She was laughing, her face and robes splattered in blood, each step lighter than it should be with her injuries. A flash of her figure ran through Ulfric's mind, and he wrenched his thoughts away from where her firm curves were replaced by gnarled flesh. The Dragonborn was in her element, shrieking in delight and taking life after life like she could devour the Souls of the Forsworn like Dragons.

He'd not seen her like this, enjoying battle. Typically she cursed at the effort required, even if it was minimal. She moved in a dance, sliding on ice to impale those that didn't die when being run through with an icy spear, dodging with too much flexibility. Ulfric wondered if his mind had exaggerated her injuries, picking up his pace to catch up, join her dance of bloodshed as they made their way up.

Up to where Madanach should be.

Where Madanach was, sitting on a low stool, pouring over bones cracking in the fire.

Ulfric's heart dropped; he'd missed half the push to get here, in this low, ruined stone fort at the peak of the mountain. He wiped his sword on his leg lest the blood of the Forsworn curse his strike against the Witchking.

The Dragonborn guarded the door, though Ulfric knew noone would bother them. Not a single guard watched the old fort, all preferring to try and herd those without weapons to escape. It was futile. Ulfric lined his sword at Madanach's neck, his stance reminding himself of how the Dragonborn stood before him with the same sword at his own neck months ago.

"You are Doomed, the both of you," Madanach spoke as Ulfric reared back to decapitate the man. He paused against himself, cursing himself for wanting to hear more. "I'm glad it will be you to kill me, Ulfric Stormcloak."

"Doomed?" Ulfric breathed.

"It means fate-marked," the Dragonborn said. "I've heard omens like this for years."

"Yes, both of you, Doomed. I see your futures in the bones," Madanach explained. "A great rise, a fated fall. The Wheel turns upon the Age of Betrayal. You," he looked at Ulfric over his shoulder, "will-"

Ulfric sliced his neck, watching the Forsworn gasp for two breaths before hacking the man's head clean off. "I hate witches."

The Dragonborn peered at the bones, frowning. "I'm not one for divination, but-"

"Who cares. He was spewing shit from his ass."

The Dragonborn blinked, and Ulfric immediately regretted his vulgarity. He reached down and grasped the head by its silken white hair, letting it bleed out over the smoking bones, heat cauterizing the wound, blood sizzling in the flames. "It's…it's over," she said.

Ulfric paused. It was over. It was her fault it was over. This woman, who had decimated his army and turned the tide of war, devoured a god, tamed an army of dragons, had taken it upon herself to lead him to victory where he'd only found failure. This woman, this incredible woman, stood leaning against a table and panting hard, battlespell worn off, eyeing him carefully for his approval. As if she hadn't held his life in her hands before and could easily do so again. She looked at him as though she was a child pleading for praise.

For all the power she held over him, he had this. "Thank you," he said, watching her shoulders fall and a breath leave her chest. "Thank you for everything."

He gave the victory speech.

He stood before this mixed bag of warriors-because soldiers they certainly couldn't be, not to him-and gave a triumphant rally on the strength of the Dragonguard, the future of their order, the alliance with the Dragons. Ulfric managed to make it convincing enough that even a select few of the Dragons, Soskendov certainly was not one of them, roared along with the cheers of the Guard.

Truth be told, it had been a modified version of the speech he'd given his militia decades ago before they marched on Markarth and he'd been arrested, not that anyone here would recognize it. It was close to what he'd wanted to say once his victory had been complete, once all Forsworn were dead and rotting. Like they were now.

He surveyed the battleground around the few dozen Guard that stood before him, cleaner than a massacre of its scale should be due to the feasting Dragons. All that remained of the Forsworn at this camp were drying bloodstains; the Dragons swallowed weapons and all whole. Ulfric triumphantly raised Madanach's head, its eyes pulling open as it dried out, jaw not quite set with rigor mortis.

"To the Dragonguard!" He cried, the crowd rallying into a swell of cheers. "To the Dragonborn!" Ulfric gestured the head towards where she stood, standing with her chest puffed out, that smug look on her face despite how exhausted she looked.

The Dragonborn drew her sword, held it to the sky, and Shouted, "Yol, Tor Shul!" A swirling heat of fire sprayed from her mouth a hundred feet up, Ulfric had to turn away from the blaze, shield his eyes from how damned bright it was.

But damn if her display hadn't awed the Dragonguard, hadn't humbled the Dragons, whose own Shouts barely traveled twenty feet before fizzling into embers. A show of power, that even in her state, she could devour any of them.

He waited before she was done showing off before continuing. "Whom without, we could not have this victory. I and so many others have dreamed of this day, and it has arrived. Dragonborn," Ulfric said, taking two steps towards her, and suddenly finding himself on one knee, looking up into her blood red eyes. If he hadn't spent so many weeks studying her expressions, he never would've noticed the shock on her face-she still held smug, unbothered, proud. "This victory," he thrust out his hand holding Madanach's head, "is yours."

"It is mine to share," she said, breaking her gaze after a beat to scan over her Guard. She sheathed her sword, taking the head and raising it high.

wow remember when i said i would update within the week? mb fr. lifes been lifing but i WILL finish this but jurys out on whether ill get a phd first or second (but if i want to be poetic abt it since i finished conquest in the last year of undergrad i should finish nature in the last year of grad). i am also neck deep in a complete rewrite tho bc i kind of cant believe the direction this one went. So if things seem a bit weird its because I'm writing the same thing in two different ways at the same time?

also ive been listening to hella audiobooks and man every time i listen/read a romantasy i just get so mad like i could write this better. Heir of Fire is the exception bc damn thats one good book. also your weekly reminder that the invisible life of addie larue is insanely good

also been working on a whole other book which is based on my osr campaign but my boyfriend/dm is also writing that concurrently so that one might not come out for a hot minute but ive been playing around with the idea of actually traditionally publishing that one since its original fiction lol but ill prob post some from it just to check interest and ofc you only recognize mistakes once youve published something

anyways love yall! no promises for more consistent updates but i AM writing TRUST. (also reviews are my food thank you v much)