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nerevar-quote-and-star · 5 months

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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part IX: Slaughterfish

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Author's note: Happy Monday! Please accept this chapter as a distraction as many of us in the US face inclement weather that's a little too Skyrim-esque for comfort.

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Content Warning: Verbal abuse; mature language; Bishop being Bishop.

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Contrary to her previous misgivings, Leara found that she could stomach showing her face in Windhelm again. It didn’t hurt that she wore the cowl up over her mouth and hood over her hair, effectively concealing her identity to most passersby. She prayed to Akatosh, Mara, and Kynareth that no one remembered her involvement in that circus of a performance at the palace! If she didn’t already have nightmares from the war and her battle with Alduin, then Leara was certain the mortification she’d felt under Alec’s attentions would haunt her sleep.

Talk about a night she’d never forget! If only she could!

Well, if only she could forget most of it, she reflected as she and Bishop made their way across the bridge. That night she put to rest at least one of her insecurities concerning Ulfric Stormcloak: The fear that he would recognize her for who she really was, not as Dragonborn, but as an officer of the Aldmeri Dominion. That was worth something, for however brief a time the relief had lasted.

It was just her luck that a new fear soon took its place, one more solid and present. She snubbed his letter. For the hundredth time since, Leara regretted not opening it when she’d had the chance. Now it was lost, and whatever important business Ulfric Stormcloak had with her went ignored. Would he agree to speak to her about the peace council after she slighted him? Leara was at a loss. Truthfully, she was unfamiliar with how letters and summons from jarls worked in Skyrim. Was it very different from High Rock, where ignoring a court summons could mean a day in the stocks, or worse?

“You’re fidgeting again.”

“Sorry.”

Bishop shot her a look, but Leara was too preoccupied to try and unravel it. In fact, she’d been preoccupied since before they left Whiterun. To her unsurprise, Bishop made his awareness of this quite vocal. During the nights on the road, while she sat beside the fire, twisting her rings around raw fingers and worrying over the peace council, he would sit across from her, sometimes snarking off, sometimes shaking his head. Every night, without fail, he offered her a better distraction and every time, Leara refused. She knew all too well what Bishop’s idea of a “better distraction” was, and she was too busy to play his little game of musical bedrolls.

The grey skies to the northeast threatened foul weather from the Sea of Ghosts. Leara found they reflected her mood: Dark, worrisome, and held in place by a few well-placed bobby pins and armor straps.

Between her and Bishop, Karnwyr plodded, his head low. Every once and a while, the wolf would catch Leara’s eye, and the weight of his care would strike her. On those nights when she worried and Bishop whined, Karnwyr would curl up beside her, his now-familiar presence a comforting heat against her leg. Whoever coined the phrase, “Silence is golden,” must’ve had a dog like Karnwyr, loyal, protective, and companionable to a fault. If anything good came from her keeping Bishop around, it was Karnwyr.

The gates were closed. Foot traffic around Windhelm was scarce; Leara hadn’t seen a single wagon since they passed through the miller’s hamlet early that morning. With another cautious glance at the darkening clouds, Leara approached the gate, Bishop dragging his feet behind her. One of the city guards gave her a nod as she went to open one of the doors, but otherwise, all was quiet.

It set Leara’s teeth on edge.

Windhelm was as worn and grey as before, cast in shadows from the approaching storm. Inside the gates, people scurried back and forth, not hurried, but none seemed willing to stop and engage in curbside conversations with neighbors or strangers. Thunder rumbled near the mountain’s head, punctuating the dull crunch of feet on stone and permafrost. Something loosened in Leara’s chest. The city looked as tired as she felt.

“Black mood,” Bishop observed next to her. “You’d’ve thought a bunch of Stormcloaks would like a little rain.”

“No one likes dismal weather,” Leara muttered back. She slipped Bishop a small coin purse. “Now, would you be so kind as to go handle our accommodations? I’ve business at the palace, and even if that doesn’t take long, I don’t think we’ll be leaving until that storm passes.”

Bishop stilled, the coin purse loose in his palm. “You have business in the palace? That’s why we’re here?” At Leara’s affirmation, he threw his head back with a groan. “That’s real funny, your ladyship, because I could’ve sworn we had this conversation before!”

With one hand propped against her hip, Leara quirked a delicate dark eyebrow at the ranger, a silent, “Are you serious?” in the draw of her mouth.

“I just mean,” Bishop went on, unbothered, “you know I don’t want you around that religious freak!”

Lifting a silent prayer to Mara for patience, Leara shook her head. “Careful, Bishop. Just remember that you’re in his city, surrounded by his supporters. You have a certain, ah, je ne sais quoi about you that sets people off and a comment like that’s toeing the line.”

“A certain what? – No, forget it! Listen—” Bishop caught Leara’s free hand, pulling her to him. Leara found herself chest plate to leather jacket with Bishop on the streets of Windhelm, surrounded by people and overlooked like a tree in the forest. Sleet began to fall, brushing the rooftops and stone with a bitter wet gruel, but Leara didn’t see it for the blaze in Bishop’s gaze. “Listen, you’re a good girl. I get that! But you keep playing with fire every time you go out of your way to help someone! Those old windbags, that nutjob in the ice burg, Jarl Temper Tantrum – and now you want to skip up to Ulfric damn Stormcloak and share friendship bracelets with him! Are you out of your damn mind? Wait! Don’t answer that! Oblivion knows you’re a mad woman!”

“Are you done?”

“Am I – are you even listening to me?”

Leara yanked her hand from his. “Yes, actually! And now it’s your turn to listen to me for once! I am the Dragonborn! By the grace of Akatosh—”

“Oh, here we go again with that Divines bull—”

“—by the grace of Akatosh, I am Dragonborn, and if that means I need to meet with the An-Xileel of all things, then I will bloody well do so!”

“The who—”

“My muse!”

In rare harmony, Leara and Bishop groaned.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Leara sighed, her forehead pressed into her palm.

“You’re the moron who just had to shout about being Dragonborn to the rooftops!” hissed Bishop.

“Shouted? Hardly! I—”

And then Alec was next to them, sleet weighing down the giant plume of his puffed-up hat. He was wrapped in an oversized fur coat that looked suspiciously like snow fox. Leara gave half a thought to calculating just how many little foxes it would take to make such a thing. Hadn’t she seen a similar coat on the Countess of Bruma years ago? Then Alec snatched up her hand, cutting off her calculations.

“Dragonborn, you’ve returned! I knew you would, of course. A vision like yourself knows in her heart that her radiance must be captured like sunlight through a prism!” His hands were unbearably soft, Leara noticed, wondering where the calluses were from his lute. “You need me to focus your beauty and heroism for the world to see! I can assure you that I’m up for the challenge! Just say the word! I will stay right here, ready and willing by your side!”

“I bet you are,” Bishop sneered, batting Alec’s arm so that the bard released his hold on Leara. “Now get lost! The grown-ups are talking.”

Alec reeled back, as if only just noticing Bishop for the first time. Standing between the two, Leara just restrained the urge to face palm. “I see you’re still hounding her like a lost puppy, savage,” sniffed the so-called Prince of Song in distaste. Unfortunately for him, the heat was lost in the uncanny stillness of his sculpted face. “Still looking for a bone?”

“I’ll give you a bone,” growled Bishop, “right up your scrawny brown ass!”

Seriously? Must they do this in public? Out on the street, of all places? Behind her, Karnwyr grunted, a near-silent agreement. At least someone had manners, even if it was the actual animal!

Alec marched right up to Bishop, his too-perfect nose pointed right at the scruff on the ranger’s chin. “Is that the best you can do, you untamed wild man? What do you know of treating a woman such as the Dragonborn like the goddess of perfection she is?”

“A thing or two more than you, you sniveling brat!”

Leara crept back, first one step and then another. Neither Bishop nor Alec noticed, so engrossed in their dualling match that they didn’t see the object of their argument walk away. Any moment now, she expected them to stop brandying words and switch to a more, ah, biological weapon. Whatever. She had palaces to go to and jarls to see.

Karnwyr needed no prompting to follow her as Leara ducked down a side street and through a back alleyway. Snow mounds lined the broken stones, crusting the foundations of buildings with a frozen blend of frost and dirt. What wasn’t packed into the corners, swept aside by busy feet, was strewn across the narrow alley in streaks and banks. The grips on her plated boots pierced through the icy mixture, leaving thin, dotted footprints in her wake. Leara wouldn’t put it past Bishop to track her and Karnwyr once he got bored with Alec – or either when either realized that she left – but she hoped he waited long enough for her to convince Ulfric to attend the peace council before he came to rain on her parade.

Akatosh, but one would think Bishop was her overprotective father, the way he carried on!

At the end of the alley was a drop-off; the alley stretched between two buildings set on a lower tier before leading directly into a wider street. The husky scent of burning incense wafted by, teasing Leara’s nose with musk and spice. Oh! This was the Grey Quarter, wasn’t it?

Leara slipped down from the ledge, and once down, waved for Karnwyr to jump after her. Emerging from the alley’s end, she found that the streets were different from those in the rest of the city. Though snow and slush still lined the stones, bright lanterns of crimson, maroon, and sienna blazed on the eaves of buildings, seemingly untouched by the increment weather. Many of the structures were built from wood, heavy boreal hardwoods harvested from the slopes of the Winterhold Mountains. Some bore tribal markings, remnants carried over from the Ashlander tribes Leara knew once roamed the isle of Vvardenfell before the Red Year devastated much of the island, driving longstanding natives into exile. Interspersed with these were House banners: Hlaalu, primarily, though she recognized the armored crab of Redoran on a few, as well as the twisting roots of a Telvanni banner at the end of the road.

This must be the main street through the district, she thought, making a slow spin, taking it in. Now where did she go?

Clairvoyance glittered at the end of her fingertips before the sound of her name being called sent the ethereal tether back to Magnus in a wisp of vapor. Leara jerked around.

“Jolinar Aren?”

And it was the Archmage of Winterhold’s daughter, standing there across the road with wide eyes and a fried pastry dangling between gloved fingers. The sudden ice that gripped Leara’s lungs at the thought of Bishop finding her so soon was banished at once: Most of the time, she wasn’t even sure he remembered her name – actually, she knew he didn’t, because she heard him call her Ellen to the barkeep when they stopped at the inn in Heljarchen after leaving the Tower of Mzark. That should bother her, shouldn’t it? she realized, watching Jolinar Aren wave her over.

Burying the thought in the growing mountain of internalized feelings she didn’t want to deal with yet, Leara joined the golden-haired Dunmer under a flame-patterned awning. Then Leara got a good, proper look at the mage: Whereas in Winterhold, Jolinar wore dark, dusty purple robes glittering with enchantments, now she wore worn leather armor, the faded black broken up by glimpses of pale pinks from her otherwise traditional Dunmeri wrap blouse. A knit scarf was tucked around her neck, and a hood was thrown back off her morning-bright hair. After all, even in summer, northern Skyrim was ruled by harsh weather and freezing temperatures.

“You can’t imagine how excited I am to see you!” Jolinar was saying. “When you went into the ice fields after the scroll, well, Urag figured you and that boy toy of yours were as good as dead!”

“Boy toy?” echoed Leara.

Jolinar waggled pale ashen fingers. “Bit pretty, isn’t he? Where is he, anyway? Actually, I’d rather know if you ever found the scroll. Urag and I have a bet running, you see. He thinks you wouldn’t find one. I disagreed, naturally! So?”

Leara gaped at her, then shut her mouth. “I, I did find what I was looking for. It’s at, it’s safe,” she amended quickly. As safe as any priceless artifact could be under the guard of an ancient dragon, she mused, recalling how the Elder Scroll remained at the Throat of the World with Paarthurnax. Yes, that was the safest place for it.

An excited, “Oh!” chirped out of Jolinar. Leara couldn’t think of her as anything but chipper, sunny and cheerful like blackberry wine put up in summer and brought out during the holidays.

Thoughts of the Throat of the World recalled Leara to the task at hand. Her meeting with the Jarl. She almost dreaded this meeting with Ulfric more than she had the one with Balgruuf! “Pardon, but Jolinar? Do you happen to know the way to the Palace of the Kings?”

“Ah,” Jolinar quirked her head to the side. “Yes, of course. Follow me,” and with her half-eaten pastry, she directed their path down the winding street. “Dragonborn business?”

“You could say that,” Leara offered a tentative but thankful smile. Despite all Bishop’s badgering, she still hadn’t explained the purpose behind their visit to Windhelm or the pending trip to Solitude. Knowing him, he’d snap out something that would lead to an argument not dissimilar to the one simmering between them before Alec’s oh so timely interruption earlier. But Jolinar Aren? Teeth kneaded the end of her tongue, then Leara, nodding to herself, her decision made.

Quickening her pace, Leara waved her fingers for Karnwyr and moved to walk beside Jolinar. The blonde led her down a short stair, passed a porch lined with earthenware painted in fiery reds and blazing oranges. Whereas the rest of Windhelm seemed to reflect the hardy yet frostbitten spirit of the Nords, the Grey Quarter was lit with the ancestral fires of the Dunmer, kept burning even in their exile. Respect for their resilience and defiance squeezed Leara’s heart, though not uncomfortably.

“The Greybeards are calling for a peace council,” she murmured, voice pitched low enough so as not to be overheard by the occasional person on the street. There weren’t many out; Dunmer were less inclined than Nords to brave the dreary conditions of a north-born storm just for a bit of shopping.

To her credit, Jolinar’s only reaction to this apparently unprecedented move was a quick dart shot from garnet eyes toward Leara. “Then you’ve got your task cut out for you,” she sighed.

“Tell me about it.”

The street curved toward the left. The houses there were rather large, taller and terraced compared to those deeper in the quarter. House and tribe banners hung from windows and balconies, creating a dusk and dawn patchwork against the otherwise drab canvas of wood and stone. From a shuttered window, the faint trill of a pipe slipped out, entwining with the droning of an unknown string instrument. From a window across the way, the tantalizing scent of baking bread teased at her nose, richer and more savory than the buttery smells she was used to from bakeries in High Rock.

“They were manor houses, once,” Jolinar explained, noting Leara’s interest. On one of the lower balconies, an old Dunmer wrapped in a thin shawl sat, smoking a bone pipe. On spying Jolinar, he sent her a jaunty wave. She returned it, no less enthusiastic, before continuing: “They’re mostly tenements now. Almost anyone rich enough to afford a manor in Windhelm can afford to move to Blacklight.”

“I didn’t think the Jarl’s steward handled apartment leases.”

“He doesn’t. All the court cares about are taxes and that we keep our heads down. The Dunmer here answer first to a council. It’s not that different to the one back in Morrowind, only a thousand times smaller and less ostentatious, not to mention,” added Jolinar, “Ambarys runs a tight ship. No in-fighting, or at least, none that the Nords are allowed to see.” This last she said in a conspiratorial whisper, a grin curling her frosted berry mouth that Leara couldn’t help but share.

Suddenly she wished that she met Jolinar before Bishop. She was cheerful and full of local knowledge. With Jolinar, there would be no brooding silences or sarcastic remarks; instead, good humor and wry smiles would liven up the bleak travels across Skyrim. And, Leara thought ruefully, another mage would be more likely to understand her methods. But, no, she couldn’t blame Bishop’s attitude on his mundanity. Goodness knows there were plenty of mundane people untouched by magic who were far kinder and certainly more tolerable than Bishop usually was! Regardless, Leara was certain that with Jolinar, there would be nothing but lighthearted companionship in place of Bishop’s advances.

“Up through here,” Jolinar was saying, turning sharply to the left. Leara hurried after her, up the narrow-wide stairs and out onto the Avenue of Valor. High above, the Palace of the Kings rose as a mountain unto itself against the ever-darkening backdrop of storm clouds. Leara prayed to Kynareth that it wasn’t an omen for the direction her meeting would take. “And here we are,” Jolinar said, clearly not as bothered as Leara was.

The Dragonborn set her shoulders, her spine stiff. “Thank you—”

But Jolinar was gone.

Blinking, Leara glanced back at the stairs winding down into the Grey Quarter, then at the towering pillars marking the avenue from the maze of streets crisscrossing the Stone Quarter. But the golden Dunmer was nowhere in sight. A little putout, Leara strode toward the palace.

“I’m here to see the Jarl,” she said to the guards standing sentinel by the doors, her voice frost. The guards glanced at one another in silent communication. Their cage helmets weren’t much different from those worn by the Whiterun guards, Leara noted as one nodded, stiff, and the other pulled open one of the doors. “Thank you,” she said, striding passed with Karnwyr on her heels.

Neither said a word, and Leara wondered if they knew who she was.

Immediately, she decided it didn’t matter. Less chance of embarrassment.

The great hall was as cold and imposing as on her previous visit without the added benefit of dinner to warm the atmosphere. Once again, she sought out the throne, only to find it empty. Behind her, the door shut with a hard snap! that eclipsed her weary sigh. He could never make her job easy, could he?

Out of a side passage stepped the steward, and a sense of déjà vu tapped Leara on the forehead as, upon spying her, he made his way across the hall.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” he asked, eyeing her silver plate and katana warily.

Oh, of course. Whereas Jolinar met her before in armor, the steward, Jorleif, had only met her once, and then in a dress with her hair down. Leara pushed the cowl down and, throwing back the hood, offered the man a petal thin smile. “Yes, I was hoping to speak to Jarl Ulfric. Is he available?”

Surprise colored Jorleif’s face. Giving his long mustache an absent tug, he nodded. “Jarl Ulfric is with his generals, but I’m sure he has a moment to spare for the Dragonborn. This way.”

“Of course.” And beckoning to Karnwyr, Leara followed Jorleif as he led her through a different passage than the one leading to the gallery of kings. This one was much shorter, and opened into a low, brightly lit room crowded with barrels and chests. Weapon and armor racks cradling shining steel were clustered around the small windows, dim and frosted over against the increment weather. But these drew little attention away from the room’s primary feature. Dominating the center was a heavy table, strewn with parchment rolls and loose-leaf pages that no doubt contained reports on Imperial movements and the latest on resources and recruitment. But the most striking feature was the great map of Skyrim, marked with a number of flags in red and blue, which denoted the movements of the Imperial and Stormcloak militaries. This was the war room, the heart of the Stormcloaks’ campaign, and Leara just walked right in. As if she belonged.

Perhaps, because she was the Dragonborn, some might think she did. Or at least Jorleif seemed to think so. She wondered if General Tullius and the Legion might feel similarly when she arrived in Solitude.

“Jorleif, what is this?”

“The Dragonborn, my Jarl.”

Leara’s gaze sprang from the table to the occupants of the room. Two men were crowded at one end of the table, both shrouded in heavy furs that made their resemblance to bears uncanny. Yet, it was the bear himself that drew Leara’s attention. Lifting her chin in a manner painfully reminiscent of Her, Leara met his storm cloud stare across the room where he stood, hands braced against the table. Once again Ulfric Stormcloak was before her, and she would weather the gale.

The bob of her head was a measured motion that never cut the view she held of Ulfric’s face. In the mixed torchlight and pale grey light pushing through the snow-crusted windows, he gave off none of the tempered humor that surrounded him on the night of the performance. And yet, there was a quiet light in his eyes, the promise of sun after the rain. For some reason, that eased the tension in Leara’s shoulders.

“Dragonborn, yes,” Ulfric tilted his head, a small motion that carried all the invitation required. “Your presence is timely. Once again, I didn’t expect you, and yet here you are, alone. Good. That will be all, Jorleif,” he added, and with a murmur of respect, the steward left.

“You may disagree, Jarl Ulfric, after you hear what I came to say,” she said, eyeing the war plans strewn along the table. A shift in her periphery pulled her attention to one of the generals, the one wearing a bear’s head on his own. He was watching her. Nonchalant, Leara continued, “I come bearing a message from the Greybeards.”

Ulfric straightened, “So the dark state of our homeland has finally drawn their attention from the skies.” His mouth twisted, sardonic. “Tell me, what do they say?”

Giving Ulfric her full attention, Leara cleared her throat. “They request that you attend a peace council at High Hrothgar—”

“A what?” coughed the man with the bear helm.

“—to address the dragons plaguing Skyrim—”

“They cannot be serious! The Empire is tearing Skyrim apart and the Greybeards call for peace?” the helmless general snarled, slamming his fist on the table. Leara jolted back.

“Yrsarald!” Ulfric snapped, “Mark how you speak. The Greybeards are not to be disrespected.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Yrsarald said, though he didn’t appear cowed at all.

Turning back to Leara, Ulfric continued, “I do not question the Greybeards lightly. I am well aware that the dragons are a growing threat. But there is the political climate to consider. As long as some of the Jarls aren’t fully committed to supporting me as High King, I can’t agree to any peace talks. I cannot afford to weaken my stance before them. Not unless Tullius himself agrees to be there.”

Resentment and respect wound together inside Leara in a bittersweet union. Politics. Everything under Magnus came back to bloody politics and bleeding shows of strength between opposing factions. Peace begged a hard price, and Leara was exhausted trying to cover the cost. “Politics will soon lose all power if the dragons aren’t dealt with. You may wish to reconsider.”

“Why is that?” asked the helmeted general.

“Alduin has returned.”

He swore, and Yrsarald again slammed his fist on the table. Ulfric remained still, almost stiffening. “Alduin? The World-Eater himself? Then if the tales and songs are true . . .”

“They are,” Leara said, breath quickening as the memories of smoke and blood clogged her nose and coated her mouth. The battle at the Throat of the World blazed in shards of painful memory across her mind’s eye. “It was Alduin at Helgen.”

“Was it?” Ulfric’s storm-blue eyes clouded, likely lost in recollections.

“If Alduin has returned, as you say, then we’re all doomed anyway,” Yrsarald grunted. “But suppose you’re wrong, Dragonborn. What use is there in talking to the Empire? They’re being devastated by the dragons.”

“So are we!” the bear helmed general growled, his mustache twitching.

Leara bit back a sneer just as Karnwyr bristled beside her. Is the return of Alduin really that impossible to accept? “If left to their own devices, the dragons will destroy all Skyrim, Imperial and Stormcloak alike!”

“You’ve made your point, Dragonborn,” Ulfric said, raising a hand to silence Yrsarald in turn. He frowned, troubled. “So, the World-Eater has returned and the Greybeards believe the answer is to call for peace. But war or peace, Alduin will consume us all just the same. Everything is already lost.”

“Not as long as I’m here,” Leara heard herself say. Then Ulfric was eyeing her, and the weight of her destiny pressed down on her shoulders. Did he doubt her ability to face Alduin? To match the World-Eater in battle and bring an end to the crisis? If so, then she couldn’t blame him. After her muck-up of the meeting at the Throat of the World, Leara knew her chances of victory were narrow, if they existed at all. But still, she was doom-driven. “There is hope.” Though she didn’t have much hope for herself, Leara would give it to the people of Skyrim if she could.

Ulfric was silent. The moment stretched on, then, “Galmar, what say you?”

The helmeted general, Galmar, folded his arms, a dark look on his face. “Talking to the Empire is worse than a waste of time. No good could ever come from it. But,” he went on, “no good ever came letting sleeping dragons ie, either. If the Dragonborn here thinks she can handle the World-Eater, who are we to stop her?”

“Sooner the dragons are gone, the sooner we put down the Imperials ourselves,” Yrsarald muttered, earning an “Aye,” from Galmar.

With a tired smile, Ulfric nodded to himself. “I won’t refuse the Greybeards’ request,” he said. “And I’ll give Tullius one last chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs while I’m at it. He has agreed to attend?” he asked Leara suddenly.

“Well—”

A scuffle of boots in the corridor cut Leara off as a man appeared in the doorway. Wearing the blue and steel that the Windhelm guard shared with the Stormcloak soldiers, Leara’s attention was pulled to the open face of his helmet where a brilliant red sheen on his left cheek anticipated a vivid bruise. His eyes on Ulfric, the guard bowed his head in difference. “My Jarl, Generals,” he said. He cast a glance at Leara in her silver armor and frowned to himself.

“Speak, Calder,” Ulfric said, snapping the guard’s attention to him.

Calder bowed his head again, “My Jarl, I’m sorry for the interruption, but there’s a situation in the jail, and Captain Logi said to get you.”

Lifting a brow, Ulfric’s mouth drew a thoughtful line just as Galmar said, “Logi doesn’t usually have a problem knocking scum back down where it belongs. What’s happened?”

Calder cleared his throat, his eyes darting back to Leara and then to Karnwyr before trailing back to the Dragonborn. When she tilted her chin, watching him, the guard dropped his gaze to the floor. “There was an . . . altercation at the gates not twenty minutes ago.”

Dread pooled in the pit of Leara’s stomach. Surely not . . .?

“The guardsmen on duty broke it up, but not before some bard got beat in the nose. We hauled the assailant in, threw him in a cell to cool him down, if you follow, my Jarl.” Facing the guard as she was, Leara caught the slight upturn of Ulfric’s mouth from the corner of her eye. So, the Windhelm jail was as cold as a Frost Atronach’s bits, then. Lovely. “He got a good hit in on me before we got him in, though.” Ulfric’s mouth fell, and Calder quieted.

“Is that all?” Galmar asked, gruff. “What’s there to involve Jarl Ulfric over?”

“The man we brought in, he won’t stop shouting for the Dragonborn. Says she’ll have something to say about us locking him up. Says she’ll make us ‘pay.’”

Her muscles tensed. No. No bloody way! That complete and absolute cretin! That utter idiot! Did he really attack Alec? In the street where everyone and their ancestor could see it? And then he threatened the guards. Akatosh, but it was a wonder she hadn’t heard Bishop’s caterwauling as he was hauled in! Ice stung her palms and her teeth clenched. Did he honestly believe her purpose in Windhelm carried so little weight that he could antagonize the city guard without a second thought? Did he ever stop to think about the consequences or what they might do to her? No! This, this was an embarrassment. This was ridiculous!

By Akatosh, she was going to have to pay bail, wasn’t she? Divines damn it all.

“Take me to him,” fell from her mouth, her voice bringing with it the frost of winter.

Calder gaped at her.

“Listen to her, Calder, this woman’s the Dragonborn,” Ulfric directed, his face drawn and closed off. If Leara wasn’t already mad at Bishop, she’d wonder at the sharp change in his countenance. As it was, Bishop consumed all her thoughts. Just like the imbecile wanted.

Karnwyr growled deep in his throat, and in the back of her mind, Leara realized that the wolf was as agitated as she was, and perhaps more so with how sudden her change in mood was. Losing her temper would get none of them anywhere. Her eyes closed, Leara counted back from ten in Altmeris, Bretic, and Cyrodilic, and then, not knowing the number system used by the dragons, she instead focused on the words Paarthurnax had taught her to meditate over. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii. Fade. Spirit. As the first thaw after winter, tension eased from her limbs in a slow drip that left lingering traces of permafrost still clinging to her bones. Drawing in a frozen breath, Leara tuned back in just as Ulfric directed the two Generals to continue going over supply routes without him. And then he was walking to the door, Calder in his wake, and Leara found herself pulled along in the tailwind.

All was quiet between them as the guard escorted them through winding passages and under stone arches to the Windhelm Jail. Situated clear across the palace from the war room, Leara felt the last of her anger give way to the growing familiarity of exhaustion. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold on to the blizzard scream howling to blister Bishop. Helpless, she watched it wither away into a pale and tired rain. When she saw Bishop, Leara . . . Leara didn’t know what she’d do. And that bothered her.

Far too soon, they reached a wide stairwell, blocked by a heavy cell-like door. Before Calder could move, Ulfric pulled it open, and then he stopped. Until now, as they traveled through the palace, Leara could hardly bring herself to watch his back, but now she had no choice but to face the grim set to his mouth and the clouds shadowing his face. The cool stare she leveled him with betrayed none of the returned anxiety over his anger. Again, Leara regretted the lost letter. Again, she regretted snubbing him and whatever he meant to discuss with her. She regretted coming to Windhelm and she regretted thinking she could handle politics again after all this time.

“After you, Dragonborn,” his voice was stone.

“Certainly.” Her spine iron and her chin pointed, Leara swept past Ulfric and down the stairs without a second glance. When a genuine approach no longer served, subterfuge and sleight of hand were a safety net. Wasn’t it ironic how lessons learned while with the Dominion carried forward to help her handle their most hated asset?

At the base of the stairs was another door, this one of aged cold oak. She could already hear Bishop’s shouting as she stood there. Beside her, Karnwyr whined deep in his throat, as agitated with his master as she was. Akatosh give her patience. Scarcely did the Jarl and his guardsman reach the bottom of the stairs before Leara threw open the door and strode into the jail.

“—ME OUT, YOU SON OF—”

Two guards sat at a low wooden table, his head down, evidently suffering through the abuse blaring through an archway across the room. This must be the guardroom, Leara mused as she took in the cluttered desk and locked cabinet across the room. A board hung on the wall, crowded with bounty posts and notices. There were other doors as well: One probably opened to the captain’s office, while another likely connected to the guard barracks. She wondered how old this jail was. How long had the Jarls of Windhelm been locking up criminals and thugs here? Was it always a jail, or did it have another purpose long ago, maybe as a scullery or servant quarters? However, given the Nords’ penchant for tradition, she imagined Ysgramor himself appointed the first guard captain here and set today’s standards himself.

At the sight of Ulfric behind her, the guard quickly stood. “Jarl Ulfric,” he said, relieved. “Is this--?”

“The Dragonborn, yes. Where is Captain Logi?”

“I’M GOING TO TEAR YOU A NEW ONE AS SOON AS I—”

The guard cleared his throat, twice. “He’s with the prisoner.”

“What are you going to do, Jarl Ulfric?” Calder asked. His cheek was darkening, inflamed and swollen. Leara almost winced in sympathy.

“AND I’LL MAKE YOU GAG AS I FORCE MY—”

The urge to walk away was strong, but almost against her will, Leara stepped forward. “I’ll take care of it. Just take me to him.”

“This way,” the guardsman began, but Ulfric stopped him.

“Arne, go with Calder to have his injury tended,” he said, and Arne the guard – because the Palace did not breathe without the Jarl’s ascent, it seemed – gave a quick salute before he and Calder disappeared back up into the palace.

Leara stared at the cracked stones tenuously forming the far wall. Windhelm was so old, the oldest city of men yet inhabited. It would be nothing for it to give way to dust. And yet, it wouldn’t. These walls would continue to weather storm and ice long after she passed into legend and Ulfric Stormcloak became a footnote in history.

“—ASSKISSING RAT—”

She prayed to all the Divines and some of the Altmer deities besides that no one bothered remembering this episode.

She was keenly aware of the man behind her and his displeasure. A passing thought whispered that he might back out of the peace talks following Bishop’s display, but the rational – hopeful – part of her knew that Ulfric respected the Greybeards too much to go back on his word now. Not when he’d given it in front of his generals.

“You know, Dragonborn, I consider myself to be a reasonable man,” he said, cutting through the sounds of Bishop’s squalling. “But I can’t seem to figure out what you’re playing at.”

Slow and prim, Leara turned. “You assume that I believe this is some game in the first place. I assure you I don’t.”

Ulfric paced toward her, taller than her, but Leara was used to looking up at people who thought they were better than her. She didn’t flinch. “You leave me no choice when you insist on bringing that—”

“—THEN I’LL CUT YOUR DICK OFF AND FEED IT—”

“—skeever-faced milkdrinker into my city to assault my citizens and wreak havoc in my palace,” Ulfric continued, heated. “You bring him here, disregarding all sensibility, and yet you expect me to heed your advice and to place the wellbeing of Skyrim into your hands!”

She did not want to have this discussion. She refused to be cowed by a man she once had on the rack – no matter how she regretted those actions. “Given the state of things, you don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” she clipped.

The clouds darkening Ulfric’s face deepened. “Perhaps, and perhaps my council isn’t worth much to you, but I would advise you to remember that as Dragonborn, you are the people’s hero, and the minds of the masses are fickle. It may be your destiny to defeat the World-Eater, but that will do you no good if the people cannot trust you.”

Lips thin, Leara barely gave him a curt nod, “Noted,” and turning her back on the Jarl, she marched toward the cells, a silent Karnwyr trailing behind. It took all her prayed-for grace to enter the cellblock with Bishop before her and Ulfric behind her, and yet by Akatosh, she did it, her face an impassive stone. The temperature seemed to drop as she entered a large, dimly lit room: Whereas the guardroom had a burning hearth and was well-stocked with wood, the cellblock had nothing of the kind. Calder was right; it was freezing down here. The man she assumed was Captain Logi wore a fur-lined cloak over his armor. He stood across from the entrance with his arms crossed and a “Talos take me now” kind of expression on his chapped face. At the sight of Leara and Ulfric, he straightened.

“Jarl Ulfric, is this her?” Captain Logi asked, jutting his chin at Leara. With the movement, Leara noticed a woolly wad sticking out of his ear. So that was how he withstood Bishop’s abuse, by quite literally blocking it.

Before Ulfric could answer, Bishop noticed just who came into the room, and, cutting himself off mid-remark about bedding Logi’s “pox-ridden” mother, leered at Leara through the bars of his cell. “Well, well! Look who finally decided to grace me with her presence! And here I thought you’d forgotten about me while you were sweettalkin’ your way into Stormcuck’s bed. Did he get your sword, too, or did he just settle for a taste of—”

Ulfric’s shout and Logi’s yelp were the only warning bells to sound before Leara flew across the room. Bishop was the only prisoner in holding, and right now he was the only person in her crosshairs. With a cold fury, she shot a hand into the cell and caught Bishop about the collar. Frost spread from her fingers to the dark leather, harsh and biting as it crept to his skin. “Be quiet,” she hissed, low and soft like a blanketing snowfall, so silent that only Bishop could hear her. “You are on thin ice as it is. I won’t ask what you were thinking, because clearly you were not, but if you want out of here, it would behoove you to think about the person holding the purse strings and your freedom in her hands.”

Ice tickled at the skin of Bishop’s neck and her grip, white-knuckled under her gloves, was close to strangling the ranger on his own collar. Yet the smirk he leveled her with was nothing short of cocksure arrogance. “If they knew the truth, it wouldn’t be me they’d have locked up in this skeever-infested hole.”

Just as quickly as the ice spread from her fingers, it sped even faster through her blood to chill her heart. “What are you talking about?”

Bishop’s smirk twisted. “If they knew what you are, you’d be in here until that pretty face of yours was ruined by age.”

What she was?

“Dragonborn, what is this?” Ulfric Stormcloak’s voice came from behind, far away across the room and yet clarity struck Leara between the eyes like lightning. What she was. The Aldmeri Dominion. But how did, how could Bishop possibly even know about that? Where had she made a mistake? At the College, when she ran into that Thalmor wizard? But even then, she’d been careful not to let on to Ancano who she was! Bishop couldn’t have pieced it together from that exchange. But how else—? No, no, did she talk in her sleep? She didn’t, did she? Even the best of operatives might be given away by a murmur in the night, but she never knew herself to do so. But everyone started at some point, didn’t they? Mara’s mercies, Bishop knew that she was once in the Dominion and she knew he was just petty enough to use that against her if she left him here.

And then Ulfric would have her killed.

That old terror coiled itself around her heart again, cradling it in a vice so tight that for a moment, Leara couldn’t breathe.

“Dragonborn?”

The vice tightened, forcing Leara to exhale. Her hand, cold and cramping, fell from Bishop’s neck. It smacked against one of the bars on its way back to her side, and Leara noticed for the first time how the still-damaged nerves of her hands were screaming. She swallowed. “How much is bail?”

“What?” Captain Logi asked.

With short jerking movements, Leara slowly stepped away from the cell. “How much is bail?”

The captain gaped at her, then to Ulfric. He was watching Leara with a closed expression; his arms were crossed in silent judgment. Her earlier pretense gone, Leara couldn’t meet his gaze. Not after what Bishop said. Not with what Ulfric may yet do to her. Her head bowed, Leara slipped across the room. Even Karnwyr was watching her, the wolf’s ears flat and his eyes almost teary. “Please, let me pay his bail, and then we will leave Windhelm. I’m sorry for the grievances we’ve caused for you and your people. Forgive me, it will not happen again.”

Ulfric was silent, and anxiety ate at Leara’s nerves. Then, “Captain Logi will accept the payment. Logi, go with her.”

“Aye, Jarl Ulfric.” Confusion mixed with relief on the captain’s face. “This way, ma’am.”

Leara dared a glimpse at Ulfric as she followed Captain Logi in silence. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t want him to. With Bishop’s eyes burning into her from across the room, she wanted as much distance as she could possibly get placed between her and the man she tortured.

“I’ll be waiting, sweetness!” Bishop called after her.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Leara wanted to disappear.

·•★•·

“How much is bail?”

“What?”

The Dragonborn jerked back from the cell, and for the first time since she’d charged forward, Ulfric could make out the self-satisfaction pinching the ranger’s face. Seeing the way the other man’s gaze followed the Dragonborn reminded Ulfric of a wolf stalking an injured doe. No matter how far she ran, her wound would always fell her and call the wolf to her side. Comparing the memory of the woman who threw her arms around the man, this Bishop, after the bard’s circus with the woman shrinking into herself, Ulfric began to wonder if his impression that the Dragonborn was infatuated with the menace was incorrect.

“How much is bail?” she asked again. The Dragonborn stood facing him, but she was far away. Her eyes were haunted, the bright blue from before now dull and weary. Faded. Ulfric studied her. She came on behalf of the Greybeards, claiming to fight for Skyrim. And yet, her disregard for counsel and persistence in keeping a man like Bishop around when she visited the Holds suggested she was flippant about her appointment as Dragonborn. But now Ulfric couldn’t reconcile such an attitude with the woman who quietly assured them that she would defeat the World-Eater. The woman who offered hope.

“Please, let me pay his bail, and then we will leave Windhelm. I’m sorry for the grievances we’ve caused for you and your people. Forgive me, it will not happen again.”

The fragile plea struck him. She wouldn’t meet his eye; instead, her head remained bowed, cascading the deep red hair too short to tuck into her bun forward to shroud her. She was hiding. Somehow, then, Ulfric knew that it wasn’t the Dragonborn who chose to keep Bishop around. For whatever reason, this man attached himself to the Dragonborn and was draining her vitality through his own brand of poison.

“Captain Logi will accept the payment,” he said at length. “Logi, go with her.”

“Aye, Jarl Ulfric,” Logi nodded, his relief at getting rid of Bishop clear. “This way, ma’am.”

The Dragonborn trailed after Logi, appearing as if she were in a daze. Ulfric wondered if she was. The way a few whispered words from Bishop seemed to turn a roaring dragon into a skittish deer was unsettling. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable Ulfric became with the idea of actually letting the man go. But Logi was already leading the Dragonborn away to pay the bail. Bishop would be released and Ulfric would watch as the Dragonborn left in his company. With how fast she wilted when faced with Bishop in the cell, Ulfric wondered if the elven woman would be able to make it to the Greybeards’ peace council.

“Are you going to let me out or are you going to continue brooding like a teenager?” Bishop’s voice cut in.

Ulfric leveled the man with a glare. “Your fine hasn’t been paid yet, boy. Hold your tongue.”

“Angry, are you?” Bishop snorted. “Her ladyship not get you off?”

“What.”

Harsh laughter echoed in the small cell, grating. “I don’t get what she sees in you, but something about you’s got her knickers all twisted up.” Fire flared in the returning glare. “Whatever it is has made it damn near impossible to claim that woman as mine!” He snarled and struck his fist against the cell wall. “Get out of her head! She’s not fighting in your damn war for your weak god!”

It took every ounce of patience Ulfric possessed to keep from reaching through the bars and slamming the ranger’s skull into the hard iron. He drew in a slow, meditative breath, and held it. He would not murder a prisoner in his own jail. To occupy himself, Ulfric retrieved the key ring from its hook near the door. Logi should be back soon with the Dragonborn, and then this business would be over.

“Got nothing to say to that, do you?” sneered Bishop. Did he not know when to shut up? Given the pitch and content of Bishop’s earlier screeching, it wasn’t likely. Ulfric wondered vaguely if Bishop talked while eating. The same way Galmar’s brother did, with food spraying from his mouth and mead dripping down his chin. “Is she even your type? Do you like pretty little elf maids? Or do you prefer one of those strapping blonds fighting for you? Flexing in uniform.”

“Hold your tongue,” Ulfric snapped.

“Oh-ho-ho! He speaks! What was it, the idea that you thirst after your soldiers—” Bishop cut himself off. “No, I know what it is. You want her. You want what every red-blooded man wants from her. You want that woman in your bed, under you, as you play out some sick power fantasy with her. What are you going to do, tie her up like the elven whore she is? Pretend she’s that hag-faced ambassador and beat the crap outta her? Ha!”

The key turned in the lock before Ulfric realized he’d marched across the room and inserted it. Then the cell door was open, and nothing stood between him and the wretch.

A resounding crack! filled the small space as Ulfric slammed Bishop into the back wall. Bishop’s head bounced, hard, but the twisted smirk never left his stubbled face. Bishop was tall, but Ulfric still had an inch or so on him. This he used to yank Bishop up so he was scrabbling against the wall for stability. “Quiet.”

“I knew it,” Bishop wheezed, his hands pawing at the steely grip Ulfric held on his collar. “You’re nothing but another power-hungry noble with a chip on his shoulder. Newsflash, asshole: No one cares about your war, least of all her—”

Another knock against the wall pushed the air from Bishop’s lungs.

“Learn to be quiet before someone grows tired of your whinging and silences you permanently!”

“Who’s going to do it, you?” Bishop rolled his head back against the wall. “Flattering, but I’m not interested.”

Bracing his arms against the wretch’s chest, Ulfric pushed him into the hard stone. “You have attacked my people, assaulted my guards, and insulted me to my face. But more than that, you continually abuse the Dragonborn, the same woman who wants to free you. Have you no shame?”

“What’s there to be ashamed of? She’s mine, she’ll do whatever I want.”

Except sleep with you, Ulfric thought, recalling the earlier admission. He scowled.

“You know what I think?” continued Bishop. “You want her, but you’re not man enough to take her. You couldn’t handle a fox like her,” Bishop chortled.

“Jarl Ulfric?” Captain Logi had returned.

Before the guard captain saw him physically assaulting a regretfully free man, Ulfric dumped the sorry excuse of a Nord on the dirt-strewn floor. Scrambling to his feet, Bishop darted ahead of him out of the cell.

Captain Logi stood back at the door, alone. “The Dragonborn’s upstairs waiting with your stuff,” he told Bishop, ignoring the deep scowl cutting the ranger’s face as he brushed loose straw from his tussled hair. "You better thank Talos that Leara was so willing to cover for you.”

“What? Whatever. I’m outta here.”

Leara? Up until now, Ulfric hadn’t realized he’d never known the Dragonborn’s name. Leara. An airy name.

“Boy,” he said. Yet Bishop would’ve kept going if Logi hadn’t barred his way. Grumbling, the ranger stopped. “Remember this. A day will come when I have you in these cells again, and when I do, the Dragonborn’s good favor won’t save you.”

Another cold laugh. “Fat chance! I’d like to see you try.”

Logi bristled, but Ulfric shook his head. Then the ranger disappeared up the stairs, back to the Dragonborn – Leara’s side.

The image left in his mind was dark and unsettling. All Ulfric could do now was pray to Talos that his foreboding was ill-founded.

·•★•·

They left Windhelm as the bottom broke and freezing rain fell in torrents across Eastmarch. A mage’s cloak and whispered Bretic rune would’ve kept the worst of the water off her, but Leara could hardly muster the energy to keep moving. Magic was beyond her ability to care. The most she could manage was some household spell usually used to keep plates warm. This she focused on Karnwyr, who, with his drooping head and dripping fur, looked just as miserable as she felt.

Bishop marched ahead of her, his face dark and silent. Whatever happened after she left to pay his bail was a mystery. She didn’t dare to ask. All she knew was Bishop came stalking out of the cell block with his jacket in disarray and a scowl so fierce it’d scare a Frost Troll. She couldn’t bring herself to ask about it, nor about anything else. The realization that Bishop knew she was once an officer in the Aldmeri Dominion was still too raw for her to address. Even as an undercover Blades agent, the actions she carried out under the direction of her superiors in the Dominion would have her labeled a criminal here. It would be the same if she were anywhere else, perhaps Solitude or Daggerfall or Bruma, and they discovered she was a Knight Sister. Leara was damned either way.

If Alduin had his way, she’d be damned in every way.

When they stopped for the night under an outcropping of rock flanked by several snow-laden pines, Leara approached Bishop. Knots twisted her stomach in every direction. She wanted to throw up. Instead, she sat and watched him sharpen one of his knives, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

“Something on your mind, darling?” he asked, humorless.

Leara suppressed a nervous cough. “The Greybeards are hosting a peace conference in order to negotiate a temporary truce in the Civil War. I need them to stop fighting to secure Jarl Balgruuf’s cooperation.”

“What do you need him for?” Bishop didn’t look up as he passed the whetstone along the blade’s edge in a rhythmic pattern. It would have been mesmerizing if Leara weren’t so on edge.

“I—” Need to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach so I can find Alduin’s portal to Sovngarde so I can end this crisis once and for all. I may die.

“Spit it out, sweetness. I haven’t got all night!”

But she couldn’t. Leara couldn’t bring herself to confess the plan to trap a dragon and fight Alduin again. Not when she knew all too well Bishop’s opinion of her Divines-ordained destiny. She couldn’t. Not after the day she’d had. So, instead, she pushed herself forward, and, mindful of the knife, Leara pressed her lips to his. Tangling her hand in his hair, she pushed him back, muffling his surprise and the memory of their conversation with her mouth.

Long after, when the petting was over and Bishop was asleep, Leara curled into Karnwyr and cried.

#i didn't know you were keeping count #fanfic #ao3 #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #bishop #karnwyr #ulfric stormcloak #galmar stone fist #calder #oc: jolinar aren #windhelm #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #mod post

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