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Ulfric’s attention should have been held by Jorleif’s explanations of supplies and supply lines coming into the city, but instead it was caught by the two people who were approaching confidently down the long corridor of the throne room of the Palace of the Kings. One was a petite Imperial woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, just a hint of baby fat still in the curves of her face, reddish brown hair pulled tightly back in braids. She wore a full set of glass armor, helmet attached to her belt next to a glowing sword, and carrying a metal box in her other hand. Her companion, rather taller and a half step behind, was a grey male Khajiit in dark wizard’s robes, hood thrown back, with a casual arrogance that Ulfric was able to recognize as near his own in quality.
Jorleif trailed off and, seeing where Ulfric’s attention had gone, turned with him to face the new arrivals. Ulfric had just enough time to note that Jorleif looked puzzled before the two arrived at the front.
The young woman sketched a very simple and shallow court bow toward his throne. Her companion, on the other hand, only nodded before she spoke. “Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. I bring you greetings from the Companions of Whiterun, from Jarl Skald, Jarl Korir, and Jarl Law-Giver, as well as Jarl Balgruuf, Jarl Siddgeir, Jarl Ravencrone, and Jarl Elisif. And I bring greetings from our mutual mentor, Arngeir of High Hrothgar.” Only his long years of experience kept Ulfric from startling at that final name. The Khajiit was not quite openly sneering at him, but only just.
She continued. “I am the Harbinger of the Companions, I am a Thane of seven of the holds of Skyrim, and I am the Dovahkiin, born of dragon blood, having slain 12 dragons in the last 15 months since they began to return.” She glanced at Jorleif. “I also, as your steward may remember, solved the string of murders in Windhelm last year, and killed the Butcher before he could strike again.” Jorleif, no longer puzzled, swallowed nervously and nodded his agreement to Ulfric.
Ulfric nodded to her. “Honored Dovahkiin, you are welcome in my Palace. What brings you to Eastmarch, today?”
“I bring you an offering of goodwill, sir,” she raised the box in her hand slightly, “and in return I ask only for a conversation. I would like to discuss the future of the people of Skyrim with you, in, perhaps, a slightly more private and comfortable room.” Ulfric frowned at the box a moment before she nodded in understanding. “Your guard outside is the only person to have seen what’s inside this box since I put it there, sir, and he passed the gift as safe for you.” Ulfric lifted his head and peered down the hall, where he saw the guard Olwen now standing just inside the door. When he noticed he had his Jarl’s attention, he raised his hand in a sign of peace, and Ulfric nodded his thanks.
“I would see this offering,” he said, gruffly, now deeply confused about what was about to happen.
The Dovahkiin nodded, and the Khajiit next to her, much to Ulfric’s surprise, now openly grinned, showing all his many teeth. The young woman looked at Jorleif. “Good steward, I do not doubt your strength of heart, but I believe you are not a man of war. You may not want to see this gift.”
Both Ulfric and Jorleif frowned at this, but she took a quick step forward, angled the box slightly away from Jorleif, and opened it.
It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing, but when he did understand, he held his hands out to Jorleif and to Daniv, the palace guard he could sense approaching from his right, to stop and calm them both. He also took a deep breath to begin to calm himself, but that would take more time.
In the box was the severed head of Elenwen of the Thalmor.
Once the first wave of shock had worn off, Ulfric lifted his head and looked into the young woman’s eyes for the first time. “You have my attention, Dovahkiin. And for this gift, you have more than earned the conversation you ask for.”
***
A few minutes later, he and Galmar were settled in the map room with the Dovahkiin and her Khajiit friend, who she introduced as J’zargo, of the College of Winterhold. Ulfric had been explaining to Galmar who she was, when Galmar started into his usual bristle about the College mages, and she loudly cleared her throat in response. “I may have neglected to mention, Jarl Stormcloak, that I am also, strictly in name only, you understand, the Archmage of the College. They like having a figurehead to keep up relations around Skyrim, you see, and after some unfortunate events and tragic deaths, as well as given how much I travel, they felt I suited the role quite well. A wizard with far more experience is in charge of the actual day to day operations, of course. But I’m afraid the Psijic Monks quite insisted on it, not that they should really have any say.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Ulfric was treated to the sight of a truly speechless Galmar. Introductions now complete, he gestured his guests to a side table with refreshments, inviting them to help themselves as he showed their goodwill offering to his friend. The Dovahkiin seemed largely uninterested in the food and drink before her, idly picking up a bottle of mead and sipping slowly from it, but J’zargo immediately filled a plate with two rabbit haunches and a slice of apple pie. He dug in greedily, downing half a bottle of ale in one gulp.
Galmar bristled again once he looked into the box. “That can’t be real, it’s not nearly disfigured enough to have been through a beheading, and she must be at least two days dead, yet this is fresh as meat from the market’s butcher, and drained too perfectly of blood and everything else to the point of dryness.”
Ulfric found his certainty wavering for a moment before the Dovahkiin responded. “She was killed by a sword to the gut, and beheaded, very carefully, only some time after her death. I also have a fair amount of hunting experience, which was helpful in draining the head of fluids. As to the head’s condition, J’zargo and the wizard actually running the College, Tolfdir, struggled over the preservation spell for weeks while we prepared for the attack on the Embassy. I’m afraid the spell will only last about 8 more hours before it starts to go putrid, she’s been dead since the day before yesterday.”
“You attacked the Embassy? What of the other Thalmor there? What of Elisif, she can’t have appreciated a minor war in her back garden.”
The Dovahkiin gave him a measured look. “Jarl Elisif was in complete agreement as to the necessity of this mission, and gave her full support, as well as actual supplies, to its success. J’zargo and I killed all of the Thalmor who were in the Embassy at the time. There may be a handful wandering Skyrim still, but the vast majority of their number have been wiped out. Their bodies, and the rest of her body,” she nodded to the box still in Galmar’s hands, “are sinking to the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts as we speak.”
Galmar finally spoke. “Why would Eli-,” he corrected himself in surprise at Ulfric’s glance, “Jarl Elisif agree to such a thing? When she’s always been on the side of the Empire?”
The Dovahkiin responded in a carefully even tone. “Jarl Elisif, like the vast majority of the Jarls in Skyrim, is only on the side of the people of Skyrim, and whatever is best for their future prosperity and happiness.” In response to Ulfric and Galmar’s frowns at that, she continued. “She has had to make some unpleasant compromises that she did not like in that process, as many Jarls have had to do before her. But she remains on the side of her people.”
Ulfric raised an eyebrow. “The vast majority?”
The Dovahkiin nearly snorted. “Jarl Siddgeir, I admit, is easy enough to bribe. But he is the only one of the Jarls who needed to be bribed in order to agree to this plan.”
Galmar was clearly running out of patience. “What plan?”
“The plan leading to this conversation, in which I explain to you, Jarl Stormcloak, that the rest of the Jarls and most of the people of Skyrim agree with you in general principle, if not in your methods. That the true danger to Skyrim, once the dragons are dealt with, is the Thalmor. And they must be destroyed if the future of all our peoples are to be secured. This Civil War is only getting the people who could do that very necessary work killed, and it must stop.”
Ulfric sat back in his chair, astonished. Galmar, to no one’s surprise, looked frustrated. J’zargo, clearly enjoying himself, grabbed another rabbit haunch, and the Dovahkiin continued. “Perhaps it would clear some things up if I mentioned that this is not, actually, the first time you and I have met. The first time was a year and a half ago, and we were on a cart going toward Helgen. I don’t think I got to introduce myself at the time, and you certainly couldn’t introduce yourself under the circumstances.”
She paused a moment to let the memory sink in. His mouth had been gagged, and their hands had been bound, but the memory remained all too clear. She was the one who had been sitting opposite young Ralof, who had died so pointlessly, later that day, trying to escape the black dragon. Ulfric had only gotten away by the skin of his teeth, himself.
“Afterward, I found my way to the small town of Riverwood, nearby, and they sent me to Whiterun to inform the Jarl of what had happened. In the days after that, I got to know the town and its people, and I joined the Companions, and began to explore Skyrim. In the time since, I have been to, I believe, every town and settlement in Skyrim, gotten to know at least half her people by face if not by name, and done favors for or saved the lives of a good percentage of them. I studied with the Greybeards in the Voice, and have worked with some of the last surviving members of the Blades to study the dragons. I stopped the attempt to reincarnate Queen Potema. I have cleared out dungeons and hunted daedra with Vigilants, I have fought trolls and draugr and wispmothers, I have sought out legends and the ancients and Dwemer contraptions in hopes of finding something to contend with Alduin. I cleaned the Temple of Meridia of undead, at her quite direct insistence, and earned her blade in return,” she patted the sword at her side. “I found the Aetherium Forge and used it. I took leadership in the Companions after Kodlak died and leadership at the College after Archmage Aren died, I destroyed a vampire lord on an island north of Solitude with the Dawnguard, and at some point I’m going to have to go to Solstheim and kill whoever Miraak is because he keeps sending his cultists to try to kill me.”
Even Galmar looked impressed at that list of accomplishments, and she paused to breathe. “I have done tasks and kindnesses for people in every hold including your own, Jarl Stormcloak; I own properties in every hold but this one, and Winterhold I suppose. Every Jarl and their steward and housecarl know my face and take my counsel seriously, even Jarl Siddgeir, even if only because he knows I can afford to bribe him as he likes. And in the hopes that you will take me seriously, sir, I will tell you something else, if you will both agree that it will remain strictly between the four of us, and we will all take it to the grave.”
Galmar looked to Ulfric, and Ulfric nodded for both of them.
“When I eventually got to Riften and truly learned how the city worked, I joined the Thieves’ Guild, and after a time, when it turned out their Guildmaster was a craven fool, I took it over. You may have noticed that in the last six months the Guild has been very strict about only robbing those who can afford it. And after further understanding the ways of Maven Blackbriar,” her mouth curved in distaste, “and how she was… impacting the people of the Rift and Skyrim herself, I made certain careful overtures and agreements with the Dark Brotherhood to reduce her power, and in the end, it was I who killed the Emperor two months ago.” She took some cloth out of a pouch on her belt and set it on the table. Looking more closely, Ulfric recognized the gold cloth bracers he had seen only once, decades earlier, while receiving secret orders during the Great War. The embroidery and knotwork was of a type only allowed to be worn by Emperors of Tamriel and their immediate family members. And the Emperor had not had any immediate family in the decades since.
Galmar, obviously also understanding what he was seeing, swore softly to himself.
“I tell you this not to impress you, but to impress upon you how seriously I take my loyalty to Skyrim and her people, to all the peoples of Tamriel, when I say that I have carefully studied the situation from all possible sides and have come to the conclusion that we need every soldier now living to stay alive and in fighting form if we are to succeed against the Thalmor threat.”
Ulfric was still thinking when Galmar’s face twisted into a snarl. “Loyal to Skyrim? Why should an Imperial be loyal to Skyrim and her people?” And in the room’s sudden tension, he did not speak his next thought, but his glance at J’zargo clearly asked why he would care about Skyrim, either.
“Because, General, while my mother was an Imperial, I am also a daughter of Skyrim. My father was a Nord. He fought in the Great War and met my mother in his regiment. When the war ended, his family was dead, so they traveled to Cyrodiil to join her family. He died of a dreadful fever when I was quite young, and my mother died two years ago due to a runaway horse. But she had always told me of the beauty of Skyrim and the warmth of her people’s welcome, and that I should come here when I could to understand my father better. And so, when I could, I did, and that led to… a misunderstanding, and that cart, and Helgen.”
Ulfric was frustrated now. “But why would you side with the Empire when they were so ready to execute you that day with no proof or trial?”
Much to his surprise, she smiled. “You forget, sir, I grew up in the Empire, so I knew just how against all of their policies that choice was. I wondered about it too, for a long time, and had a few theories, until one of them was confirmed when I was reading through Elenwen’s notes at the Embassy the other day. She was very confused why General Tullius had decided my lack of a Stormcloak cuirass meant that I was actually a Thalmor plant to help you escape, in order to continue the war that is still working to their ends.” Both Ulfric and Galmar were stone-faced at that, and she reached into another pouch on her belt and took out a leather-bound set of notes. “Speaking of which, sir, these are for you. Once I saw your name and realized what they were, I assure you I stopped reading, and have not allowed anyone else to read them either. I would have burned them, but I figured, better to bring you answers, than ashes.”
She handed the bundle to Ulfric and, all too sure he knew what it was, he tucked it into his tunic without looking at it. This was not the time to read his Thalmor dossier. “You spoke of a plan. Who’s plan is this, yours?” His voice showed his doubt in her youthful experience.
“No. Once I started getting to know the Jarls, and they understood my determination not just against the dragons but for the people of Skyrim, Jarls Balgruuf and Elisif revealed to me that, before her husband’s death, the three of them had begun planning how they might bring you around to realize that you were not the only one who saw the Thalmor threat. Unfortunately, the High King’s death brought that planning to a standstill for a time, but after they both realized they could trust me, they asked me to act as a go-between for messages, and eventually, started asking my impressions of the various peoples of the holds of Skyrim, as neither of them have been able to travel. Eventually we decided that our shared experience of the Greybeards might allow you to trust me enough to listen to our proposal: that we end this war immediately, and send the vast majority of both the Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers in Skyrim, to attack the Thalmor Headquarters in the Summerset Isles. If we take them by surprise, we have a chance of overwhelming them and destroying the threat they pose to Tamriel, and for that matter, the stranglehold they currently have on Aldmeri Dominion politics, which is much to the consternation and pain of most of the High Elves.”
Galmar seemed furious. “And then the Stormcloaks come home to prison sentences, is that it?”
“No. Anyone who serves with honor against the Thalmor would receive a full pardon. No exceptions. Including yourself, General, your expertise in tactics and logistics would be invaluable to the offensive.”
Ulfric sighed. “We both know, Dovahkiin, there must be an exception.”
She took a breath. “The one exception, sir, is that you, personally, cannot take part in the offensive against the Thalmor.” Galmar looked ready to yell about that, but Ulfric put a hand on his arm to stop him. “You were a Jarl, sir, when you broke your oaths to the Empire, and while what happened between you and the High King may have been a fair duel, the truth is you were a battle hardened warrior who killed a young man with a weapon he never even had a chance to have access to. The Empire needs the rebellion to have a true ending, to be finished, and over. And Jarl Balgruuf had an idea about that.”
Galmar didn’t yell, but he very audibly muttered, “Ulfric’s head on pike on the mountain pass to Bruma?”
She shook her head. “No. No sir,” she addressed Ulfric, “you will live. In exile. Arngeir and the Greybeards have agreed to accept you as their guest at High Hrothgar, for the rest of your days, where you will live in safety and peace. You will not step foot any further down the mountain than the lowest stair directly attached the monastery. You will allow the Greybeards their meditation and their quiet. You will be able to meet every few weeks, on those steps, with an emissary of your choosing to assure your people of your continued well being – I admit we expect the General to often fulfill that role.” She nodded towards Galmar. “There will be a handful of soldiers there, camped outside and below the monastery, in rotation, to ensure you remain there and that you remain safe, some from your own men and some from the Legion. And there, you will be free to use both your Thu’um, and your voice.”
Galmar’s breaths had started to slow, and Ulfric had begun to breathe again, by the time she got to that last part, but their faces both creased in confusion, so she explained.
“It is not only your Thu’um that can make a difference for the people of Skyrim, sir. No one doubts your love for your country and her peoples. You will be free to write on what you like, so long as it isn’t military orders or treasonous plans, and those writings will be as free to be published as anyone else’s are. No one has ever written a history of the Greybeards, so many histories of the dragons are incomplete, and none of the histories of the Great War are from the point of view of Skyrim’s people. There is more than one way for a name, for a voice, to last forever, Jarl Stormcloak, and I strongly encourage you to embrace this one. I believe the leader of the Greybeards would say the same.”
She paused a moment, and her eyes hardened, before she quietly spoke. “Assuming, of course, that your love for Skyrim and determination against the Thalmor, are stronger than your need to be Skyrim’s High King.”
Ulfric could have Shouted at her for that.
He didn’t. It would make the better song.
***
There were many plans to make and the conversation went on well into the evening. J’zargo nearly ate the Palace’s entire store of meat in the meantime. He and the Dovahkiin had just gotten up to leave when Ulfric, caught off guard by a thought, cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Dovahkiin, there is something I’ve forgotten to ask you.”
She turned, obviously exhausted, to face him. “Yes, Jarl Stormcloak?”
“What is your name?”
She seemed to look past him for a moment, lost in thought. “Does it really matter? I am the Dovahkiin. That’s all the name I need.”
She turned, and as they left, J’zargo gently bumped his shoulder into hers, and began to mutter at her words Ulfric that couldn’t quite hear, but they sounded comforting.
***
Five years later, Ulfric and Galmar sat close together, nearly but not quite sharing body heat, on a step of the High Hrothgar monastery, discussing, once again, the Thalmor Offensive. Precisely none of the battle plans had survived contact with the enemy, of course, but in the end it had been a success, if a messy one. Now, with the Thalmor gone, Alduin gone, Miraak very thoroughly dead, and only a handful of peaceful dragons occasionally swooping down through the skies from the Throat of the World, Tamriel was a very different place than it had been, during that very long and very strange conversation years before. Skyrim was at peace once again, Ulfric was sleeping through the night without screaming for the first time in his adult life, and the Dovahkiin, far to the south, was a few days from being crowned Empress, by right of her dragon blood and her massively impressive list of accomplishments, of the newly reunited Empire.
And the small camp of soldiers nearby could barely hear the two old friends singing together, having drunk maybe a little too much mead, as the wind whipped their voices away into the blowing snow:
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes!
For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows!
You’ll know, you’ll know, the Dragonborn’s come.