Chapter Twelve: Loyalty Inspiring
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Solitude
Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak
Solitude was vastly different from Windhelm -- high above the water, warm save for a few months of the year, and Imperialized fully. The ancient architecture of Haafingar was long gone, replaced with Imperial stonework -- Solitude's formerly unique architecture survived only in the Blue Palace. Castle Dour, the seed from which Solitude had grown, was an Imperial garrison in the modern day.
As the Haraak docked at the Solitude docks, the blue bear on his sails contrasted wildly with the red wolf of Solitude's banners.
Ulfric and Galmar waited on deck, for the mooring to finish and the gangplank to drop. He could see a retinue of red-wearing Solitude city guards form at the end of the docks -- no doubt his escort while in the city.
"Why are we here, Ulfric?" Galmar growled with his arms crossed. "You could have sent Torygg a damn bird from Windhelm."
"Torygg insulted me by sending Imperial soldiers in place of his own thanes," Ulfric answered with one hand at rest on his hip. "I feel I'm owed an explanation before I bid him sign off on the purchase." He sighed, and looked up at the city. A natural archway hundreds of feet in the air -- with the endpoint in the middle of the Karth river delta. Breathtakingly beautiful. "And there are things he should know… about his newest vassals."
"You aren't seriously going to recommend a cat for a Jarl's throne…."
Ulfric gave Galmar a serious look. "I know how it sounds. But the cat is a Tongue -- as I am. His use of the thu'um demands respect." He'd sent a letter to the Greybeards -- to ask if they had taken a Khajiit student recently. The cat was young -- not two decades old yet. It was possible that 'Yol' was all he knew.
But he knew it so well to have absolute mastery of it. Greater mastery than Ulfric, perhaps greater mastery than any of the Greybeards.
To heat three plates of food with 'Yol' was like fittng an entire river into a bucket.
"He is willing to fight for his people, to bleed for them, that is more than some current Jarls."
The mooring finished, and the gangplank was lowered. Ulfric and Galmar descended to the docks, and met with their guard escort.
Ulfric walked the same path he had at the moot which crowned Torygg High-King, straight from the gate to the Blue Palace. Generally rectangular, with four towers in the corners, one at the front off-center from the gates, and another at the rear of the building on top of a grandiose dome. Moss grew on the Palace walls, with only the blue roof tiles to indicate the building's namesake.
Through the courtyard the Jarl and his Housecarl walked, without a glance at courtiers or wealthy merchants that sat on stone benches beneath the Palace's trees. Once inside, they were ushered to a chamber adjacent to the grand hall which led up to the Jarl's throne.
It was a pleasant sitting room with ample seating, fruits laid out in bowls on several tables, and shelves with books -- no doubt all related to the city in some way.
"Please wait here for a moment, Jarl Ulfric," one of their guards -- one who wore no helmet and carried a two-handed sword in lieu of a shield -- said with a respectful tone. "The High King will see you as soon as he is done with his current audience."
Once the guards were gone, Galmar crossed his arms and grunted in disdain.
"I would not stop an audience in progress to receive Torygg," Ulfric responded to Galmar's unspoken criticism and took an apple from a bowl. "At least he has the sense to see us quickly, and not ask his fool guards to take our weapons again."
"Hmph. Toss me a pear."
The two of them stood and ate their fruit in silence while they waited for Torygg to call them.
Torygg's throne was on the third floor, while his sitting room was on the ground floor. The entrance chamber was vast, almost as vast as Dragonsreach palace, and linked all the floors together by curved staircases. It was, allegedly, all to make petitioners reflect on the grandeur of the Jarl before they spoke to him or her.
For Ulfric, it was just unnecessary pomp. In short order, he stood before the High-King's court. Falk Firebeard -- the steward -- stood tall and broad, his clothes as red as his hair, on the High-King's right side. The Housecarl of Solitude held Galmar's gaze with intensity, the two warriors instantly wary of each other.
Opposite the steward on the left side was the court wizard, Sybille Stentor, a Breton woman old enough to be Ulfric's grandmother, but remarkably youthful through magic. She obviously didn't see Ulfric or Galmar as threats -- her body language conveyed boredom.
On the throne sat the High-King. A young man, not twenty yet, dressed in fine embellished clothes with a circlet of gold and rubies on his brow. He brightened visibly at Ulfric's appearance and stood from the throne to greet him.
"Jarl Ulfric," Torygg said before his steward could announce Ulfric's audience, or give Ulfric a chance to acknowledge him as the High-King. "I'm glad you've returned to Skyrim safely. Have you news about Solstheim?"
"It is good to be in the homeland again, Torygg," Ulfric answered and smirked at Falk's scowl. The High-King didn't care if his title wasn't used, why should the steward? "And I do have news. But first…." He crossed his arms and let some of his deep displeasure show on his face. "What have I done to deserve you insulting me? When you said you would send someone with the Royal accounts for negotiation, I expected a thane." Ulfric cast his baleful gaze at two of the most prominent thanes in Torygg's court. A so-called warrior woman and a money-grubbing man.
Ugh.
"Oh… yes, I see how that could be construed as insulting." Torygg deflated a bit as he listened to Ulfric talk. He paid no mind to Falk as the steward frowned at him. "I just… the Queator was already in the counting-house for calculating tax -- I, we -- erm, We thought it would be best to make sure the sums remained proper."
"So you don't trust your thanes to keep the Royal accounts proper?" Ulfric watched both the thanes he had singled out turn to Torygg, eager to see the High-King's response.
Torygg glanced their way too, and pressed his mouth into a thin line. "...No. I do not."
An honest admission. The boy had been king for less than a year, and already he'd found out his father's thanes were less than competent servants. It was foolish to admit as much in court, however. But so many of Torygg's decisions were foolish.
Ulfric sighed, content with the recompense brought by the lost trust Torygg's thanes had in him, and focused on the boy king. "House Redoran has agreed to sell Solstheim to Skyrim." Ulfric reached into an internal pocket, and produced a sheaf of papers. "The negotiated terms are contained here -- for your records."
Torygg was about to walk forward and take the papers, when Falk quickly stepped in front of the High-King. The steward gave the boy king a look and walked forward to take the papers. He started to read them as he walked back, and the color steadily drained from his face as he went.
"In addition to the sums promised to House Redoran, I had to make certain assurances to the people of Solstheim -- promises regarding their quality of life." Ulfric listed them out, with his first agreement -- freedom of religion -- being the most contentious. Even promising that Solstheim would be a Hold in its own right was not as divisive.
Like a monitor lizard on approach to exhausted prey, a black-robed figure stepped from the shadows of the High-King's courtroom. An Altmer woman, a Thalmor, with no hood and no fear in her eyes.
Ulfric and her had met before -- when the Jarl was a prisoner of war. She was Elenwen, the highest-ranking Thalmor in Skyrim.
How Ulfric hated that such a position existed.
"I hope you made abundantly clear, Jarl Ulfric," the Thalmor witch said with a tone of pleasant conversation, "that Talos-worship is still forbidden. The White-Gold Concordat trumps whatever agreement you've made."
Ulfric didn't answer.
"First Emissary," Falk said as he looked up from the papers, "you have not been called on to speak."
"My apologies, I'm just obligated to remind the Jarl that the agreements made by the Empire bind Skyrim still." Elenwen held Ulfric's gaze. There was no fear in her golden eyes -- just the promise of pain. She had given Ulfric that look before his 'interrogation' sessions during the Great War. She smiled. "I'm sure the High-King will make it clear to the new Jarl, if Jarl Ulfric let it slip his mind."
"Yes, yes of course," Torygg said with a waver of fear in his voice. All his foolishness in court was made retroactively worse that a Thalmor had been there to see it. "Now… about this matter of a new Jarl." Torygg stroked his chin, the scratchy beginnings of a beard there. "Balgruuf has a brother, aye? Would he be amenable to the position?"
"Not likely," the court wizard spoke for the first time since Ulfric arrived. She inspected her nails, like the dirt beneath them was more important than the topic at hand. "Hrongar regularly describes himself as a weapon -- he has no motivations beyond combat. And Hrongar's daughter is little better -- she's described as an oaf."
Completely accurate, as far as Ulfric had heard. Hrongar was aggressive, and while a man of action, he had little experience at statesmanship.
"Damn," Torygg sighed. "And… we've already asked Jarl Laila to send one of her sons to succeed Jarl Skald when his time comes."
That was not something Ulfric had been privy to -- he'd have to ask Laila which son she intended to send off. "There is a figure on Solstheim who could manage the task, a Khajiit Reaver Lord."
A wave of laughter passed through the court, which Torygg failed to resist.
"A -- a reaver? A bandit? As a Jarl?" Torygg had to fight his own mirth to speak, much to his steward's chagrin. "And a Khajiit? It must be the end times for you to suggest someone other than a Nord for a position of power."
"Solstheim won't be in a position of power for a very long time, no matter what happens." Sybille groused and waved a dismissive hand. "But a bandit leader, regardless of qualifications, would be an unsuitable Jarl. Balrguuf has two sons and a daughter -- any one of them would serve perfectly well if trained. Or ennoble a respected thane -- the Black-Briars, perhaps."
Whiterun's Jarl was not likely to send off any of his children. Since the man's latest wife died of the rot, he'd become as doting a father as a Jarl could be. And while the Black-Briars made good mead, the current generation was unremarkable at best.
"This Reaver Lord," Ulfric made sure to emphasize the correct title, which irked the steward again, "has my respect, the respect of the townspeople, and loyalty of his own forces. He was the host for our negotiations and twisted House Redoran's arm for his people's benefit. House Redoran, I remind you, are not known as cowards or weak negotiators."
He didn't dare reveal that the cat was a Tongue, not when Elenwen was in the gallery. The common belief was that only Nords could use the thu'um. As long as the elves believed that, they wouldn't look into it themselves.
"And again, qualifications simply don't matter in this instance." Sybille sighed, like she spoke to a half-wit. "The appearance of the act has to be considered. Merchants and the common people will want familiar names, and familiar genealogies. Anyone can crack open a book, read about Istlod, and have an idea of how Torygg would act. So it must be for a new Jarl of an unappealing Hold."
She deigned to meet Ulfric's eyes, and Ulfric saw that they weren't too different from Elenwen's.
"I hate to admit it," Falk said as he put the papers of the negotiation under his arm. "But I agree with Lady Stentor. This will be a long, expensive ordeal to turn Solstheim into land worth ruling. We'll need the possibility of a Jarl's throne to entice wealthy citizens or other Holds to assist in the effort."
Ulfric grunted, and shrugged. "On your heads be it if the locals dislike the new Jarl, then." They were already going to have to adapt to a new power structure, being ruled by a foreigner was just asking for trouble. "I suppose the Reach will appreciate some competition for the title of most inhospitable Hold in Skyrim."
Torygg, as ever, looked to resolve the situation with youthful enthusiasm. "Um. Why not… compromise?" He glanced at Sybille and Falk. "We can arrange a marriage -- this Reaver Lord to a woman Jarl, or a Jarl's daughter perhaps?"
"That… would be a hard agreement to strike. But I'll consider it when we draw up a list of candidates." Falk sighed, long-suffering Torygg's foolishness. "Anyway -- I'll make the arrangements for the gold to get to House Redoran per the agreement."
"Good. Then I will return to Windhelm." Ulfric turned, and walked away from Torygg's court with Galmar to watch his back. "I have a resettlement effort to supervise."
"A bandit inspiring loyalty," Sybille said to the court at large with a disbelieving tone as Ulfric left. "Utterly imbecilic."
--
Bloodskal Barrow
Zahkriisos
After many long turns of Nirn, he found nothing but gratitude to taste Tamriel's air again. As the undead, they only filled their lungs to speak, or Shout. But, through the grace of a star-wife, he lived again. Many of his fellows did, as well.
When he had been a mortal man the first time 'round, he had known about the tradition of tomb keepers. He had helped to set up the wards which would preserve their flesh and siphon bodily energy over thousands of years. He had been led to believe that they would be in their spirit homes while their bodies worked for later generations.
But it had not been so.
When their Draugr forms were completed, they were all yanked from their spirit homes to live in their flesh again. At least they were not aware of it for that long. It had been like being asleep, only to wake up to a nightmare for a few seconds.
Through the grace of the Magni, and their power to refuse time, the nightmare had come to an end. Miraak might dislike that Zahkriisos and his followers had abandoned the cause -- but they disliked that Miraak had abandoned them.
The star-wife who had revived them sought knowledge from him, though his understanding of their language was… rudimentary. Times had changed, the world had changed. Solstheim was populated by the Chimer's children called Dunmer, and Red Mountain screamed poison into the air constantly.
Zahkriisos taught what he could through action and simple words, though. The one which interested the star-wife the most was the power to heal. He had some approximation of the power through brewed potions and magical food -- but the power to heal was what he craved.
In between repairs to the city-tombs, Zahkriisos tried to teach the star-wife and his Dunmer acolyte the Clever Craft as he knew it. In return, the Dunmer acolyte 'Nelos' and the star-wife 'Farri' helped them mend their home, and learn their ways.
The star-wife used the thu'um for the most serious repairs. Collapsed tunnels, or broken foundations through which water flowed. The power to change was not Zahkriisos' specialty, he favored the power to destroy, it was wondrous to see his home start as a ruin and become as he remembered.
From the Dunmer settlement of 'Raven Rock' to the northern reaches of what they called 'Damphall', the city-tomb was rebuilt. Apparently, it was unheard of that the Nords would live alongside their dead in the modern era -- a sad omen of how their people had changed.
Over time, Zahkriisos noticed that the star-wife had begun to neglect his body's demands. The little one would spend hours cooking for his resurrected followers, his old following, his spider pets, and neglect to eat anything himself. More than once, when all the followers were abed, he heard Farri in the tunnels again, at work.
This was not permissible.
Zahkriisos floated through the air with the mightiest warriors of his followers trodding on the earth, as they followed the sound of stone shifting.
"Should we do this, Priest?" One of the former wights, Gissnir, asked and rubbed the back of his neck. "The little one is a star-wife, surely she knows what's best."
"He," Zahkriisos corrected and turned down a tunnel that hadn't been repaired when work officially ended. "The star-wife is not a woman. But no, what's best is not to go without so many meals, or to go without sleep. A star-wife should know better."
"We won't hurt the star-wife, yes?" Arcge, another former wight, and the one who realized Farri's nature, asked with worry in her voice. "Sh -- he has given us much. Good food, new clothes, repaired our home…."
Indeed, she was correct. Once Zahkriisos' men had gotten into the habit of hunting horkers, the food was good and plentiful. One horker could provide meat for dozens of men. They had discarded the time-ruined rags they'd worn as Draugr and wore modern fabrics. Zahkriisos himself wore a fetching robe of blue hemmed in soft yellow with a mantle.
"We let Miraak lose himself in his studies, in his work. And see how that ended up." Zahkriisos had reflected that, perhaps it had been a mistake to let Miraak forget he was mortal. "We can't let it happen again."
That seemed to galvanize his fellow ancients, they walked without speech until they arrived. It took Zahkriisos some time to remember -- once this path had taken them into the mountains, where lay White Ridge Barrow.
Dukaan and Zahrkiisos had linked their city-tombs, but Ahzidal had never wished for a stronger connection -- so no tunnels went to the southern barrow despite its proximity.
They came upon Farri, on his knees before a wall of collapsed stone. He was out of breath, his fur and mane unkempt, his clothes dusty.
"Earth…" the star-wife said, but it was a hoarse rasp -- indicative of over-use of the thu'um. Still, the earth did as she was bade, and moved like liquid to expand the tunnel another forty feet. Unsteady, Farri got to his feet and began to trudge down the tunnel.
At least, until Zahkriisos ensnared him with unseen hands and lifted him into the air.
Immediately, the star-wife began to thrash about, growling and hissing like a mundane cat. When Zahkriisos turned him around, he bared fang at them.
"You." Zahkriisos said, slowly, in the scraps of the Dragon tongue he knew the star-wife understood. "Work too much. Rest." Zahkriisos' thu'um was not stronger than the star-wife's, but he had more energy to put behind it than Farri had to resist.
As the blue energy of 'Praan' passed over Farri, his lonely eye slowly closed and he went limp in the air. The star-wife was moved to Arcge's care, and the ancient Nords returned whence they came.
"I'm glad he was too exhausted to resist," Zahkriisos admitted to his followers as they returned to the inhabited section of the city-tomb -- the part built from a mine. "It would not bode well if we had come to blows."
The sentiment was shared among the group as they returned. Familiar Nordic architecture gave way to new ways of building homes. Zahkriisos' group brought the sleeping star-wife to the kitchens, to pour soup and water down his throat. They brought him to the baths where they scrubbed the dust out of him -- and reminded some soft-heads that the star-wife was a man.
"Miraak would have us all killed if we had done this for him," Arcge observed as she pulled a nightshirt over Farri's head.
"Miraak would have left us as Draugr," Zahkriisos replied, bitterness heavy in his voice. "If the star-wife is angry with us in the morning, say that I forced you to aid me. Say that I threatened you, whatever is necessary." He removed the star-wife's false eye and laid it in the jar of oil beside his bed.
"Yes, Priest." She laid the star-wife to bed, while the others nodded their agreement.
As they left Farri's chambers, they walked out to see three of the star-wife's followers outside, with weapons ready. The modern Nord, the archer elf, and the star-wife's companion when he'd resurrected them.
Without words, the two groups looked at each other. Zahkriisos floated aside, and gestured to the chamber.
Cautious, the female elf walked past them with her sword drawn. She slipped into the star-wife's chambers and returned a moment later. Words in their guttural language were exchanged, and the weapons were put away.
Zahkriisos met her eyes as she walked past them. When she gave a small bow to him, he returned the favor. They parted, in mutual respect.
---
Friendly reminder that all those barrows you find in Skyrim are the remains of ancient Nord settlements. Sometimes they just… lived in the tombs. The Merethic Era was not to be fuck't with.
Also yeah, in the Chairly House we headcanon Lydia as Hrongar's daughter.
Also also, it must piss Igmund off so much that the Reach is more inhospitable for people to live in than fucking Winterhold.
