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HoA 01

H E A R T _ O F _ A R S O N

Ulfric has faced many years since the Great War but there is a face that has hung in silence in his mind since then. All those years later, finding that face again would draw new memories to be made in the wake of the war he waged against the claws of the Empire. And the matter of other claws that would sink into the very flesh of Skyrim itself brought its own problems, along with a mysterious stranger. The path of the future was not certain. But the fresh return of that face in his mind brought questions. Ones he felt needed to be answered.

START, NEXT

TW: N/A

ONE

There was no response from Balgruuf as to Ulfric’s call for rebellion against the Empire, but as far as his sources had informed him, the Jarl of Whiterun had also given no response to the opposing Imperials either.

The center of Skyrim was a neutral territory for now.

And without Whiterun picking allies, both sides were evenly matched in the number of holds which joined their claim, the Imperials holding power with their dirty Septims over the West, and Ulfric had the loyalty and honor of the people in the East. The end result of the war likely hung in the balance with whoever ended up claiming Whiterun.

Ulfric just hoped that the rival of his youth would make the right choice.

As much as he personally did not care for the man, he would prefer to have Balgruuf as an ally rather than an enemy.

He was a fierce fighter and a smart man.

Ulfric needed all the fierce fighters and smart men that he could.

And in the morning, Ulfric would be taking a small troop of his soldiers to retake Fort Amol from a nest of mages that had infested there. Once that was done, they would be en route to visit Darkwater Crossing, a mining settlement which was responsible for quite a bit of corundum ore that went into making the steel for their swords and armor. He had received a message from the acting leaders of the settlement, husband-and-wife duo Verner and Annekke, that there had been an unusually high number of travelers around Darkwater lately. It had been Galmar’s suggestion to send out a few soldiers that way to check it out, but if Ulfric and his men were going to be so close to the settlement because of Fort Amol, it would be an insult to his people to not stop there to show his concern in person.

Ulfric had come to notice that when a leader displays open care about the worries of his people, those very people are more willing to fight for that leader.

But in the depths of dreams, he was no leader.

He was a young man in shackles again.

Prisoner to the Thalmor.

Ulfric couldn’t remember how many times his mind dragged him back to that awful place, relived those horrible memories.

It was in the cage of his own mind that he was forced to remember that not only was Elenwen a skilled interrogator, a skilled torturer, she was also a skilled healer. She knew her way around methods to break a man’s mind, to drive him to the point of giving up entirely, willing himself to die. It was then, and often only then, where the cruelly of ‘kindness’ as she called it was shown.

And she would heal what she had fought to damage.

Ulfric remembered that sometime she would bring over the young Altmer male who was assigned to the task of writing down every word that spilled from his lips and tell him, in a tone that was sickeningly sweet, “Come, I think you should practice.”

That face that flinched every time Elenwen ripped sounds of pain from his lips only grew focused, farther from afraid and closer to calm in those moments where Elenwen encouraged him to develop his skill in restoration magic.

Ulfric remembered the careful way that the Altmer male would avoid looking Ulfric in the face.

He remembered the great amount of caution that the hands which belonged to that face took to not touch the Nord’s skin when that golden skin would draw light into the shadows of the interrogation hall.

He remembered the way those hands shook.

And he remembered that he thought that Altmer boy looked only a handful of years older than himself.

Young.

The Aldmeri Dominion were training their own in the means of cruelty from a young age.

Ulfric also remembered how well that Altmer improved his restoration magic with Ulfric to practice on.

Ulfric tasted blood in his mouth, sobs too weak to shake his body any more as tears streamed down his cheeks. Ulfric might have felt pity if he had seen his own state on another man, but this hyperawareness of himself only filled him with shame.

Elenwen stepped back, admiring her handiwork before she tilted her head faintly to the side in consideration. And then she gazed back to her aid.

“Come.”

He heard the shift of a chair, and the soft sound of Thalmor boots across the dirty floor of the interrogation chamber.

Elenwen stepped further out of the little cell, leaning against the frame of the door to observe as the male came to stand before him and very quietly, deliberately slowly, he tugged off his gloves.

From his position, Ulfric had a good view of those hands.

The movements of this man were recognizably different from Elenwen.

She was efficient but she did not take any care for caution in front of a prisoner who had been in her custody for an untold amount of time.

That face though…

It was like he was approaching a trapped animal, not with the intention to attack it, but rather with the intention to spring the trap loose.

And quietly, those golden hands reached out to him, the owner of those hands crouching so he could focus his attention more. So close that he could almost feel the warmth of his hands, all without even touching.

And then, the long thin fingers that belonged to that face glowed golden over weeping wounds and broken muscle and pained bone.

And for a moment, Ulfric felt bliss.

Only for a moment before the ingrained knowledge of what was still going to happen the next day settled back into his thoughts and he hated Elenwen and her aid even more.

The glow never disappeared as those hands slowly moved from one wounded area to another.

The cords of a lute quietly tilted into his mind.

A shallow awareness that this was not real.

“Lady Elenwen,” a voice spoke up.

This was a memory.

The interrogator’s attention was drawn away.

“What is it?”

The words but not the voice itself came to his mind.

Sorrow reigns

Over fields of red…

Spirits pace

Through the shadows cast by their graves…

This was not real.

This was a dream.

The Altmer whose hands glowed glanced over his shoulder quickly, and when he turned back, Ulfric saw fiction as the expression turned serious with effort and those hands moved to hover over his arms, drawing strength into them and forcing the acceleration of wounds at his wrists that had mostly gone ignored in favor of the shackles’ sting.

Darkness strives to blind the strong

But Faith will guide our swords…

Loyal hearts we’ll stand as one

And fight with shields of Hope…

This was not real.

This was a dream.

That face checked over his shoulder again before drawing his hand away from Ulfric’s skin.

Only briefly.

And the splintering sensation in his skull, from physical pain—no—phantom pain, psychological agony, and shameful sorrow was swept away like wind to a loose shred of paper.

It took that pain and tossed it to the sky like a bird being released from the hands that held it captive.

And he heard that voice, the one that he remembered belonged to that face, singing the last verse.

These are days and nights of venom and blood…

Heroes will rise as the anchors fall…

Brave the strife, reclaim every soul

That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn…

And finally, the eyes that belonged to that face, eyes he had only noticed in the event of passing them on the streets of Solitude, met his.

They were the color of amber.

Shades between the color of gold ore and the warm red veins of heat between the dark soot of coal.

He remembered once finding a rock near the riverbed as a child that was that exact color.

“Wake up, Ulfric.”

It was Galmar’s voice that made his eyes open to the contents of his room, the sheets beneath him soaked with sweat just the same as his pillow was soaked with tears.

Sometime during the night, the soft dyed blanket had been lost to the floor.

The gruff voice of his housecarl reached him, carrying the words, “Welcome to the world of the wakeful, friend, glad to have you back.”

Ulfric sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing one eye with the heel of one hand as the other rested on his long-time friend.

“Are the men ready?”

Galmar huffed.

“You are the one who needs to get ready. Break your fast. If they are not ready by the time you are prepared to set out, there will be others more willing to take their place.”

Ulfric knew these words, repeated to him in the twilight of the days when he had nightmares and Galmar found it better to wake him early than let him suffer in the confines of his mind any longer.

“Thank you, friend.”

Galmar was not a man who smiled kindly with his mouth, but the slight nod he gave and the small softening of his eyes was the closest second to the expression, all before he turned to lend Ulfric his privacy.

By the time Ulfric was composed and properly arranged to make himself public, stepping through the doorway of his wing and into the war room, he could smell hot oats and seared pork.

What he could not smell, as he sat down, was the soft-boiled eggs and the buttered bread.

It was a good breakfast to have for any day, but he would be among his men, soldiers who did not have the same opportunities to eat as well as he could, and as his appetite always was after nights full of uneasy dreams, he ate lightly.

His stomach would thank him for the decision after he had been on horseback for a handful of minutes.

The high-sun meal would be among the men and women who looked up to him, and they would eat as equals.

And when Ulfric returned to Windhelm in the evening, he would give the men the coin to eat a well and hearty supper and he too would eat a well and hearty supper in the main hall of the Palace of the Kings.

When Ulfric stood from the table, his body at ease with the warm comfort of food in his belly, Galmar gave him a nod and together, the two war veterans stepped outside of the Palace and through the city to the stables where his men were gathered already, some of the newer soldiers among the lot almost visibly buzzing with energy at the thought that they would be accompanying Ulfric Stormcloak himself on an adventure to retake the Fort of Eastmarch.

The men who had already done such assignments before were pleased with themselves that they could repeat such events.

Galmar gave him a few words of advice, as a more seasoned soldier to a fellow, as he mounted his horse.

And with a sharp squeeze of his heels, Ulfric took his men away from the capital of Windhelm to seize Stormcloak territory from the selfish rabble who preferred magic to the strength of one’s sword arm.

With the men that he had, the nest of mages were culled with little effort and ultimately among the dead, only an unfortunate few were among the numbers of the men and women in his hold’s armor.

They cared for their dead and wounded and then they ate their lunch.

Twelve men and women who were not assigned to remain at the fort but rather return to Windhelm with him accompanied him on the south road towards Darkwater Crossing.

It was on that road when the sound of an arrow zipped through the air and sank into the throat of Ulfric’s horse, making the beast throw him off in its panic and its pain, and they found themselves surrounded by Imperial soldiers and for every one of his men, there was at least five who fought against him.

He had too many good soldiers with him.

And he had already lost more than he wanted to lose earlier at Fort Amol.

And Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion, ordered his guards to stand down.

Collected among them was a man who was caught trying to steal an Imperial horse shortly before the ambush.

They were all bound, and with the Imperials’ wise fear in Ulfric’s ancient power of the Voice, he was gagged.

Then, they were loaded up in the carts.

Ulfric honestly couldn’t imagine that the Imperials would bother taking him and his guard all the way to Cyrodiil, parade them in front of the Emperor like some prized dogs, but he could believe that General Tullius might hold the desire to cull the rebellion quietly.

Executing the head of the rebellion away from the eyes of the bulk of his forces and later presenting his very head would scream out the loudest, ‘look. Look at what has come of the man who dared to rebel. Look at what will happen to you if you dare to do the same.’

Cowards.

And he turned out to be right as he saw the carts approach the gates of Helgen, a known Imperial fort in Falkreath.

He observed the Thalmor by the gate, the high voice that he easily recognized as Elenwen’s demanding to Tullius custody of the prisoners, thinking that citing the White-Gold Concordat as reason enough.

Tullius wasn’t about to allow a man of such importance as Ulfric Stormcloak to slip through his fingers though.

And as the carts rolled through the town, he saw gold, gleaming elven armor, two Thalmor soldiers, half-dragging, half-pushing a prisoner of their own.

He would have assumed it was a local merchant by the handsome quality of his clothes, caught doing something shameful enough to warrant being dragged to Helgen, but then he caught sight of the skin of the man as the cart passed, the color of gold showing through the rips in his clothes made by previous rough handling at the hands of his captors.

This man was an Altmer.

What had an Altmer done to warrant such attention from the Thalmor themselves?

And as the carts came to a halt and everyone stepped out, the approaching guards with their prisoner came to join them.

And Ulfric saw the Mer’s face.

That face.

It was that face.

The face of Elenwen’s aid.

The face of that Mer singing in Solitude.

The face of this prisoner.