Still-Born Shout [#wattys2017]

Chapter Twelve

Ulfric sat astride his horse; snow and ash were swept about by the rush of air from its nostrils. He saw Solitude in the distance, he saw columns of smoke rising from the parapets of the Blue Palace. Some of his men had already rushed the hold, but he knew that; he had given the orders from his own Palace shortly before he rode out.

Galmar was waiting for him at the camp. He had ridden from Windhelm alone. Everyone in Skyrim probably knew of the battle to come, but he wasn't keen on advertising it. At least, not until he'd won.

He shook those thoughts from his head. He hated to admit it, but his strength was not his own; the Gods had been gracious enough to send him the Dragonborn. If that wasn't a divine command to win this bloody war, Ulfric didn't know what was.

He urged his horse through Dragon Bridge and up the path towards their camp. He wasn't really sure of it's location, for he'd only made it to Haafinger a handful of times. He wasn't exactly loved by Elisif. He was sure that the assassination of the Emperor had been blamed on him by someone, and those Empire-loving Imperials in Solitude would probably lose their damned heads if they had a chance to get their hands on Ulfric Stormcloak.

He had put almost a decade of his life into the cause. He would see it through, even if it ended in his death.

As he rode into the camp, he nearly jumped off of his horse and tore into Cairn-Breaker's tent. Istar was suiting himself up. Ulfric watched him clasp the pelt of the bear over his leather armor. He shivered. While Windhelm was bitter cold and almost always ravaged by blizzards, the crisp air of Solitude was just as chilling.

"Jarl Ulfric," Istar grumbled, turning around and placing a fist over his heart, followed by a curt nod. That was the Stormcloak greeting. Ulfric had first started using it to tell his men apart from impostors an infiltrators from the Legion, and it had quickly been adopted as their official greeting.

"Istar," Ulfric said, quickly returning the greeting. "Where is Galmar? Where is the rest of our host?"

"We've sent a small group of men into the city to distract the guards while we wait for Galmar. He's said to be leading at least two-thousand men."

"What do you mean?" Ulfric asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Istar Cairn-Breaker's uneasy tone. "Is it not certain that he's bringing two-thousand men?"

"He gave word that he met Snow-Blood on his way here," Istar said. Ulfric felt a wave of nausea, followed by excitement. He knew that the Dragonborn would keep her word. She always had. "But he wasn't sure exactly how many soldiers they had... And he mentioned that they aren't all Nords."

Ulfric should've known. He never should've let those Khajiit join his ranks... But she had been right. If he turned them away, they probably would've gone straight to Solitude, and to Tullius. Not only that, but they would've spread word of Ulfric's prejudice. That would've definitely strengthened the Legion.

Ulfric was a racist. His father had raised him as one. When he was a child, the previous Jarl had lead him through Windhelm, through the Gray Quarters, out to the docks. The Jarl had told him what kind of dark things those Elves had been planning, and what treasons they would commit against the people of Skyrim, if they were ever given the chance. He had told young Ulfric about the filthy Argonians. He had said that they didn't belong in this land, and Ulfric had believed him.

When Ulfric fought for the Empire, he was taken prisoner by the High Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion. The torture he had endured to protect the secrets of his homeland was unspeakable. And his fellow soldiers never came for him! After all he had sacrificed while retaking the Reach in the name of the Emperor, the Empire had deserted him. That Thalmor bitch Elenwen had taken so much delight in interrogating Ulfric... He wished he could erase his memories of it.