Echoes of the Lost Voice

Epilogue: The Echoes

"Their cities . . ." The Prisoner's cracked lips moved, but there wasn't as much as a whisper. ". . . will burn down." He grinned. Another shiver wracked his broken body.

Soon . . . so soon now.

The dungeon with its mildewed walls and the layer upon layer of solid rock surrounding it meant very little to him anymore. They were but hazy reflections of illusion, hallucinations of the Mind. About to give way to the true reality just moments away from being born. And, in fact, the first of the contractions had already been felt. He would be there to bring about this birth. He would be the first to welcome this new word. He would ride the storm.

And he would make them rue the day they decided to stand against him! He would rise again to untold heights. She had promised him as much.

The noise squeezing out through his parched throat would have chilled the strongest of hearts as the Prisoner cackled, fraught with anticipation.

A rumbling sound carried out from the direction of the stairs leading to the dungeon. Followed by the tap of footsteps. Four feet altogether.

The Prisoner closed his eyes and shifted his aching suspended arm, moved his chafed wrists about in their fetters. He'd been left here ever since that fool had visited. Suspended, his feeble legs mostly unable to sustain his weight. Trifling, as far as tortures went. Pain was a word that barely meant anything to him anymore. It had been his world for so long he knew nothing else. Beside, this mortal coil would not hinder him much longer. He cared nothing for it. He would get a new one, a better one. One no longer limited by the delusions of matter.

That fool! Such arrogance, coupled with such paltry spiritual capacity! The Prisoner had, according to the instructions that the Queen—the true one!—had given him, sent the old idiot on his way. He would serve his purpose, no matter how trifling that most likely was. The fool evidently imagined himself important, but he was anything but. A pawn at best. One of those pathetic—

"I had forgotten," said a cool voice of barely concealed disdain, "what a miserable sight you were."

Smiling, he opened his eyes. There outside of his filthy cell stood Elisif the Fair, the so-called protector of Skyrim. The mere though made him want to laugh out loud his scorn. As if she or anyone else could protect this land against what was coming . . . Against him!

Next to the supercilious woman stood the horrid Court Wizard, the weak-blooded vampire Sybille Stentor. Now for her he had some special plans indeed. Tit for tat, as it were . . . and more. Far, far more!

"Well, now," the Prisoner said, though without a tongue his speech was more or less unintelligible, "If it isn't Jarl Elisif. It's been a long while since you last showed you face down here, bitch."

He took pleasure in the faint flinch of ire his words inspired on the woman's supposedly beautiful countenance. He was fairly certain it was not because of the "bitch" part.

Elisif soon recovered, however, and the displeasure gave way to a ghost of a smile. "Not long enough, Ulfric."

"Oh, don't be so coy," he replied. "Seemed to me you enjoyed our times together well enough!"

She smiled in earnest, then. And just as soon, her face went utterly blank. "Well, all times must eventually come to an end." She gave something like a sigh. "I have come to inform you that I judge you to have served your sentence. You have duly paid for your crimes. You are to be . . . released. I just came here one last time, to say goodbye. So . . . goodbye."

While Elisif spoke, Sybille Stentor had opened the cell door and stepped inside and was now standing to his left. He did not deign to give the vile witch the time of day, and instead kept his eye cast on the impassive "High Queen," who said nothing more—her features cast in stone.

"Yes, Ulfric," said Sybille. "You've quite served your purpose here. And such a purpose, I might add! You have helped influence one man. Who will in turn influence another. And so it goes. It's unstoppable now." She grinned, as he finally turned his attention to her. "You have helped change history. You can take comfort in that, at least."

A small, albeit weak, twinge of foreboding gnawed at his insides, as he took in the wretched woman's gleeful expression. No, it simply was not possible. She would protect him! She had promised.

He was not afraid.

"Surely you, of all people, understand," Stentor continued. "Some will always have to die so that others can go on living. So it has ever been, and so shall it ever be. And the grander the lives in need of feeding, that much greater the toll."

His gaze now fixed on the Court Wizard, the Prisoner saw out of the corner of his eye Elisif tuning on her heel and slowly walking away. His attention did not shift.

Sybille Stentor reached under her cloak to bring something out. She then took that something to shove it right in front of the Prisoner's widening eyes.

A skull. By all outward appearances, an old one. A rusty circlet with a blue precious gem still attached in the middle adorning the brow. Even for a skull, it looked particularly much as though it wore a grin.

There was an undeniable aura of power surrounding it. Something very familiar about it. Frightening, yet assuring.

"You know," Sybille said slowly, "there was one adage in particular that the Wolf Queen Potema was fond of. One she would often recite to me. It goes, 'Each seat of power rests upon piles and piles of bones.'"

In growing confusion, and downright fright, the Prisoner started at the skull. Those words . . . so familiar. Whispered to him . . . by the Voice.

The Queen.

He turned to regard Sybille, who leaned right close to him. Pressed her mouth next to his ear.

She whispered, "All bow before me!"

Studying the Prisoner, she took a step back. Cold terror seized him from head to toe. The awful grin on Sybille Stentor's colorless features widened, even as dread power gathered around her.

It cannot be! She gave me her word! She promised!

Help me! Help me now, I'm begging you! I am your servant! Your most loyal servant!

In the distance, behind the arcane buzz slowly growing to fill the dungeon, there was an echo. Of distancing footsteps. And of something else.

Laughter.

The Queen of Terror.

And then, although he had long thought himself unable to, the man once known as Ulfric Stormcloak screamed for the very final time.

The walls of the dungeon were the last to hear it.