Ulfric passed his hand over his eyes and almost hoped that whatever test Galmar set for the Dragonborn, he wouldn’t pass it. But as much as he wasn’t looking forward to meeting the Breton’s unwavering blue gaze again, Ulfric had paid his price for the Dragonborn and now he was damned if he wasn’t going to make him earn his keep.
He did return, and was duly sworn into the Stormcloaks. He looked grave and pale, but he cheered up a bit when Galmar explained about the crown. Ulfric wasn’t convinced, but while they waited for Balgruuf to make up his mind, it would be a good test for their new recruit.
Dyce, for his part, seemed relieved and even somewhat delighted by the idea.
“I’m always fetching things from tombs,” he said brightly. “This will be easy.” Ulfric was nonplussed by the response but couldn’t fault his enthusiasm.
He was less impressed when the news came back that Dyce and the crown had been captured by Imperial forces, but almost as soon as the messenger had caught his breath a second one arrived to say Dyce had managed to escape with the crown.
Indeed he had, and he strode into the Palace of the Kings with it on his head, although at least he had the sense to hide it under his hood. Ulfric accepted the crown, and turned it over in his hands; he honestly had never expected it would still exist, and his heart quickened slightly to hold it.
A crown didn’t make a king, he knew, but still, it was something.
He put it aside and looked at Dyce.
“They told me you’d been captured.”
“I was. But not for long.”
“No Thalmor? They didn’t interrogate you?” Dyce was now the holder of too many secrets for comfort.
“The Imperials don’t like the Thalmor much more than you do. They didn’t have any with them. I was interrogated by one Legate Rikke,” he smirked. “Luckily I didn’t have anything useful to tell her. She was interested in troop movements and why would I pay attention to that stuff?”
“Rikke? She’s not a torturer. She’d never...” Ulfric trailed off.
In answer Dyce started undoing the catches on the strange, sleek armour he wore, and Ulfric could only stare as he revealed a lean, muscled chest and pale skin blotched with darkening bruises.
“To be fair,” Dyce said. “She seemed to prefer less crude methods, but bloody hell if she didn’t near break me in half anyway.” He straightened his back and winced.
Ulfric didn’t know if the squirming feeling in his gut was jealousy or despair. Rikke a torturer? He stared at the bruises that Dyce was gingerly prodding. He knew Dyce had no idea how lightly he’d got off, and he hoped he’d never know. No one should know. The intelligence was that Imperial forts now commonly had torture chambers; the influence of their golden-skinned allies.
“This war has to end,” he said. “Rest tonight. I’ll have more orders for you tomorrow.”
“Yes, my Jarl.”
“Would you do your armour up? You look untidy.”
Ysarald came in at the sound of voices and his concern for the bruised recruit was unfeigned. Dyce smiled at him with genuine affection and Ysarald herded him upstairs and told him he’d find some food. By this point the Jagged Crown had lost its novelty and Ulfric went upstairs himself to sleep before the sight of one of his generals playing nursemaid made him feel worse. The next morning, thankfully, Galmar had returned from the tomb, and was most approving of Ulfric’s new sense of purpose.
“The peace treaty is no longer in effect. The matter of Whiterun must be settled one way or another; delaying it only needlessly prolongs this war.” When Ulfric handed Dyce his axe to get a final answer out of Balgruuf, the Breton looked deeply worried. But he didn’t argue. He bowed his head and strode out.
“What do you think?” Ulfric asked his old friend.
“Ysarald seems to think highly of him.”
“I’d noticed.”
“He did kill the dragons. But his heart’s not in this war. He doesn’t think it’s his; he’s just obligated to fight it.”
“Maybe that will be enough.”
“Maybe. We’ll see how he goes on the battlefield. If his Thu’um is anything like yours, Jarl Ulfric, we will turn the tide.”
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timeasmymeasure
What's a Thief to a King? M!DB/Ulfric 5/??
Date: 2013-02-07 09:43 pm (UTC)He did return, and was duly sworn into the Stormcloaks. He looked grave and pale, but he cheered up a bit when Galmar explained about the crown. Ulfric wasn’t convinced, but while they waited for Balgruuf to make up his mind, it would be a good test for their new recruit.
Dyce, for his part, seemed relieved and even somewhat delighted by the idea.
“I’m always fetching things from tombs,” he said brightly. “This will be easy.” Ulfric was nonplussed by the response but couldn’t fault his enthusiasm.
He was less impressed when the news came back that Dyce and the crown had been captured by Imperial forces, but almost as soon as the messenger had caught his breath a second one arrived to say Dyce had managed to escape with the crown.
Indeed he had, and he strode into the Palace of the Kings with it on his head, although at least he had the sense to hide it under his hood. Ulfric accepted the crown, and turned it over in his hands; he honestly had never expected it would still exist, and his heart quickened slightly to hold it.
A crown didn’t make a king, he knew, but still, it was something.
He put it aside and looked at Dyce.
“They told me you’d been captured.”
“I was. But not for long.”
“No Thalmor? They didn’t interrogate you?” Dyce was now the holder of too many secrets for comfort.
“The Imperials don’t like the Thalmor much more than you do. They didn’t have any with them. I was interrogated by one Legate Rikke,” he smirked. “Luckily I didn’t have anything useful to tell her. She was interested in troop movements and why would I pay attention to that stuff?”
“Rikke? She’s not a torturer. She’d never...” Ulfric trailed off.
In answer Dyce started undoing the catches on the strange, sleek armour he wore, and Ulfric could only stare as he revealed a lean, muscled chest and pale skin blotched with darkening bruises.
“To be fair,” Dyce said. “She seemed to prefer less crude methods, but bloody hell if she didn’t near break me in half anyway.” He straightened his back and winced.
Ulfric didn’t know if the squirming feeling in his gut was jealousy or despair. Rikke a torturer? He stared at the bruises that Dyce was gingerly prodding. He knew Dyce had no idea how lightly he’d got off, and he hoped he’d never know. No one should know. The intelligence was that Imperial forts now commonly had torture chambers; the influence of their golden-skinned allies.
“This war has to end,” he said. “Rest tonight. I’ll have more orders for you tomorrow.”
“Yes, my Jarl.”
“Would you do your armour up? You look untidy.”
Ysarald came in at the sound of voices and his concern for the bruised recruit was unfeigned. Dyce smiled at him with genuine affection and Ysarald herded him upstairs and told him he’d find some food. By this point the Jagged Crown had lost its novelty and Ulfric went upstairs himself to sleep before the sight of one of his generals playing nursemaid made him feel worse.
The next morning, thankfully, Galmar had returned from the tomb, and was most approving of Ulfric’s new sense of purpose.
“The peace treaty is no longer in effect. The matter of Whiterun must be settled one way or another; delaying it only needlessly prolongs this war.” When Ulfric handed Dyce his axe to get a final answer out of Balgruuf, the Breton looked deeply worried. But he didn’t argue. He bowed his head and strode out.
“What do you think?” Ulfric asked his old friend.
“Ysarald seems to think highly of him.”
“I’d noticed.”
“He did kill the dragons. But his heart’s not in this war. He doesn’t think it’s his; he’s just obligated to fight it.”
“Maybe that will be enough.”
“Maybe. We’ll see how he goes on the battlefield. If his Thu’um is anything like yours, Jarl Ulfric, we will turn the tide.”