When he was a boy, his mother sang to him: songs of courage, songs of heroes, songs of men with the voices of dragons. He loved to hear them. He dreamed of being one of them.
Skyrim still needs heroes, and instead it has him.
He is not Ysgramor, though he sits on Ysgramor's throne; he is not Wulfharth or Jorunn or Harald, and he is certainly not Talos. He is not even his father, who was beloved of everyone in Windhelm, who commanded affection where Ulfric inspires hate and hero-worship in equally unreliable measure. But he does possess the Thu'um: the ancient weapon of the Nords, the relic of a time when kings ruled by might and not by the whim of a distant and self-interested Empire. The symbol of a Skyrim that was strong, and may be strong again.
He goes to Solitude with years of molten rage hammered into a cold and deadly purpose. Torygg smiles at him. "Jarl Ulfric--"
"Torygg." His voice is glacial. "I do not call you king, because no true High King of Skyrim would be so fearful and blind to his people's suffering. Let all those present witness. In the eyes of gods and men I call you traitor, and challenge you to trial by combat."
Torygg blanches. For a moment he looks dizzy, dumbfounded, and Ulfric wonders if he will refuse. It would serve his purposes just as well if he did, but after a moment the young king stands, a little shakily. "So be it."
"No--"
Torygg folds his fingers around the small hand gripping his sleeve, pushes it gently back toward his queen.
"The High King claims his right to choose the weapons," says Torygg's steward, a little breathlessly. Ulfric nods.
The court wizard shifts. "This is madness--"
"Swords," says Torygg. "And shields."
They have to bring Torygg's things from the armory. Ulfric feels a grim vindication in that - that this so-called defender of Skyrim does not even keep his war-gear close at hand. But he waits silently while Torygg puts on his mail and the members of his court huddle and whisper at the edges of the throne room. When it is done they face each other, there in the center of the palace. Torygg draws his sword.
Ulfric looks at the young man in his ceremonial armor - polished by servants, but never by blood. He does not really look at Torygg's face. If he did, he might see an uncanny resemblance to his long-dead comrades: casualties of the hatreds and the war-wounds of their elders, doomed brave boys who faced down the Dominion's ranks with shaky hands and steady eyes. But he does not. He thinks about symbols, about betrayal, about redemption.
His thu'um is stronger than it has ever been, bursting its banks with all his brutal, intimate knowledge of force, and what it means.
True Need 3d/3
Skyrim still needs heroes, and instead it has him.
He is not Ysgramor, though he sits on Ysgramor's throne; he is not Wulfharth or Jorunn or Harald, and he is certainly not Talos. He is not even his father, who was beloved of everyone in Windhelm, who commanded affection where Ulfric inspires hate and hero-worship in equally unreliable measure. But he does possess the Thu'um: the ancient weapon of the Nords, the relic of a time when kings ruled by might and not by the whim of a distant and self-interested Empire. The symbol of a Skyrim that was strong, and may be strong again.
He goes to Solitude with years of molten rage hammered into a cold and deadly purpose. Torygg smiles at him. "Jarl Ulfric--"
"Torygg." His voice is glacial. "I do not call you king, because no true High King of Skyrim would be so fearful and blind to his people's suffering. Let all those present witness. In the eyes of gods and men I call you traitor, and challenge you to trial by combat."
Torygg blanches. For a moment he looks dizzy, dumbfounded, and Ulfric wonders if he will refuse. It would serve his purposes just as well if he did, but after a moment the young king stands, a little shakily. "So be it."
"No--"
Torygg folds his fingers around the small hand gripping his sleeve, pushes it gently back toward his queen.
"The High King claims his right to choose the weapons," says Torygg's steward, a little breathlessly. Ulfric nods.
The court wizard shifts. "This is madness--"
"Swords," says Torygg. "And shields."
They have to bring Torygg's things from the armory. Ulfric feels a grim vindication in that - that this so-called defender of Skyrim does not even keep his war-gear close at hand. But he waits silently while Torygg puts on his mail and the members of his court huddle and whisper at the edges of the throne room. When it is done they face each other, there in the center of the palace. Torygg draws his sword.
Ulfric looks at the young man in his ceremonial armor - polished by servants, but never by blood. He does not really look at Torygg's face. If he did, he might see an uncanny resemblance to his long-dead comrades: casualties of the hatreds and the war-wounds of their elders, doomed brave boys who faced down the Dominion's ranks with shaky hands and steady eyes. But he does not. He thinks about symbols, about betrayal, about redemption.
His thu'um is stronger than it has ever been, bursting its banks with all his brutal, intimate knowledge of force, and what it means.