He stayed in place, expression indecipherable. I, too, refused to move, wondering what had brought this on. I could understand if he disapproved of my actions, but subjecting himself to the bitter cold simply to make a statement was so out of character. It became clearer that something had changed for us in the past day, a shift I failed to identify. Disquiet spread through my sternum, and the snow crunched under my boots as I stepped closer, my brow creasing.
“Will you at least wait in the Gray Quarter? Pass the time with Ambarys at the Cornerclub,” I suggested. Anything but waiting out here. The image of him shivering in the freezing air did not sit well with me.
Erandur seemed to deliberate with himself for a few seconds, but nodded. Wordlessly, he pivoted on his heel and headed in that direction. I watched him go, trying to compartmentalize my concerns to address at a later time. For now, I had to set them aside.
My entrance into the Palace of the Kings echoed throughout the vast interior as the doors slammed shut behind me. Stillness greeted me at first, followed by the rumbling tones of Galmar Stone-Fist’s voice up ahead. The gothic design of this palace contrasted with the ornate structures of Solitude’s; fitting for their respective Jarls. I made my way around the grand banquet table, passing by the steward, Jorleif. He bid me a genuine welcome, the first I received since arriving at Windhelm. I acknowledged him and continued toward the rear of the main hall, where Galmar stood guard next to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.
My eyes locked with Ulfric’s, and immediately I felt the draw of his power and fortitude, similar to the first time I met his gaze in Helgen. We had sat side by side on that wagon carrying us to our deaths, a gag across his mouth and a hood over my head. And somehow, here we were now.
I dropped to one knee before the throne, a sign of both reverence and fellowship for the man whose fate had been rewritten along with mine. I held that position until Ulfric rose to his feet.
“Come with me, Kressun,” he ordered, striding past me toward the war room. “We need to have a talk.”
I straightened and glimpsed the dubious look etched across Galmar’s features as I trailed after the Jarl. Our footsteps resonated in the torch-lit stone corridors leading to the upper levels, and I noted the decreasing number of guards stationed on either side as we neared his quarters. I appreciated the display of trust, though I knew many in his Hold considered me a threat despite the deeds I had performed for their benefit. Thane, Dragonborn, these titles mattered little when others harbored no respect for the person holding them.
Sometimes, I regarded my survival as an inconvenience and my birthright as a thankless chore, made more evident by the relentless antagonism bearing down on me everywhere I went. Other times, I welcomed the challenge, seeing it as a set of trials to overcome. And I wanted to succeed. I needed to succeed.
The Equivocal Shroud [6/?]
He stayed in place, expression indecipherable. I, too, refused to move, wondering what had brought this on. I could understand if he disapproved of my actions, but subjecting himself to the bitter cold simply to make a statement was so out of character. It became clearer that something had changed for us in the past day, a shift I failed to identify. Disquiet spread through my sternum, and the snow crunched under my boots as I stepped closer, my brow creasing.
“Will you at least wait in the Gray Quarter? Pass the time with Ambarys at the Cornerclub,” I suggested. Anything but waiting out here. The image of him shivering in the freezing air did not sit well with me.
Erandur seemed to deliberate with himself for a few seconds, but nodded. Wordlessly, he pivoted on his heel and headed in that direction. I watched him go, trying to compartmentalize my concerns to address at a later time. For now, I had to set them aside.
My entrance into the Palace of the Kings echoed throughout the vast interior as the doors slammed shut behind me. Stillness greeted me at first, followed by the rumbling tones of Galmar Stone-Fist’s voice up ahead. The gothic design of this palace contrasted with the ornate structures of Solitude’s; fitting for their respective Jarls. I made my way around the grand banquet table, passing by the steward, Jorleif. He bid me a genuine welcome, the first I received since arriving at Windhelm. I acknowledged him and continued toward the rear of the main hall, where Galmar stood guard next to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.
My eyes locked with Ulfric’s, and immediately I felt the draw of his power and fortitude, similar to the first time I met his gaze in Helgen. We had sat side by side on that wagon carrying us to our deaths, a gag across his mouth and a hood over my head. And somehow, here we were now.
I dropped to one knee before the throne, a sign of both reverence and fellowship for the man whose fate had been rewritten along with mine. I held that position until Ulfric rose to his feet.
“Come with me, Kressun,” he ordered, striding past me toward the war room. “We need to have a talk.”
I straightened and glimpsed the dubious look etched across Galmar’s features as I trailed after the Jarl. Our footsteps resonated in the torch-lit stone corridors leading to the upper levels, and I noted the decreasing number of guards stationed on either side as we neared his quarters. I appreciated the display of trust, though I knew many in his Hold considered me a threat despite the deeds I had performed for their benefit. Thane, Dragonborn, these titles mattered little when others harbored no respect for the person holding them.
Sometimes, I regarded my survival as an inconvenience and my birthright as a thankless chore, made more evident by the relentless antagonism bearing down on me everywhere I went. Other times, I welcomed the challenge, seeing it as a set of trials to overcome. And I wanted to succeed. I needed to succeed.
I had no other choice.