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“Don’t Shoot the Messenger” F!DB/Ulfric, Part 1c

[(Anonymous)]

Jaenna guessed it was sometime in the morning of the following day when a servant ventured down into the dungeons. The woman held a steaming bowl. Biting her lip, she cleared her throat to catch the dragonborn’s attention.

“Your meal,” the servant said. She knelt down, opened the small latch in the bottom of the door, and slid the bowl into the cell. She didn’t stick around to watch Jaenna eat, but turned and hurried away.

From her corner of the cell, Jaenna sniffed. Whatever slop was in that bowl didn’t smell the least bit appealing. She shuffled over and stared into the murky liquid. There wasn’t a spoon. She dipped her finger into it. The stuff was only lukewarm.

“Disgusting,” Jaenna muttered. She stood and clasped the bars. “Guards!” she shouted.

After a minute of shouting, two soldiers, a man and a woman, arrived at the lowest level. “What is it, prisoner?” the woman demanded.

Jaenna smirked. “Prisoner? That’s cute.” She beckoned the two soldiers closer, bending over to pick up her bowl of gruel. “What is this?”

The two exchanged looks. The woman leaned nearer to inspect the gruel. As she did, Jaenna threw the contents of the bowl into her face. The soldier jumped back with an indignant gasp. Clumpy, milky liquid dribbled down her face and armour.

“If the servants can’t bring me proper food,” Jaenna snarled, “then bring me nothing at all.” She tossed the bowl against the iron bars with a clatter and turned her back on the two guards. The first soldier looked ready to barge into the cell, but the man grabbed her arm, stopping her from drawing her sword. With some coaxing, he persuaded her to leave.

The dungeons were quiet once again.

***

By the third day, Jaenna’s stomach ached with hunger. That was nothing compared to her thirst. She could go days without eating – she had before, travelling the frigid, unforgiving mountain ranges of Skyrim. At least then, she’d been able to melt snow in her mouth. Now, her tongue felt like dried leather.

She rubbed her sunken eyes and glanced at the glistening walls of her cell. Moisture beaded on the cold stones. She considered licking the stone, wondering if she could bear the indignity. That, or she could just barge out of her cell. Easily. A Shout could take the cell door off its hinges.

Her promises seemed much less important with thirst dogging her.

Jaenna slept again, as there was little else she could do. She awoke to the sound of a set of heavy footsteps approaching the dungeons. She shivered and stirred. Without a proper meal, the cold was sucking away all her body’s warmth.

Ulfric Stormcloak entered the dungeons. He walked to stand a ways from her cell. He tilted his head and studied the dragonborn. A soldier stood nearby bearing a torch. Jaenna wondered if they both would be taken aback by the way her eyes glowed like a dragon’s, reflecting the firelight.

“What is this I have heard about the servants refusing to feed you?” Ulfric demanded.

“I sent them away.”

The man stared at Jaenna as if he thought she wasn’t quite right in the head. And maybe she wasn’t. The dragonborn never professed to think like regular people. “You sent them away,” he repeated.

“A starved dragonborn is less accountable for her actions,” Jaenna replied with a toothy smile.

Ulfric shook his head. “I will have someone send you food and water,” he said.

As he turned to leave, Jaenna scrambled to her feet and went to the cell door. “Wait,” she said. “What news of Whiterun?”

Ulfric hesitated.

“I promise I won’t roast you alive,” Jaenna cajoled.

Ignoring her, the Jarl left.

True to his word, a servant arrived later that evening. He shoved a tin of hazy water into the cell, followed by more of that foul gruel. Jaenna growled under her breath, causing the servant to jerk away from the bars.

“I said,” Jaenna murmured, “to bring me nothing at all if you can’t bring me proper food.”

“This is what we feed prisoners,” the servant responded, hopping from one foot to the other.

Jaenna took a deep breath. Her hands clenched around the bars of her cell, her knuckles blanching. “Come here,” she said.