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“Don’t Shoot the Messenger” F!DB/Ulfric, Part 8e

[(Anonymous)]

Jaenna would have used her Shout to slow time again, but her voice was still raw from those particular words of power. She’d been stupid to waste the Shout on drama, hoping to give Rikke pause and avoid further slaughter. All around her, the Palace of the Kings deteriorated into chaos, filling with battle cries. Jaenna leapt off the table, narrowly avoiding the axe chopping at her knees. She careened into a man, sending them both to the floor. Jaenna rolled to the side, avoiding the downward stab of another Legionnaire sword.

The dragonborn fought, using every dirty trick up her sleeve. The soldiers pressed her back against a wall, but she held them at bay. Words of power lodged in her throat – if she used them now, in the close confines of the hall, she might smite a Stormcloak soldier as well. Couldn’t the bloody fools just group up safely out of the way and give her some room?

Jaenna whispered a word to empower her movements. Her sword was a silver blur, cutting down opponent after opponent. Eventually, the wall soldiers between Jaenna and the throne thinned. The dragonborn broke past them and fought her way to the back of the hall. She shoved aside an Imperial Legion woman, who fell onto the sword of a waiting Stormcloak.

The way clear, Jaenna could now see Ulfric Stormcloak, bruised and bloody, one eye swollen shut, sitting back in his throne. Legate Rikkie, equally battered, stood before him, her sword poking into his neck. Half a dozen Imperial Legion soldiers surrounded them both, having overpowered and divided the ranks of the Stormcloaks.

“Stop,” Rikke commanded.

Jaenna froze. The Stormcloaks froze. Reluctantly, the Imperial Legion soldiers eased away from their targets.

Rikke looked down at Ulfric, “Drop your sword.”

Ulfric blinked blood out of his eye. He shifted in the throne, slouched at an awkward angle from the pressure of Rikke’s sword. His hand unclenched. His sword fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

“If you kill Ulfric,” Jaenna growled, “there will be hell to pay.”

Rikke glared at the her. “I guess that all depends on what you do, dragonborn.” She prodded Ulfric with her blade. The skin of his neck dimpled, a bead of blood welling up.

Jaenna snarled, tension thrumming through her muscles. “Stop that, or I’ll skin you alive,” she hissed.

“I’ll release him on one condition,” Rikke said. “And it so happens to be the only condition that will allow my soldiers and myself to escape here alive.”

Jaenna shifted warily. She slowed her heartbeat so she could concentrate, listening to the shuffling and breathing around her. “And what is your condition?” she asked.

“Take your sword,” Rikke began, nodding to Jaenna’s blade, “and run yourself through.”

“What!”

Ulfric shifted on his throne, eyes widening. “Jaenn-”

“Shut up,” Rikke snapped, increasing the pressure of the blade at his neck. To Jaenna, she said, “It need not be a lethal strike.” She shrugged. “I suggest through your side, about here—” she motioned on her own body. “You’ll go down. If someone helps you, you won’t bleed to death. If you don’t try to single-handedly destroy my forces, you may recover without lasting injury or infection.”

Jaenna stared at the other woman, wondering if she were mad. “You expect me to risk everything in trust of your word?” she demanded. “Have you taken leave of your wits?”

“I expect you to risk your life,” she nodded to Ulfric, “for his.”

Everyone in the Palace of the Kings stilled. Someone coughed, and the sound seemed loud, echoing in Jaenna’s ears. She stared hard at the legate.

“You have until the count of three,” Rikke said. “One.”