From Frina’s Journal
I wasn’t expecting to get shipwrecked on the way from High Rock to Windhelm but that’s what happened. We were caught in a storm and smashed into the rocks north of Solitude, and I had to peel off my armor or get dragged to the bottom with the weight of it. I washed up half-frozen, with nothing more than my smallclothes and my wits. I didn’t see any of the others. Not a one. I don’t know what happened to them but I can imagine it well enough.
It took me a bit of work to kill enough wolves to make some basic armor, a rough bow, some stone arrows and a couple of stone axes. I wandered east along the shore, eating the clams I found along the way washed down with snow, and discovered a ruined dinghy outside a place that I learned later is called Broken Oar Grotto. I recognize a bandit operation when I see one, so I said a quick prayer to Talos and went inside.
I didn’t have much to work with. But the first bandit went down quickly enough, and I got his leather armor and a decent number of iron arrows. It took me a very long time to get rid of them all. Hours. By the time I got through the place I was soaked again, from hiding on the rocks in the water, but I had a number of steel weapons, a lot of food and coins and the knowledge that I had disrupted what was clearly a criminal operation that got cut short by a cave-in where the boats used to go in and out. Unfortunately, the captain escaped me. I don’t know where he went. The captain’s journal, though, mentioned a contact named Jaree-Ra.
And wouldn’t you know, I walked past that very same Jaree-Ra several times when I made it to the city of Solitude. Apparently he is trying to find a scapegoat for some kind of scam, at least that’s what the journal said. I would have stayed to see if I could disrupt him too, to help restore some law and order, because I heard people at the open market talking about the raiders up along the coast by just that grotto. I would have done that.
But I walked up to Castle Dour, because the blacksmith told me there was an alchemy bench there, and while I was standing there I heard the actual general of the Imperial Legion arguing with his legate. They know! They know that Ulfric Stormcloak is planning an attack on Whiterun! I have to get to Windhelm now. It’s the whole reason I came back to Skyrim anyway and now I know for certain that Talos is guiding me, for I needed to hear that piece of information. And as if I needed any other reason to go right away, the woman who told me about the bandits said “hey, if you come across any Stormcloaks, run ‘em through for me.” I was shocked. She had seemed so pleasant, and helpful, before she said that.
They truly hate the Stormcloaks in Solitude. I saw some of the filthy Thalmor there, strutting about like they own the place. I aim to help get rid of them. And I went into the Temple of the Divines and saw the shameful thing they’ve done – they’ve left shrines to all of the other gods but removed the shrine to the true god of the Nords, Talos. His niche lies empty. It’s awful. I will see the shrine put back to rights if it’s the last thing I do.
I can hardly wait to meet him. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. To think that my sister fought for him, met him in person, the great Bear of Markarth, and even now, after all these years, he’s still there on the throne and it’s my turn to serve. I think Briinda would be proud of me.
—
Frina fed a few more twigs onto the small fire she’d built on this sloping platform atop a mostly-collapsed old tower. She’d poked around inside just to make certain nothing would come at her at night, and found what seemed to have been an old Imperial prison. It was mostly full of water, now, at least down near the bottom. She shuddered a bit to think what a deluge it must have been to wash the tower halfway down the hillside, ending up at such an odd angle. The spot she had chosen for the night, though, was sound enough. There were a few scorched stones here, in fact, that showed it had been used for this purpose before.
I should have just stayed in Windhelm for the night, she thought. But I was too excited after seeing Roggi again. I spent too much time talking and not enough time getting to where Jarl Ulfric wants me to be. And now I’m too tired and it’s too dark. I’ll just sleep here for a few hours and be on my way.
She spread out her bedroll and lay down beside the fire. As it had every night since then her mind started replaying her life since arriving back in Windhelm, the place she’d spent her early years.
I’ll never forget it. That moment. I went into the palace to tell him what I’d seen in Solitude, to find out how I could join up with the Stormcloaks, and he walked out from the side chamber.
Frina had heard the scratchy voice she now knew belonged to Galmar, first.
“I’d follow you into the depths of Oblivion, you know that.”
And then she’d heard a sound that stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Yes, but why do you fight? If not for me, what then?”
That sound, that voice. It was deep, resonant, and full of something that she could not identify but which reached down into her and took hold of her.
“I’ll die before elves dictate the fates of men,” Galmar had replied while she was still trying to sort out what she was feeling. “Are we not one in this?”
Yes. Yes, we are. That is why I am here.
And then he had come out from that room at the side and walked to his throne, sweeping across the space in his blue-draped armor. Frina watched him, stunned. She’d heard about him of course, for her whole life, and was expecting to be impressed; but she hadn’t expected to be rendered nearly senseless by his passage. They called him the Bear of Markarth but to her eyes Ulfric Stormcloak looked more a lion, a full mane of blonde hair with warrior’s braids on either side swept back over high, wide cheekbones, a square jaw covered with a short beard, and a large, hawk-like nose. He turned to gaze at Galmar, who had followed him, and continued speaking.
“I fight for the men I’ve held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for the few of us who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people, impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet which brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves!”
His voice had risen, filling the great hall in which he stood, making the very stones ring with the sound of it. Frina’s heart rose into her throat and tears rose into her eyes. These were the words she had longed to hear for all the years she’d been training to take her sister’s place in the battle against the elves. Or, rather, she’d longed to hear them from this man, the one man everyone agreed could drive out the Empire and give Skyrim back to itself.
“I fight,” Ulfric said, his voice dropping and carrying a heavy burden of sadness, “so that all the fighting I’ve already done hasn’t been for nothing. I fight… because I must.”
And he sat down on the great, cold throne.
I thought I was going to die, right then and there. I truly did. He looked like a god, standing there like that, and he sounded like one as well; but then he sat down and he looked so… sad.
She had taken a step closer to him when he sat down, and had looked at him again. Those eyes, very deep-set, were surrounded with lines. The circles beneath them spoke of many sleepless nights – no, many years of sleepless nights and great depths of grief. She’d had an overwhelming thing occur to her at that moment.
I want to make that sadness go away. I’ll do anything he wants.
Frina rolled over onto her side, yawning, hoping that she would be able to relax enough to sleep soon. She’d warmed up a bit of mead when she’d laid the fire and it had warmed her from the inside, but still the thoughts wouldn’t stop racing through her head.
And then. And then he saw me.
“Lord Ulfric,” she had stammered, mistakenly but automatically using the title one used for the highborn men in High Rock, where she’d spent the years since her parents had taken her out of Skyrim. He’d turned toward her, calm but perhaps slightly amused.
“Only the foolish or courageous approach a Jarl without summons. Do I know you?”
Frina opened her mouth to apologize for using the wrong title, to spill out the warning that General Tullius knew he had eyes on Whiterun. But she didn’t get the chance.
Ulfric’s gaze focused on hers then, truly focused on her rather than just casting a brief glance in her direction. His eyes widened, and so did his mouth, for just the smallest moment. Then he rose and walked down the stairs toward her, standing so close that she could smell the trace of the soaps with which he bathed, the oils that treated the armor he wore and the good, clean sweat of the man who wore it. She froze in place while he stared at her, clearly confused.
“Briinda?” he murmured, barely aloud, his brows furrowed, looking as though he doubted his own sanity. “Do my eyes deceive me? How can it be? I thought… Roggi told me….”
Frina laughed, in spite of what a bad idea it was to laugh in a ruler’s face. In all the years since she’d become a woman, and in all the years since Briinda had passed, she’d had this reaction from people so often that it was almost a joke to her.
“No, my lord. We’ve never met. I’m Frina. But I understand your confusion. Briinda was my older sister. I’m told we look very much alike. I was just a child when she died.”
Ulfric’s gaze ran over her again, and Frina shivered, not knowing what to expect but taking in every detail of his face. She saw the deep furrows of care on his forehead, the lines of fatigue around his eyes and the sorrow of years resting around his mouth. And she saw something else, too, she thought. His gaze had been urgent, almost hungry it seemed for a moment or two until she’d told him her name; and now he looked disappointed, embarrassed almost.
“Frina,” he’d said, finally. “Of course. I had forgotten that Briinda had a sister. You do favor her greatly.” He took one step back. “Forgive me for approaching so closely. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable. Now perhaps you’d care to tell me exactly what brings you here.”
Oh he made me uncomfortable, all right, but only because of my own reaction. He’s old enough to be my father. Twice my age and maybe more. He’s older than Roggi, by a good ten years at least. But by Talos what a beautiful man he is and every part of me knew that right then. Too bad he thought it was Briinda he was talking to.
And how dare I think such a thing about the rightful High King of Skyrim.
Frina flopped back onto her back, frowning. “You need to sleep, Frina,” she told herself. “It’s not going to be any easier to talk to Jarl Balgruuf if you’re exhausted.”
But her eyes stubbornly refused to close.
She’d told Ulfric what she had heard in Solitude, and he and Galmar had shared a glance and a nod. She’d told them that she wanted to become a Stormcloak soldier like her sister before her, and Galmar had given her a condescending grin and sent her off to fight an ice wraith up to the north, just off the coast.
An ice wraith. Like I hadn’t just clawed my way across the province fighting ice wraiths and trolls and saber cats and gods know what all else there was along the way. That was stupidly simple. Galmar thought it was going to be easy to get rid of me. He thought I wasn’t going to amount to anything at Korvanjund, either, didn’t he – but I brought down that big draugr myself and grabbed the Jagged Crown right off its head, and brought it back to Ulfric. Jarl Ulfric, that is.
You would have thought Galmar might have learned something about the women in my family. It’s obvious that he and Ulfric knew her. And we don’t give in or stand aside. Especially not for crusty old soldiers who think they’re better than everyone else simply because they’re men.
Frina looked up into the clear sky, seeking out the comforting presence of Masser and Secunda. Their phase was dark this night but she could still see their rounded bulks marking time through the field of stars.
They’ve always been there. Just like the memories from when I was a little girl.
It was so good to see Roggi again.
She could still feel his warmth, where she’d given him a hug strong enough to hurt a smaller man. It was clear he was still active, still a fighter; for his muscles were hard, and straining against the fabric of his armor, and he’d even looked big standing next to the large red-haired Nord who’d given her a false name. She was sure of that.
That man is no more named Brunulvr than I am. But he’s not the important one, anyway.
She’d been so very excited to see him again, the man she’d always thought of as a big brother. He looked the same, his smile was the same and his eyes the same bright, warm eyes she remembered from when she was a little girl and he would pick her up and swing her around him, making her screech and giggle. Roggi had been half the reason she wanted to be a soldier, telling her stories about how he and Briinda fought skirmishes with the faithless Imperials, so that she and her family would be able to worship Talos if they wanted to.
Frina had half worshipped Roggi because of the look on her sister’s face whenever she looked at him, and the look on his when he smiled back at her. She’d hidden the letter Briinda wrote to her while they were off fighting in Cyrodiil, the letter that said the two of them had gotten married, because that’s what her big sister had asked her to do. But she’d wanted to shout from the rooftop that she had a big brother too now, a soldier like her sister, a good man who had the best wife in the world.
She loved him. He made her so happy. I’m so glad they were married, even if they never got to have that ceremony with all of us and with Roggi’s family. I’m sure she’s waiting for him in Sovngarde and when he dies…
She frowned up into the darkness as a thought occurred to her.
He’s gotten married again. I wonder what she’s like. I’m sure she’s nice, because it’s Roggi, after all, but… What will happen when he dies? Will they all be together, the three of them?
That doesn’t seem right at all.
What a stupid thing to be worrying about in the middle of the night.
Frina chewed on that thought for a moment but was interrupted by an enormous yawn. She rolled over onto her side again and felt her eyes closing.
I can’t wait to go see him in his new house. Falkreath. Maybe after I’ve settled this business with Jarl Balgruuf, I can go and meet Roggi’s new wife.
Finally, having come to that conclusion, Frina drifted off to sleep.
___
There was a priest in full voice, standing before the statue of Talos in Whiterun. Frina stopped to listen to him and the more he spoke, the more she nodded.
“And there it is, friends!” he said. “The ugly truth. We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man, ascended from flesh to rule the realm of spirit!”
Yes. That’s right. Of course it is. Why would anyone think anything else?
“The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords. Sharing the heavens with us? With Man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on Nirn! Today they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?”
Frina looked around and saw people shaking their heads as they bustled up and down the paths to the great keep atop the hill. They’d clearly heard this man before. Some of them looked at him – and at her – as if they were crazy.
But listen to him, people! He’s telling the truth, don’t you see it? We have to get rid of the elves once and for all!
“And what does the Empire do?” the man continued. “Nothing! Nay, worse than nothing. The Imperial machine enforces the will of the Thalmor against its own people! So rise up! Rise up, children of the Empire! Rise up, Stormcloaks! Embrace the word of mighty Talos, he who is both man and Divine!”
Frina’s heart rose to her throat and tears welled in her eyes. This was exactly why she was a Stormcloak. Exactly. She’d thought about it often enough. Talos was the Emperor Tiber Septim before he became divine and it had, at first, seemed somehow wrong that she would be fighting against the very empire he had created. She had come to believe, as this priest before her implied, that the Empire had become too corrupt to save if it would enforce the rule of elves over that of man. Tiber Septim would never have accepted the current state of affairs in his empire.
She looked at the enormous statue of Talos behind the priest and smiled.
I’m here to do your work, my great and powerful Lord. I will restore this land to the Nords, in your name.
And I’d better get to it. I have an axe to deliver.
She climbed the stairs to Dragonsreach and pushed open the great wooden doors. It was a disappointment. Oh, the place was large enough, to be sure. It was tall, lofty even; but the place was almost entirely made of wood and seemed… ordinary.
The Palace of Kings. Now there’s a palace. Built of stone so ancient it almost seems part of the mountains and filled with hangings and a table so long it could seat half the city. Or at least it looks that way. This has no grandeur about it. It looks like a… a hunting lodge, not a palace.
That was Frina’s assessment of Dragonsreach; and as she approached the Jarl and heard him quarrelling with his steward she realized she had a similar assessment of Balgruuf the Greater in comparison with Ulfric Stormcloak. Balgruuf slouched on his throne. He looked cranky. He snapped at Proventus, his steward, to take care of provisions for Whiterun out of his existing funds, even though Proventus said there were no such funds. Worst of all, to the right of the throne was a person who made Frina’s nose wrinkle in disgust even though she was heavily armed and clearly protective of the Jarl.
I can’t believe he has a Dunmer as a housecarl. I had heard this man was a true Nord, a direct descendant of Olaf One-Eye. This is revolting.
Frina swallowed her feelings and stepped up to catch Balgruuf’s gaze. He looked her over, frowning, particularly when she held out the war axe she’d been keeping close to her person all the way from Windhelm.
“Sir. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak asked me to deliver this axe to you. He said you’d understand what it means.”
Balgruuf’s frown grew even deeper. Frina had to stifle the urge to turn and flee.
“Did he, now? Ha.” Balgruuf’s eyes turned toward Proventus. “The man is persistent, I’ll give him that. I suppose it’s time I give him an answer. What do you counsel, Proventus?”
The Imperial steward was, in Frina’s mind, almost as distasteful as the Dunmer to her right. He was oily and obsequious and stood with his hands folded before him, in what seemed the least sincere attitude she’d ever witnessed.
“As in all things, lord – caution. I urge us to wait, and see.”
The Dunmer woman to the right snorted. “Prey waits.”
Frina’s eyebrows rose in grudging admiration. Perhaps I’ve underestimated her. This one understands.
For several minutes Balgruuf, Proventus, and Irileth – for that was how Balgruuf addressed the Dunmer – argued about how they should respond to Ulfric. Proventus was afraid of Ulfric, in Frina’s estimation, first suggesting that he would send someone with a dagger for Balgruuf’s back, and then sneering about how he had simply walked up to “the boy” – Torygg of Solitude – and murdered him.
“That ‘boy’ was High King of Skyrim,” Irileth snapped.
Balgruuf sat up straighter on his throne. His voice rose. “I’m not the High King. But neither am I a boy. If Ulfric wants to challenge my rule in the old way, let him.”
Frina didn’t know anything about Balgruuf’s history with Ulfric aside from some vague whispers, but she thought she knew what she was seeing before her. He was of an age with Ulfric, heavily lined but still vital.
He wants to fight Ulfric, doesn’t he? This is personal for him, somehow, isn’t it? Perhaps he thinks that he ought to be High King himself, rather than Ulfric. But here he sits in his wooden castle rather than doing something active to take his power. Bah. He’ll never defeat the true High King.
The three of them argued more, picking at the scabs of old wounds from the end of the Great War and Balgruuf’s acceptance of the White-Gold Concordat after receiving a great deal of gold. Irileth and Proventus snarled at each other. It was a very different atmosphere, Frina thought, from the genuine cooperation she’d witnessed in Windhelm among Ulfric, Galmar, and the court’s Steward, Jorlief. She’d even seen Ulfric and Jorlief have a disagreement; but it had been quiet, and respectful, and it had been clear that while Ulfric’s opinion was the one that mattered he held those of his subordinates in high regard.
These people are such … provincials, compared to that. I don’t understand why they’re so important. It must be the position of Whiterun that makes taking it imperative, not Whiterun itself.
Finally, the Dunmer turned to Balgruuf and said, flatly, “It’s time to decide.”
“Lord, wait,” Proventus whined. “Let us see if Ulfric is serious.”
Balgruuf looked directly at Frina. Whatever it was he was thinking, it was clear to her that this was a highly intelligent man. Perhaps he was trying to gauge the situation through the expression on her face. But no – she was certain he’d known what the situation was from the instant she’d handed him the axe.
“Oh, he’s serious,” he said quietly, then turned his gaze to Irileth. “But so am I,” he continued, his voice strong and icy cold.
“Finally,” she said, nodding.
Balgruuf turned to Frina again. “So, about this axe,” he said, handing it to her. “You can return this axe to our friend. The esteemed Jarl of Windhelm has my answer. Make sure he gets it.” He turned to his right. “Proventus, bring me my pen. And the good parchment. I need to make a few things clear to General Tullius before I accept these Legionnaires of his.”
Frina nodded even though Balgruuf was no longer paying her any heed, and gave him the slightest of bows before backing down the steps to Dragonsreach’s main level. She’d been dismissed, without fanfare, and without the chance to say a thing. He’d never asked her name, or acknowledged her in any way. She was simply the messenger girl, to Balgruuf; and that made her fume.
She strode toward the great wooden doors, trembling with anger and with something else that she couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t fear, not exactly; but it was clear to her that things had gotten very serious.
This isn’t just idle threats any more. And General Tullius wasn’t imagining things. We’re really and truly going to war. I need to get this axe back to Ulfric right now, so that he has a chance to prepare.
Frina stopped for just a moment before the shrine of Talos, to pray. She wondered how it was that Balgruuf, a man who would defy the elves by leaving such a shrine in place, could be taking up arms against the man who was working for that same goal.
Then she rose and ran through the city. There would be no visit to Roggi’s house in Falkreath, not this day.
I have to get back to Windhelm, right now.