Frina trudged up the steps into Windhelm, feeling grim. Oh, to be sure, her coin purse was a lot healthier now than it had been not long ago thanks to the East Empire Company. And Adelaisa Vendicci had offered to accompany her if she wanted, if she had any further adventures planned, though Frina could not possibly imagine traveling with an Imperial. Brynjolf was likely to get the news that shipping was opened up again, and he and all of the connections he’d hinted at would be pleased as well. Those things were good, surely they were. Weren’t they?
But Frina was numb. And when she wasn’t numb, she was remembering the fiery explosions all around her and flinching as if they were happening all over again.
She walked slowly, painfully, up through the streets. She didn’t stop at her home; rather, she just plodded her weary way up the broken steps to the Palace of the Kings. She stopped for a moment, in front of the huge doors, and drew a deep, shuddering breath.
Best to just get it over with. Maybe he’ll refuse to see me. Maybe he’ll have me executed. It doesn’t matter. I fell apart in the middle of a battle and I don’t deserve to be called Stormblade or anything else, any more.
She entered the long hall and walked slowly down the blue carpet, past the long table. Ulfric was seated in his throne, as usual, looking at papers, deep in discussions with Jorlief. Jorlief looked up and saw her. Clearly startled, he cleared his throat and tapped Ulfric’s arm.
“My lord,” he said, trailing off without finishing his statement.
Ulfric looked up and saw her. He was on his feet in a moment, dropping the papers onto the throne behind him. Without saying a word he stepped down off the dais and walked toward her, his strides lengthening until he met her, opposite the door to his map room. Frina looked at him and began to tremble at what was clearly blazing anger in his eyes.
He reached out and seized her by the upper arm, yanking her toward the doorway.
“Come with me,” he growled. “Now.”
The guards standing at either side of the doorway stepped back out of the way as Ulfric stormed toward them; Frina thought they looked startled, if not actually distressed. She stumbled a bit; but having no choice other than to go where he was directing, she tried to keep up with Ulfric as he propelled her through the map room, up the two flights of cold, dark stone stairs, and into his private quarters. He released her arm, turned, and slammed the door shut.
“What were you thinking?” he shouted.
Frina cringed.
I’d forgotten. He’s soon to be the High King of Skyrim and he can end me here. He’s so much stronger than I am, too. I’d forgotten. I kept thinking of him just as a man, just Ulfric, and I had no right.
“I thought… I might help. My lord,” she said very quietly, barely able to get the words out of her mouth.
“You disobeyed me!” he snarled.
Ulfric whirled to look at her. His gaze ran over her from top to bottom. She saw when he took in the long gashes in her armor that might never be repaired, the blood stains that might never come out. He looked at her face again; she saw him notice the soot-stained traces of the tears she’d tried to wipe away, the hair that she usually kept neatly pulled off her face falling in untidy clumps here and there.
And then he closed the distance between them and pulled her to him. He gathered her up next to his chest and held her, so closely that she wondered whether her heart would cease beating. She surely could hear his, beating in a strong, solid pattern beneath the layers of heavy armor. She was so startled that she barely knew what to do except to wrap her arms around him and hold him, as well. As the moments ticked by she realized that she felt — safe, for the first time in a very long time.
“Frina,” he said, his deep voice rumbling next to her ear.
Frina dissolved. She started to tremble in Ulfric’s embrace for the second time, but this time she was crying as well.
“I was afraid,” she cried. “I thought I could help, and I made it all the way through the fortress and cleared out the Blood Horkers and the battle mage and then it started exploding. Everything was exploding. And burning. And I felt like we were in Whiterun or Solitude all over again with the explosions and everything burning except that you weren’t there and it was so loud, and I wasn’t sure I was going to live through it…” She sobbed, and tried to pull back, but Ulfric wouldn’t let her move. He held her next to him, rocking back and forth just slightly.
“You disobeyed me.”
The gentleness of his tone contrasted so with his words that it caught Frina by surprise, and she sobbed again. “I did, and I’m sorry. I forgot myself and my place and I forgot who you are.”
“And you almost single-handedly reopened the shipping routes for all of Skyrim. The news was here before you were,” he murmured. Frina felt one of Ulfric’s hands begin rubbing her back, lightly, up and down. It was one of the most comforting things she could ever remember feeling, and she almost started crying harder just because it felt so wonderful.
“But my lord,” she said, only to be met by a quiet chuckle.
“Ulfric. My name is Ulfric. And you are Frina. And I was very afraid that you would not be returning,” he said quietly, finally pushing her back from him far enough to look at her eyes, but not releasing her. “Stormblade, you have done this city and all of Skyrim a great service, and we will not soon forget it. But you have given its future High King a few more gray hairs than he already had.” He reached up to touch her face. “Please do not do such a thing again. I fear he is an old man, and could not bear the strain.”
Frina studied his face. He wasn’t smiling, but neither was he frowning; he was simply dead serious, his eyes full of concern.
“I’m very sorry,” she said quietly. “And I am very ashamed.”
“Why? What have you to be ashamed of?”
“I was afraid. In a battle. I cried when the firestorm exploded around me.” She swallowed hard against the tears that were trying to re-emerge. “I’m supposed to be a soldier.”
Ulfric walked her backwards a few steps and gently pushed her down into a chair. Then he walked to the back of his quarters. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see what he was doing; but she heard the sound of liquid splashing. He returned to the table with a bowl of water and two cloths, and wetted one; and then to her utter surprise he lifted her chin up with one hand and gently wiped off her sweaty, smoke-covered, tear-stained face.
“You are a soldier, Frina,” he said quietly as he worked on her face, but did not meet her gaze. “You must keep this in mind, though. Soldiers rarely go into battle alone. Some do in very limited situations, to do specialized things, usually against limited numbers of the enemy; but generally they do not.”
“Like when I stole the Imperial plans for Galmar,” she said.
Ulfric nodded. “Yes, like that. On Japhet’s Folly you were one soldier against an entire cadre of seasoned, well-provisioned pirates with magical expertise to boot. There was good reason that nobody had rid Skyrim of them before now, you know. You had no real backup. And you were being bombarded – which was an absurd thing for them to do under the circumstances. You put yourself at great personal risk and looking at you I can see that your success was far from certain.” He rinsed out the cloth and made one more pass over her face; she closed her eyes and sighed at how good it felt to be rid of the layer of salty dirt she’d accumulated. “There is no shame in weeping under battle conditions, particularly when you persevered in spite of your fear. Just as there is no shame in weeping under torture,” he added. “That is a thing that even a king may do.”
Frina’s eyes flew open and she stared at Ulfric. He was placing the dirty cloth back in the water and reaching for a dry cloth, but he was frowning, and his mouth was held in a tight line. He shook his head, sighed, and turned back to her.
“Here. Let me dry your face.” Frina let him do so, studying him as he did. His eyes looked far-away, and almost haunted.
My gods. He was tortured. And he was afraid. And he fell apart for a time as well. That’s what he’s just told me.
“I’m very sorry that I brought that up, before I left,” she said quietly.
Ulfric glanced at her and smiled, grimly she thought, then shook his head. “There,” he said, putting aside the towel and, seemingly, ignoring her statement. “Thank you for allowing me to do that. You looked as though you felt miserable.”
She nodded.
Ulfric walked to the door and opened it again, calling for a servant. She heard voices for a moment, too quiet to understand the words; then a woman scurried into the room and picked up the bowl of water and dirty towels. She nodded at Frina, smiled shyly and said, “My lady,” then left the room.
Frina couldn’t help herself; she giggled. “My lady! I don’t know that anyone’s ever called me that before.”
Ulfric took the seat opposite her and sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes for a moment.
“I’ve sent for hot water, and clean towels. You will find a robe in the chest just there. I can see that you were injured; your armor is ruined, and you are likely bloodstained if I am any judge of battles.” He opened his eyes then and smiled at her.
“I shall leave you while you refresh yourself. And then the servants will bring us food. And wine. It occurs to me that a great battle deserves a bit of a celebration. And so, if you will indulge me, does your safe return.”
“My lord,” she started to say. Then Ulfric stopped her with one warm hand over hers.
“Please. Tonight, let me be simply Ulfric. And Ulfric is just as relieved that you have returned safely as the Jarl of Windhelm was angry that you disobeyed him.” Ulfric’s expression was warm and open, and something else that she could not identify.
Frina looked at him, her gaze moving from one of his eyes to the other and back again, and she could see nothing in them aside from the sincere desire of a man with too much on his shoulders to share in a little well-earned creature comfort. She smiled at him.
This. This is why I forgot he is a king. This is just a person wanting company.
“It would be my pleasure, Ulfric,” she said quietly. “And thank you. I was very distressed, as you saw. I already feel better.”
There was a knock. Ulfric smiled, released her hand, and rose to open his quarters to a pair of women, one carrying a silver jug with steam rising from its mouth. The other had towels, and what looked like a bar of soap. They took these to what Frina could now see was a basin in the far corner, and then turned to leave. Ulfric nodded to them and moved toward the door himself.
“I have some business to conclude before I may rejoin you, so feel no need to rush.”
Frina pushed herself slowly and somewhat painfully out of the chair and made her way toward what was obviously some delightfully hot water. She looked around, somewhat nervously though there was nobody else in the room, and began to peel herself out of her ruined armor.
Bathing in the High King’s bedroom. This is not a thing I would ever have thought I’d be doing.
It was delightful. As the soot and blood washed away, the warmth soothed bruises and aches. She felt herself relaxing more with every moment. When she was entirely clean – even her nearly-frozen feet having been warmed and washed – she found the robe Ulfric had mentioned and slipped into it.
And then she found herself giggling. I wonder what Roggi would think of this? Something tells me he would not approve at all.
When Ulfric returned, not too long afterward, he brought two of the castle’s kitchen staff with him. They had two plates piled high with food, a basket of bread, and a large silver jug from which the woman carrying it poured two goblets of wine. Frina took one of them and sipped it, smiling at the earthy taste of it. Ulfric thanked the women and took his seat, and without fanfare dug into his meal. Frina followed suit. They were having roast rabbit with garlic carrots, and potatoes baked and covered with generous amounts of butter. With each moment that passed she felt a little more centered, felt a few more aches recede, and she smiled inside at the great good fortune that had rewarded her with such an evening after the horrors she’d just endured.
After a few minutes of quiet eating, Frina spoke up.
“You have wonderful cooks, my… “
Ulfric looked at her and raised one eyebrow.
“Ulfric,” she said, laughing.
“Thank you,” he said, taking another drink of his wine. “Both for the compliment and for using my name.”
Frina sighed. “You do realize that I am not exactly used to dining with people who are, well, royalty. Yes? I know that the war had both my sister and I here on business but we’re just simple Nord people. And so is Roggi, and his family – at least as far as I remember them. I still don’t know how to act.”
“Oh,” he said with a slight smile, “I believe you know exactly how to act. And you have dined with the Dragonborn, have you not?”
“Well yes, but he’s just Roggi’s husband. I mean he is so… normal.”
Ulfric laughed. “There is very little that is normal about the amount of power that man possesses. Anyone with a bit of talent can learn to harness the Thu’um with enough training and dedication. I have more natural ability than most, and the Greybeards chose me to study with them when I was just a lad. It was a great honor, of course; I was to have become a Greybeard myself if not for the Great War. As you have seen, it became clear that I am more a warrior than a philosopher.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Frina murmured. “This is all very interesting to me.”
“That is good. And I have no doubt that you have thought very deeply about power and its uses, having fought at my side in this war. You have seen both of us use our Voices in a way of which the Greybeards do not approve. But Dardeh,” he said, grinning and emphasizing the name so that she would notice he was using it, “is in a different class altogether. They say that those very few individuals who have truly been Dragonborn are of human form but possessed of the blood and soul of a dragon, and need no instruction to use the power of the Voice. So in a way, my Stormblade, you have shared meals with true royalty, the kind of which most of us can never dream.”
Frina pondered that for a moment while she had more of her wine and a few more bites of the delicious crusty loaf the women had brought. Ulfric reached for the silver pitcher and refilled both their goblets.
“And yet, you are the next High King of Skyrim.”
Ulfric nodded. “Perhaps. Most likely.” He looked away and for a moment Frina saw a hint of deep sadness on his face. “The truth is that there has not been a true High King in Skyrim for generations. For too long he has been hand-picked by the Emperor. And there has been no true Emperor for a very long time, only political hacks who have bowed to the Aldmeri Dominion. It is time for Skyrim to have its own true king, one of our own making.”
“And that is you. That is why all of us fought for you.”
“Well. It may be so,” Ulfric said, smiling at her. “It is a shame that my honored father could not have known this.”
“Your father? The former Jarl?”
Ulfric looked back at her and smiled. “Yes. Hoag. The Bear of Eastmarch. He died while I was imprisoned after the Markarth incident. You may know of it, although I expect you are too young to have heard of it first-hand.” He shook his head and chuckled. “And now I remind myself how old I have become. It’s a pity. At any rate, I – his only son – was forced to deliver his eulogy by letter, smuggled out of the prison by sympathetic guards. The late and unlamented Titus Mede refused to release me until after Hoag had been laid to rest. It… is a thing that did nothing to reinforce what had once been my love for the Empire. We’ll leave it at that.” He drained his goblet and then refilled it, taking another sip.
Frina thought of her own parents, both dead now, much too soon. Her mother had most definitely died of a broken heart after Briinda’s murder, in spite of her father’s best efforts to raise her spirits over the years in High Rock. He had followed her not long after her passing. It hurt her heart to think of what she might have felt if she’d been unable to be there as they were laid to rest. For that matter, it still hurt her heart that she had not been able to comfort Roggi. She looked at Ulfric’s posture, slightly slumped, his expression one of melancholy, his blonde hair hanging forward across his face, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap him up in a comforting embrace. But it wasn’t her place to do such a thing.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured instead.
Ulfric looked at her, one eyebrow raised as though he had not in any way expected such a response. “Thank you, Frina,” he said. “The people sat me on my father’s throne when I returned to Windhelm. The throne of Ysgramor! I can only hope that I can in some way prove worthy of the honor.”
Frina surprised herself, and Ulfric, by reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. “You already have. You’ve taken Skyrim back for its people and you’re going to be its next High King. And even Dardeh thinks you’ll be a good one.”
Ulfric laughed; and Frina smiled at the sound of it. He’s been so serious since I returned. It is good to hear that laugh again.
“Does he, now? Well that is very good, then. So he had said; but it is always hard to know whether someone is being sincere when they are trying to enter a Jarl’s service. So I shall become the High King with the blessing of the Dragonborn.” Then he shook his head. “The alternative, of course, is Elisif of Solitude, whom you saw there when we took the city.”
“High King Torygg’s widow.”
“Yes. And now, it would seem, once again married.”
Frina’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Yes. You heard me. It’s troubling, truthfully. Word has arrived that the fair Elisif has taken a Breton mage as her new husband.” Ulfric’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “The Archmage of Winterhold, as it happens. I do not know this man. However, I am sure that there will be those who will take Elisif’s part when the Moot meets, because of this.”
Frina was exhausted. Her head had been swimming before coming to the Palace because of the noise and the terror of the battle on Japhet’s Folly; and she had been drinking the rather heady wine Ulfric’s people had brought them. For whatever reason, she could not make sense of what he had just told her.
“I don’t understand. Why would she be made High Queen simply because she’s married? She vowed that she would support you. She knows she’s bound to that promise. Isn’t she?”
Ulfric looked at Frina for a long moment as if considering his next words carefully. She could nearly see his mind working; but she hadn’t known him long enough to know what the set of his face might mean. She suddenly remembered Roggi telling her earnestly that she should take nothing Ulfric said for granted and that he would say anything to get his way; but she had never heard him utter a falsehood in her presence, so she pushed the moment of doubt to the side.
“The Lady Elisif has a distinct advantage over me. She has the capability to produce an heir to the throne and I, clearly, do not.”
He waved a hand at his body and grinned. Frina broke into a fit of giggles in spite of her efforts to remain at least slightly dignified.
“And now that she is once more a wife, that capacity has become a real possibility.”
“Hmm. That seems a ridiculous reason to make someone a queen, but I’ll take your word for it. You know these things much better than I do.”
Ulfric took another sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. Frina followed suit but rather than closing her eyes, she merely studied his face. He looked tired. She wanted to touch him, perhaps massage his shoulders, somehow ease his weariness the way he had relieved her discomfort by washing the dirt from her face.
Suddenly, he began to chuckle without opening his eyes.
“I am tired, and this armor is ridiculously heavy. Why am I still wearing it?”
Frina grinned. “I have no idea. Because it makes you look twice as big as you are?”
He laughed. “You have made me laugh so much in recent days. I haven’t laughed so often in many years. The cares of the war have been heavy on my shoulders for a very long time now and before that…” he shuddered, visibly.
“Before that was the Great War, yes?”
His smile faded, and he opened his eyes. “Yes. And life was no more pleasant then, as you have heard.” He stood, and wrestled with the fastenings on his armor, grumbling as the moments went by and he had no success with them.
Frina giggled. Too much wine, perhaps?
“Do you need help, sire?” she asked, knowing full well what his reaction would be.
“Damn it all, yes I do,” he said, laughing again. “And don’t ‘sire’ me, Frina. We’ve talked about this before. In here, I’m just Ulfric.”
“Alright, Ulfric. Just a moment.”
She stood and took a step toward him, stopping for a moment as she realized that her own gait was a bit unsteady. A wee bit too much wine for me as well, it seems. Happily, Ulfric had been facing away from her and didn’t see her trying to catch her balance; she grinned and came up behind him, then helped with the straps that held the massive pauldrons. It took just a few moments before the two of them had the armor loose. He shrugged his shoulders to shake the pauldrons off, and they started to fall; Frina lunged for them and nearly lost her balance.
Ulfric grabbed her by the shoulders, to break her fall, and straightened her back up, but didn’t let go of her. She stood there, close enough to feel his breath on her face, and simply looked up at him.
“Oh!”
“Oh?”
“Your eyes. They’re green. I never noticed before. They’re wonderful!”
Ulfric laughed, and his green eyes sparkled. “Yes, they are. I’m glad they are pleasing to you. And you … are very pleasing to me,” he said quietly.
“I am… glad that you think so.”
He leaned forward and kissed her.
Frina lost track of what was happening, then. Ulfric’s mouth was soft, and warm; he tasted like wine, and she supposed that she must, as well. His hand cupped her face, and then slipped down her throat to her collarbone, just under the edge of the loose robe she wore. When she didn’t pull away from him he explored her mouth with his tongue and she followed suit. It was so much like the daydreams she’d had of a moment like this that she found herself moaning, a tiny sound in the back of her throat.
Ulfric pulled back, his eyes wide, and shook his head.
“I have done it again, overstepped my boundaries. Forgive me.”
“No, no. Don’t be sorry. Don’t… ”
He shook his head. “We’ve both had too much wine and I fear I am taking advantage. I don’t want to do that. You are not some common tavern wench. You are an accomplished warrior, who has done many great things for Skyrim. And for the Jarl of Windhelm.”
But he didn’t release her. His desire to continue was obvious and as a powerful man, the future High King, he could easily have just insisted, taken that advantage. Yet she watched his eyes and saw both the desire and the exquisite indecision in them.
Frina closed her eyes for a moment and felt the warm arms holding her loosely and made her decision. It really was no decision at all; she had known what she hoped for well before she walked through the gates of Windhelm. She opened her eyes again and smiled at him.
“You’re not taking advantage, Ulfric,” she said quietly. “I came home to Skyrim for the Jarl of Windhelm. After Solitude I came here – back to Windhelm – for you. Surely you must know that. I’m not very good at hiding my emotions.”
He stared at her, intently, searching. “I had hoped that was the case, but… I don’t want to do anything that might hurt you.”
She shook her head. “I have no experience, Ulfric. But I am certain that I want you to be the one to teach me. I have been certain of that for some time. Be gentle, but know that this is something I want. Very much.”
He hesitated yet another moment, then leaned forward and swept her into another, more fervent, kiss.
“Then come with me, my beautiful Stormblade,” he murmured as he pulled away from her. “I may be a Jarl, soon to be a king, but I am a lonely man and you gladden my heart.”
He took her hand and led her onto the great raised platform holding the bed of the Jarl of Windhelm.
