So on and on I go, the seconds tick the time out. There’s so much left to know – and I’m on the road to find out. – Cat Stevens
The young man sat on his bed, frowning. It felt to him as though it was high time to leave, to go west.
His bed was in a cozy cabin with a sleeping loft, on the hillside overlooking the Windhelm Bridge and the stables. It had a sauna outside in the back, and a full smithy at which he practiced his skills regularly. He had learned the basics from his father’s smith; but the man was always very busy with his own work, and the boy didn’t like to take advantage of his station in life for more training.
It was a good thing to have his own home, though he felt a bit embarrassed to have such a relatively opulent space all to himself when there were Dunmer living under the edge of open boards above the Grey Quarter, and Argonians crammed into a single, drafty warehouse space down at the water’s edge. He’d never quite understood his father’s reasoning in keeping the Argonians confined to the docks the way they were.
He’d never understood his father’s reasoning about a whole lot of things, truth be told; and that had always nagged at him like a pebble in a boot. Maybe it was because he was just fifteen but his father was seventy winters old. That bothered him, too. It was a vast gap in age that left the two of them with almost nothing in common aside from their name, and their shared ability to use the Voice.
The entire situation with his parents bothered him. His mother was young, relatively speaking. It didn’t seem right to him that she should have ended up married to such an old man. His father was gruff, and stern, and demanded obedience; but if the stories were to be believed he was also an accomplished warrior, though the young man had never seen him in battle.
All I know for certain is that he’s a grumpy old man and he’s always too busy for me. It’s probably why he bought me this house. Get me out from underfoot.
She must have had her reasons. I’d hate to think she married him just because of his status.
There was no denying that his father knew a lot more about the world than he did himself, though. The old man had simply been around for so much longer, and lived through so many important events. The young man had learned about those events, of course. It had always felt a little odd to hear his father’s name in the middle of his history lessons, and have other people turn to stare at him. And of course they would stare. He looked like a blonder, much younger copy of his father. It was a trial, sometimes. His name was Harald Stormcloak, and his father, Ulfric, had been the High King of Skyrim for the past fifteen years. When the King was mentioned, Harald was dismissed as nothing more than an extension of his father.
That was exactly why Harald wanted to go west to Markarth. In spite of all the stories, in spite of the constant rumblings of discontent about how his father was only out to get more power for himself and didn’t care who he stepped over to get it, Harald had grown up with the man and believed him to be concerned, above all, with the safety and continued freedom of the people under his rule. There were still plenty of people there who remembered when the “Bear of Markarth” had been in their city; and he wanted to hear their recollections first-hand, so that he could come to his own conclusions. Was his father a hero, as some had said? Or was he really the cruel, grasping tyrant others claimed he was?
Harald had another reason for wanting to go to Markarth, as well. He had always been fascinated by the Dwemer architecture dotting the landscape. He’d never been able to get into any of the ruins, for one reason or another. If they weren’t overrun by creatures, they were full of bandits. Those had been reasons enough for a young boy to keep clear. But he knew Markarth was built in and on the upper reaches of an old Dwemer city. It was probably the most accessible ruin he could visit. He wanted to see it for himself, instead of just relying on his father’s reminiscences and the specious claims of people he wasn’t sure had ever been there.
He’d gone in to Windhelm earlier that day, thinking that he might discuss his idea with his father. It would be good to have the old man’s blessing, though he actually expected to get no more than a grunt or two of acquiescence. His mother would object, and try to keep him at home, and would tell him that he was too young; but he was as tall as Ulfric now, with a full – if recent – blonde beard of his own, and he knew he was old enough to travel. He didn’t blame her for being protective, but it was time for him to be his own man.
I’ll avoid Mother, he had thought. I just want to get Father’s blessing.
As usual, the door guards had snapped to attention as he approached, and he’d only barely been able to contain himself long enough to get past them before rolling his eyes.
The sharp voices carrying down from the end of the room had stopped him short. He’d ducked into the recess that led to the barracks and down to what people playfully called “the Inquisitor’s office,” and had eavesdropped as quietly as possible.
They’re arguing again. Will they ever stop fighting?
“I don’t like it, Ulfric. It’s still a mess down there. People are living in spots that aren’t even closed off to the elements, and there are rats. Rats! Do you know how lucky we are that we haven’t had some kind of outbreak of disease?”
You’ve told him that a million times, Mother.
He peeked around the corner and saw her gesturing at his father, who as usual sat on the throne of the Palace of the Kings, frowning sullenly in her direction. Harald sighed.
Queen Frina was a source of great pride to Harald. She was beautiful, and charismatic, and open-minded – though rumor had it she’d not always been that way. She had been a greatly-admired warrior, during the conflict that put her husband on the throne. The soldiers still called her “Stormblade” to this day. She was the main reason Skyrim’s towns and villages all had gates and walls and trees, and new roofs on their buildings, and lots of trade. They hadn’t, before the war. That’s what Harald had learned from his extended, if unofficial, family as he grew up. Roggi Knot-Beard, in particular, spent a lot of time here in Windhelm, talking to Harald’s father, and had often shared stories about how he happened to know the Queen, and all the work she’d done on Skyrim’s behalf after the war was over. But she’d changed since then.
Harald wasn’t an only child by plan. He should have had a younger brother; but the child who would have been named Hoag had been stillborn, and Harald had grown up alone, watching his mother become more and more bitter as the years had gone by. That was why she was so protective. It was also why he’d spent more time over the years with his unofficial cousins, Chip and Qaralana, either in Riften or out by the lake in Falkreath, than he had with his parents. His father was High King, and his mother was Queen; and they were far too busy to spend much time playing with a young boy.
“I can do nothing about the rats, wife,” came Ulfric’s deep, resonant reply. “Perhaps if we didn’t have the Dunmer living in places that aren’t actually homes and leaving food about for the rats to eat, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
Harald thought that his father sounded more resigned than angry. This argument had happened before. Somehow, though, they kept coming around to it again, no matter what else changed around them.
“And where would you have them live? Honestly. People across all of Tamriel think of you as a greedy, self-serving bigot. Is it any wonder you have such a reputation? People think you treat the Dunmer no better than slaves!” Frina sounded exasperated.
There was a moment of silence before Ulfric responded. That silence made Harald wince.
Father’s getting angry. This won’t be good.
“And what of the Dunmer, after all?” Ulfric’s tone was sharp, and slightly louder than it had been. He was angry, and frustrated, and his words reinforced that. “Were they no better than slavers themselves, subjugating great numbers of Argonians for their own use? Shall I somehow reward their descendants as if they were free of the taint of their ancestors’ actions? No! My father graciously gave them a place to shelter, here in Skyrim, and they’ve had decades to make themselves homes. Is that not enough?”
His voice had risen as he spoke, until it filled the huge spaces of the great hall. He paused for a moment, and Harald dared a look at him. Ulfric’s face was red; and Frina, though it was obvious that she had more to say, wisely held herself back.
“It will take many generations to erase the memories, Frina. The best I can do as High King is to try to begin the process of healing. In the meantime we have greater problems on our doorstep than a few disgruntled Dunmer and some rats!”
Frina snorted. “Like the Argonians, Ulfric? A person would think they were the enemy! They’re on our doorstep because you won’t let them in at all! Not even the ones who conveniently work for you.”
“They work for the East Empire Company.”
Harald cringed. Ulfric had said that very quietly, in a way that told him the old man was just shy of exploding. He knew enough to stay clear of the King when he was using that tone of voice. His mother, however, did not. Or perhaps she simply chose to ignore the subtle warning. She did that frequently, pushing the High King as hard as she could push.
“To your advantage. Yours and Brynjolf’s. And you still treat them like slaves.”
Harald had expected Ulfric to erupt at that. Instead, he simply heaved a long-suffering sigh.
“It is safer for them out there. Have you ever listened to the way some of our citizens talk about them? They barely tolerate the Dunmer living in the Grey Quarter. And the Argonians still remember that they were once the Dunmer’s slaves. No. If they come inside, it will all be for naught, all the work we’ve done to restore Skyrim. There will be bloodshed. Some day, perhaps. But not now, Frina. I can’t afford it, and I can’t allow it. They’re free to come and go as they wish, but not inside the city walls.”
“Then maybe you are just what people say you are.”
There was an agonizing moment of silence before Ulfric’s quiet but icy response came.
“You should return to your projects, wife. I have business to deal with.”
Harald dared one last look down the hall. His mother gave his father a withering glare, turned on her heel without speaking, and strode off to the left. He presumed she was returning to their quarters. For a moment it occurred to him to wonder whether they still shared the same bedchamber, or whether she had taken over one of the many other rooms in the castle. It didn’t matter, at that particular instant. He knew this was not the time to ask his father for favors or advice.
Instead, he’d quietly slipped back out through the palace doors and back to his cabin.
He had taken some time to hike along the banks of the estuary north of where the Yorgrim and the great White Rivers combined, to prepare himself spiritually. He hoped for some insight – or guidance to make the decision to leave, or not. His destination was a shrine, nestled in the remnants of what might have once been a watchtower or a lighthouse, on a tiny island near the estuary’s mouth. It seemed an appropriate spot for a shrine to Shor, near the place the Atmorans had chosen to land when they returned to Skyrim in the Merethic Era. Harald had himself been named after the first King of the Nords, the thirteenth ruler in the line of Ysgramor himself. Partly because of that, he had a strong interest in ancient times, and ancient things.
Talos – the god so many of his fellow Nords revered, and the worship of whom had caused so much strife – hadn’t come to power as Emperor Tiber Septim until the Second Era. His father and mother worshipped Talos, fervently. The country had nearly been destroyed, in part because of that belief. Harald found it simpler, and somehow more symbolic of his own existence, to worship the Dead God, the original god of his people: Shor. So he’d taken this moment, on this morning, to kneel before Shor’s shrine and think about everything he knew of his own family. He still hadn’t been sure of himself by the time he’d made it back home.
He was still thinking about his family now, as he sat on his bed trying to come to a decision. He was the High King’s heir apparent, the prince, and nobody would let him forget about it. People also made it a point to whisper about his father when Harald was near – loudly – pretending they didn’t realize he could hear them. It bothered him.
He remembered the day he’d talked about his questions with Dardeh, one of the men he considered an uncle in all ways but blood. Dardeh had grown up just outside Markarth, and had been a toddler when the Forsworn uprising had happened in 4E 174. He didn’t remember it directly; but he’d grown up hearing of it, almost daily.
“Yeah,” Dardeh had told him as the two of them sat sweating in Mammoth Manor’s sauna. “The Legion got recalled to fight the Dominion, down in Cyrodiil, and the Reachmen took over. Some time that next year the Jarl asked your Da to help get the Reachmen out of Markarth, and he did. He brought his people, and he used his Voice, and he took back the city. Some people call him a hero because of that. I’m sure you’ve heard people talk about it: the deal was that we’d be allowed to worship Talos even though the White-Gold Concordat said we couldn’t. I don’t remember it, of course, because I was too little; but my Ma said that it was kind of an awful time to be in the city. We lived out by Karthwasten by that point, so we weren’t right in the middle of it, as far as I know.”
He stopped to take a drink of water, motioned that Harald should do the same, and then continued. “Some of the Reachmen ran off into the hills and the caves and started calling themselves the Forsworn. People who had worked for the Reachmen were killed. And, you know, lots of people who probably shouldn’t have been killed were killed; but I think you could say that about the last forty whole years and not be far off. You’ll hear different stories about who did what back then, Harald, and I can’t tell you which ones are true, because I don’t know.”
“What kinds of stories?” he’d asked Dardeh.
Dardeh frowned. “Well, I was maybe four years old when your father got thrown in prison by the Thalmor. They said it was because he’d ordered everyone who didn’t side with him killed.” He splashed some water over his face, and shook his head. “I have to admit I grew up ready to hate him if I ever met him, because of all the stories. But other people said it was the Jarl – Hrolfdir, not his son who was Jarl when Roggi and I were fighting – who did it. It was definitely Hrolfdir who turned your father over to the Thalmor. He did it because he was afraid of the elves, and there’s a part of me that understands that. The Thalmor are nasty, and lots of them use magic.”
Harald had taken a few moments to ponder that. It was a huge thing to ponder, the idea that maybe his own father had put people to death who didn’t deserve it; and it made him feel a bit sick to his stomach.
“So what do you think? Did Father order those people killed?” Harald desperately wanted to believe that it wasn’t true. The awful thing, though, was that he could imagine that it might be. He’d certainly seen his father be cold and calculating.
Dardeh had shaken his head. “I don’t know, Harald. He and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, so it’s hard for me to judge. But I do know this to be a fact: the Thalmor tortured him, and they wouldn’t even let him go when his own father – your grandfather – died. I think that hurt him more than the torture did. Roggi could probably give you a better idea of the truth of things. He knows Ulfric better than I do.”
Harald had thanked Dardeh for the information, but he’d never asked Roggi about it. Roggi was his father’s friend. He was certain that friendship would color any kind of opinion he might have about the past. Instead, he’d let all of his questions simmer in his mind until he’d arrived where he was now: a man with his own home, ready to make his own decisions and figure out where he fit in the grand scheme of things.
I’ll leave a note to let them know I’ve gone to study Dwemer artifacts in Markarth – assuming the carriage driver hasn’t spread the word all over Skyrim by the end of the week. Father will probably understand why, right away. Mother will have a fit; but she’ll find something to busy herself with soon enough, to take her mind off things. She always does.
Having finally come to a decision, Harald collected his things for the trip west. He found his excitement growing as he went. He was finally doing something for himself. He climbed into the back of the carriage and asked the driver “What can you tell me about Markarth?”
“Fine old city, built right into the mountains” the man said. “They say it was built by the Dwarves. I don’t believe a word of it. But that’s all I know. Ask the driver who works out of Markarth, once we get there. He’ll be able to tell you all about the place.”
The sun’s rays were taking a long, low angle when they arrived in Markarth at the end of the following day. Harald thanked his driver and hopped down, looking up in awe at the massive structures before him. They weren’t in or under the mountains, the way the driver had suggested; but he knew from his readings that there was a great deal more to this place than he could see from outside its walls.
He cast his gaze around the area. A guard watched from a tower just in front of Harald. The stables were off to his right, built into one of the old banks of Dwemer dwellings that still stood out in the open. And to his left, nestled next to a low stone wall near the river that ran out from the city, was a tent pitched next to a horse and carriage. Harald had long since decided to follow up on the suggestion to talk to the local driver; so he approached the man and smiled.
“Do you need a ride?” the driver asked.
Harald chuckled. “No, I just got here. I was hoping you could tell me about this place. I’m doing a bit of research, but this is my first visit. My driver,” and here he pointed down the road toward the carriage heading out on its long trip back to the east, “said you were the guy to ask.”
The man seated on the ground before his fire nodded. “Well that was kind of him to say. I can tell you what I know. It’s an old city. Legends say dwarves built it first, at least that’s what them scholars say. The stonework’s not Nord; that much is for certain. Old Elven fellow named Calcelmo up in the keep could tell you more about them dwarves; but you probably knew the part about the legends already.”
Harald grinned. “I did. But go on.”
“Well,” the man said, scratching his chin, “After they vanished, the natives moved in. Then the Nords took over, around Tiber Septim’s time. That bent a few folks’ arms the wrong way.” He smirked.
“What does that mean?” Harald was fairly certain that he could guess, but he wanted to hear it from the carriage driver’s mouth.
“A whole group of the natives called the Forsworn rose up against the Nords, and drove them out. Then Ulfric Stormcloak came with his militia. That must have been a sight to see, him Shouting folks to death.”
The hair rose on the back of Harald’s neck. He was grateful for the dimming light, and for the fact that this man had clearly never met the King; because it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps his uncanny resemblance to his father might work to his disadvantage in this place.
This driver’s got his time frames all squashed together, too. Tiber Septim was ages and ages ago. Father is old, but he’s not centuries old!
“You’d think that would be the end of it,” the man continued, “but those Forsworn are still in the hills and they’re wild as wolves. And some say it’s even worse to the west, across the border.”
Harald nodded. “So who are these Forsworn, anyway?”
“They just call themselves the People of the Reach. Reachmen. Got a common blood with the Bretons by the looks of them. They used to have their own kingdom before the Nords came. Now they’re at the bottom of the hay pile.” He pointed across the way, toward the stables. “You should go talk to old Cedran over there. He knows a lot more about how things used to be than I do.”
“Thank you,” Harald said, handing the man a few coins. “Information is worth its weight in gold, if you ask me.” That was a thing he’d learned from Chip’s father. He’d heard it a hundred times: you always pay for your information.
“Much obliged.”
There was in fact an old man leaning up against the wall of one of the stable’s stalls. Harald approached him and watched the man’s eyes light up, while the horses whinnied and shook their manes.
“Hey there,” he said to the man. “Are you Cedran?”
“That I am,” Cedran replied. “Do you need a horse?”
Harald shook his head. “Not at the moment, but I might in a day or two. The carriage driver said you might be the guy to ask about Markarth. History and such.”
Cedran couldn’t quite keep the disappointment off his face; but Harald jiggled the coin purse he’d paid the driver from, just enough to get Cedran’s attention and send a clear message. Cedran grinned, and nodded his head.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, tell me about the Jarl.”
“That would be Thongvor Silver-Blood. He took over when the Rebellion ended, maybe twenty years ago now, I think it’s been. He and his family pretty much control all the trade in and out of the west and you can bet they send a cut of it to the King, to pay for protection. But you didn’t hear that from me,” he added, dropping his voice.
Just occurred to the man that he doesn’t know who he’s talking to. If he’s trying to suggest that Father takes bribes, well… I don’t know what to think.
“What about before the war?”
“Before that, we had Jarl Igmund. He was pretty young for a Jarl, so he stayed loyal to the Empire. Protection, I suppose. It was his father who helped capture Ulfric Stormcloak – I guess I should call him King Ulfric, huh? – after the Markarth Incident.”
This was what Harald had been waiting for. He desperately wanted to know what had happened, from the viewpoint of someone who’d been here.
“What was that all about?”
“Well this would have been almost forty years ago or so now, if I remember right. It was the whole reason Ulfric revolted against the Empire. Or at least the first reason. Forsworn had taken over the city and the mines and everything around, and Ulfric and his men drove them out. They made a deal with the Empire that they’d be free to worship Talos if they did it. Pity nobody told the elves. Whole bunch of those Thalmor came and arrested Ulfric, and threw him in prison. Obviously he got out later; and that’s when the Rebellion started up.”
Harald rubbed his chin. “So Ulfric was a hero, for driving out the Forsworn?”
Cedran pursed his lips and shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. Before the Nords came, we out here in the Reach – you know, generations ago – had our own kingdom. Worshipped the old gods. Times have been good and bad since then, but some folks can’t handle not ruling their own land.”
“You mean like my…” Harald stopped himself short. Almost blew it right there. I don’t need to give myself away quite yet, really. “You mean like the Stormcloaks, twenty years ago?”
“Well I meant the Forsworn. Even after all this time, and after Ulfric becoming High King, they’re still stirring up trouble. Specially some of the old folks who are still around since before the Rebellion. They just won’t give up.” Cedran leaned forward and peered at Harald, then shook his head and sagged back against the wall again. “The Forsworn follow the old ways, but some of those? They’re best forgotten. Blood sacrifices, communing with Daedra. It’s the road to ruin.”
Harald shuddered. “I would think so. I mean… I know the Old Gods were warlike, but I didn’t think…” He shook his head, thinking of Shor, the warrior-god who now supposedly ruled over Sovngarde. The only thing he’d ever had from Shor was the unshakable knowledge that he should be a warrior, not that he should make blood sacrifices. “Doesn’t matter what I thought. I don’t know everything; that’s why I’m talking to you. And I appreciate the information.”
He opened the coin purse and scooped out a generous handful of coins for Cedran. That was one sure advantage to being the Heir Apparent; he had money, and he didn’t mind spending it. Besides, Harald thought Cedran might have suspected who he was, or at least thought he recognized the resemblance. A handful of coin might help the man forget that he’d seen anything at all.
“Thank you,” the old man said to him. “If you end up needing that horse, well, you know where to come. I’ll give you a good price. You might want to talk to Calcelmo up in the keep, if you want to know more about the Dwarves and such. I don’t know much about that part of things.”
Harald smiled, and nodded, and turned toward the city gates. As he walked slowly up the stairs he couldn’t help but ponder what a confusing issue it was, still.
Father’s said that the Empire abandoned the Reach when the Aldmeri Dominion invaded the Imperial City. I’ve heard Galmar say that, too. The Empire abandoned Skyrim, they say. That’s why Markarth called him to come help drive out the Forsworn; the Empire wasn’t here to do it. But it’s like these people say: it depends on who you ask.
I still want to believe that if he did the wrong things, he did them for the right reasons. But I don’t know for certain how to find out.
He nodded to the guards on either side of the great Dwemer doors and stopped for a moment to examine the metal. It was a golden-bronze color, heavy with age in its intricate inlays, and yet still beautiful. Harald heard someone approaching just behind him. Not wanting to block passage, and with his heart fluttering with excitement, Harald pushed the doors open.