Skyrim: A Sorcerer's Tale

Chapter 329: Chapter LV: Descent



(General POV, many, many years ago)

He did not know how long he had spent in the damnable stone hole his captors called a cell, was it weeks, months, or maybe even years? His mind had long since grown numb to the passage of time, covered in crusted blood and filth and long of beard as he was.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

His captors' constant questioning about the defenses of the Imperial City were one of the rare things that kept him sane throughout the torment they subjected him to, that and his growing faith in the Divine dearest to his people Talos.

The captive's faith in the god of man was a thing borne of desperation, and each time he was left alone he would pray, pray for the strength to endure, to survive, and then for strength to take vengeance.

And fight for vengeance he did! Time and time again he would manage to contact the other prisoners, organize them and prepare them, and then lead them in an uprising... Only for all of them to be cut down to the man, leaving only him to mourn their deaths and his fate.

Whether it was their deep-seeded conniving cruelty or some ploy he did not know, but whenever he would lash out in an attempt to escape, his captors would move him to a better room, heal him to near-perfect health and not touch him for what felt like days.

Only to toss him back in the hole when he came close to accepting his new situation.

It came as no surprise then, that his ascent into faith and piety soon turned into a descent into bitterness. Each time he failed his resolution would shake, only his stubborn pride still keeping him defiant against his captors but even that had a limit.

Everyone broke in the end, and he was no different.

One day he had finally had enough, unable to take his own life due to his captors' watchful eyes his defiance cracked... and he told them all they wished to know, cursing himself with each and every word that left his mouth.

When he was let out less than a day later and delivered to an Imperial delegation as part of the peace treaty signed a full month ago his heart and mind broke.

The expression of heartbreak and betrayal on his face as he was told of the White-Gold Concordat and the ban on Talos worship drew a bout of deranged laughter from his chief captor, such a noise would haunt him until he died and joined his ancestors.

His return to his home city was not met with celebratory jubilation as he had once dreamt, when he left that highest of peaks to join his people in the fight for freedom and rightness. Instead as he gazed at the once bustling streets of his home all he could see were broken spirits and a broken people, most of them not even recognizing him as he limped his way to his ancestral dwelling.

The once-captive's heart broke once again then, as he met with his aging father and learned of the deaths of both of his brothers, consumed by the flames of an uncaring mage who did not even have the decency of looking them in the eye as he slaughtered them.

One silver lining made itself known as he settled into the position of his father's inheritor though, for his people were as stubborn as he once had been and ignored the traitorous concordat as much as he still did, even after hearing the words from the Emperor's own mouth.

The temple of Talos remained open to the faithful in all but name, and his fellow Nords still swore by their protector, even as others whom they were forced to share their city with looked at them with caution for their open defiance.

Such a thing was not without consequence though, as it would be proven when the Empire committed one treachery too far. For as the rumors of the Nords' willful defiance of the Emperor's decree were heard by the other provinces, the old fool made the decision that would cement the broken prisoner's future plans once and for all.

For he had let Justiciars into Skyrim, so that they may root out Talos' faithful as they willed.

He could not act against the elves outright, for his dying father had advised him to be cautious, even as his final breath left him. He set up numerous hiding places and secluded temples, and numerous bands of the faithful were risen in his name to protect their fellows against their unjust persecution.

There was some success at first, the Justiciars were still getting used to the new 'barbaric' lands they found themselves in, but soon the tides turned and more and more of the faithful found themselves spirited away, never to be seen again.

Once more his bitter hatred reared its ugly head as he was left feeling just as helpless as he once did when he was still stuck in that accursed stone hole, watching his brothers expire as he was forced to live on in hopes of one day avenging them.

His opportunity would not show for a decade but when it did, he grasped it with both hands and without hesitation.

The Jarl of Markarth was visiting Solitude to pay his respects to the recently deceased High King, a large portion of his most powerful warriors going north with him in a grand procession and a show of opulence not at all fitting to the current state of the province.

His enemies seemed to agree with this, and as he left the borders of his hold the thousands of years of bitter resentment of the Forsworn finally found direction as they elected a King to lead them and they stormed Markarth itself, seizing the city in less than a day and occupying it in its entirety.

No one cared that they spared the residents, only that a people that wasn't the Nords now held one of the great holds of Skyrim.

Many of the Jarls refused to move and help their fellow, excusing themselves with still recovering from the previous war. Only he, Balgruuf of Whiterun, and the High King's regent Steward decided to fight for their people's pride.

He made it known however, that should they win the worship of Talos would be reinstated and the rabid dogs of the Altmer banished from their homes.

He only received platitudes in answer but so certain was he of the glory and respect he would earn that he ignored the obvious issue and marched his eager army to face the invaders. They fought for days on the walls of the ancient city, and even as their foes battled them with old magic and tribal ferocity they could not stand before blooded Nord veterans and were scattered, their so called King disappearing as the city fell.

He went then to demand his prize, that his people be freed from foreign oppression and that he regain at least partly some of his shattered pride, only to be met with more platitudes and requests to be patient.

He naturally refused such cowardice and proclaimed Great Talos' return.

He found himself imprisoned once again but a day later, blessedly not by the Thalmor but by the Pennitus Occulatus.

He defied them at first, refusing to back down with his demands, and it seemed then that they would choose to silence him before he would jeopardize the Emperor's 'recovery plan' as they deigned to call their excuse for inaction.

But before the fateful day could arrive, he heard an unknown voice rasp into his very mind 'Maybe the crown should go to a true Nord instead of a mere child raised to be puppetted by the

traitors.'

He tried to deny the idea at first, the very concept of usurpation going against the principles of honor he still held himself to, but the voice grew insistent as time passed and soon he

found himself agreeing with what it spoke of.

Why should he allow weakness to yoke his people when he could act instead?

They let him go after hi promised to stop his demands and be a good little dog.

The time was slowly approaching, his forces were armed, his men motivated, and the Jarls suitably doubtful of the current High King to allow him to issue a challenge for the crown and finally set his people free.

The boy was finally growing and thinking for himself, Potema slain and Forsworn beaten, but he could no longer rely on others to make the right decisions for his people. He had to strike now or the opportunity would be lost. Ulfric would lead, or he would die.

Now if he could just find at least some information on where the damned Dunmer suddenly helping the boy had sprouted from.

The halls of the Palace of Kings were deathly silent as no one dared to speak.

The kingsmoot had gone terribly and while every one of those present was aware of the possibility, none actually desired the outcome they had spent the past years preparing for. Ulfric Stormcloak brooded from his seat atop his stone throne, his defeat, and it most certainly was one, at the hands of the boy and his pet elf had shaken him, the haze which he allowed to grow over his eyes over the years lifted but briefly as he considered if he was truly willing to plunge himself and his people into one of the vilest acts of kinslaying in history.

'Do not let doubt shake you now, oh rightful King.' The voice of his most trusted advisor reached him and the haze returned with it 'You were prepared for this outcome, even had you succeeded in killing the boy, all that is left now... is to fight.'

"Ulfric." His friend Galmar brought him out of his thoughts, the older man's face openly

showing his concern.

"I am fine." The rebel king shook his head "Merely lamenting what we must do."

"So we proceed then?" Galmar asked gravely.

Ulfric hesitated for but a moment before nodding "Call the armies. We march to war."

Standing within a war tent was almost comfortable after so long, the clear forests of the Rift

naturally helping to make the excursion that much more tolerable. He breathed in the crisp morning air and spoke "Any news from Grimnir?"

His aide shook his head "No, my King. The infiltration should have reached the walls just

about now though."

"Let us just hope there are no more surpri-" He did not get to finish his sentence as he and the entirety of his army were forced to look into the distance... where a whole new sun had

appeared. When the near-broken Grimnir was dragged back to the camp by his now one-eyed apprentice, leaving behind the corpses of dozens of Ulfric's friends and students, another part

of the rebel king shattered.

So distraught was he that he immediately ordered a withdrawal, not even having the energy

to curse the elf who did this to him.

Mere days later, the news of Falkreath's fall reached him and both his tent and the messenger were shouted apart, the hiding of such a crime serving to distract him from his fury at least for

a moment.

He could feel the noose tightening as winter ended and spring came, even his advisor, yet unnamed but ever helpful, told him that he had to get a decisive win or his cause would be

lost.

He looked over the reserve plans once again, a small part of him hesitating for but a moment until he looked up to his failure of a child. All that disappeared as he realized his family would

be over should he fail, and he signed the order.

All those who could be forced or coerced to fight would be.

Defeat after accursed defeat! He cursed internally as he dashed at the damnable elf who

ruined all his effort with the ease of stopping a child, his blood boiled as he swore he would at least take the bastard with him as he went to meet with his ancestors.

He was crushed with such ease, it took him a moment to realize he was a heap in the wet

ground. Had it rained? He wondered, only to realize he was laying in a pool of blood, surrounded with dozens of his brothers in arms.

He blinked... he was elsewhere now, someone was dragging him away... did they win?

He shook his head, regaining some of his wits just in time to see his closest brother in arms, Galmar Stone-Fist's glorious end, as he continued striking his enemy even as he was shredded to pieces and burned alive and stabbed in the back.

He wanted to be proud then, to celebrate his brother's glory and path to Sovengarde, but all

he could do instead was stare, as the last part of what was once the proud Ulfric Stormcloak, Imperial patriot and warrior of Skyrim, broke.

He was sat in his throne, his body and mind broken as he could not even drag himself to the privy on his own, all of his healing supplies long since expended in battle, all he could do was sit down and wait for death, even as his men pleaded for him to lead them to victory. What victory could there be now that he had become a mere shell?

Just as the thought entered his mind, so did all of his servants feel a sudden need to leave, a deathly chill slowly spreading across the entire throne-room.

A figure, covered in mask and tattered cloak, floated inside without making a sound. With almost idle curiosity, Ulfric analyzed his new guest, blandly recognizing it as matching

the description of a Dragon Priest, one of the chief worshippers of his people's first masters. "Hello." The familiar voice rasped "Old friend."

Had there been anything left of Ulfric Stormcloak by then, he would have no doubt come crashing down now, as he realized how thoroughly he had been played. Instead, as the

creature offered to heal and strengthen him so that he could face his foes, all he could do was smile.

His cause was gone, his son was presumed dead, all that was left was to seek a good death.

He cared little for his city falling into anarchy then, as his greatest betrayer betrayed him once

again. A part of him even applauded the thrice accursed elf for ending him in such a disdainful manner, so much so that he cared very little when his voice was taken from him.

He cared even less as the roar of dragons descended, and terror took the hearts of both his

men and those of his enemy.

He felt absolutely nothing as his guards were cut down to the last man buying him seconds

with their lives, he did not even know their names, he realized amusedly as he parried a strike from the massive Thane's axe.

He finally felt something as his own son batted away his strike that had almost shorn the boy

king in half, he looked up as Torygg's blade pierced his neck, his eyes focused solely on Skirnir as he made sure the boy understood his feelings.

Skirnir staggered back then, in both surprise and fear at what he saw, for what else could his father feel when he saw his son defy those he felt were unrighteous and dishonorable and actually manage to do something about it? What feeling could he feel... but pride?

(Torygg's POV)

Ulfric died without making a single sound, the distant roars of the dragons overtaking

whatever pained gurgling the hateful bastard might have attempted to spite me with.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and let out a breath I did not realize I was holding. Then the situation reasserted itself and I immediately turned around, the rebel already forgotten as I started giving commands to my remaining men and we rushed out into the city to help whoever was left alive by this folly.

Most of us ran straight toward the source of the shouting, the shuddering buildings easily

showing us the way even as most of us were partially deafened by the cacophonous noise. We approached just in time to see one of the dragons escape, and another get grasped by barbed magical chains, and get dragged down to the most deserved fate that awaited it.

My lungs burned as I forced myself to quicken, hoping to at least help bring the beast down only to stop in my tracks as I saw a vaguely familiar tall red haired Nord woman with barely recognizable elven features drawing something from the now very dead and very disemboweled dragon corpse in front of her.

My eyes veered left then, and I came to regret my curiosity then as my mouth moved before

my mind could catch up "Reyvin, please, by all the Divines above, why are you healing the wounded dragon?"

The grey cunt had the temerity to just grin instead of answering.

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