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I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count - Part IV: Lark

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While writing this chapter, I realized I'd need to split this chapter in two or we'd have a massive 11k giant on our hands. A lot of stuff happens over Part IV, and I didn't want to overwhelm anyone. Lark, continued will be up later this week!

Thank you, @ravenmind2001, for your feedback on this chapter!

Taglist:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

Content Warnings: None, unless you count Alec's obsession with the Dragonborn.

#######

The dragon wasn’t a part of her travel plans.

Following the White River into Eastmarch, they were only what she guessed was halfway through the caldera when its shadow swept overhead, large and dark. Then came the wash of fire, charring everything in its path, including her.

Leara barely raised a ward and cast an ice cloak over herself when the fire rained over her. She could hear Bishop somewhere beyond the wall of flames, but he was the least of her concerns.

The onslaught ended, the dragon banking west on the wind toward the mountains. She released the spells, a little too warm in her silver plate for the cool weather, but none the worse for wear.

“He’ll be back in a moment,” she told Bishop as the ranger jogged over to join her, Karnwyr beside him.

“Great, I was itching for a fight!” he said, grin wolfish.

“That would be the burns after he roasts you for dinner.”

Bishop’s mouth opened for a comeback – then he stumbled forward with a cry.

The dragon was on the road, the stones shaking as he crawled toward them.

Leara pushed Bishop aside, her katana in hand. She stared down the dragon, crystal blue eyes meeting the fathomless dark ones of the other dovah.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

·•★•·

Windhelm was a stone fortress of grey and white. Under the buildup of ice and the wear of centuries, she supposed it wasn’t that different from Cloud Ruler Temple. Only, the Blades had a pride in their ancestral architecture that was felt from even when first arriving at the Akaviri fortress. There was an air of neglect about the city, permeating from the stones as deep as the permafrost. Leara squeezed her eyes shut.

Cloud Ruler Temple was in ruins, neglected, forgotten.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Her eyes fluttered open, shoulders rigid. “Just thinking.”

“You weren’t quiet when you trumped that dragon.”

“I shattered the vertebrae in his neck. I would hardly call that ‘trumping’.”

The bridge was long, though it was nothing compared to the Imperial bridge leading to the city isle. Snow and ice crunched underfoot as they approached the city; Leara felt tension mount inside her the closer they got to the gates. “Have you been to Windhelm before?’ she asked, much to her own surprise.

Bishop laughed, void of amusement. “I’ve been everywhere in this frozen hell of a province, ladyship. Yeah, I’ve been to Windhelm a few times. Can’t stand it, either. The people here think it’s cold when they have their cozy little houses. Huh! I’ve endured much worse as a child and survived on my own with nothing more than branches to keep me warm.”

“You didn’t have to come,” she reminded him for what was probably the umpteenth time.

“And leave you exposed to the prying eyes and wandering hands of people like the Thalmor? Do you have a death wish?” he asked.

They entered through the city gates. “I suppose not,” she sighed. “Where’s the inn?”

“First time? Bishop waggled his eyebrows at her. Leara crossed her arms, expectantly. “Candlehearth Hall over that way?” he jabbed his thumb toward a two-story building across from the main gate’s thoroughfare. At first glance, Candlehearth Hall appeared larger than the Bannered Mare in Whiterun, its gabled roof blanketed in the remnants of an early morning snowfall that blended it into the stone grey of the skyline. “Not a bad selection of ale,” Bishop continued. “Better than any of the swill the Dark Elves serve in that rathole they gather at in the Grey Quarter.”

“I see,” Leara nodded, lips thinning. A Dunmeri cornerclub sounded better than another loud tavern where the patrons were either. Drunk, singing about her, or both. Knowing Bishop, though, he’d start something and get them both kicked out. Or worse: he’d be kicked out and she would have to hear some offensive comment about the Dunmer ‘making off with the local women’ or something.

Karnwyr bumped her hand, his nose cold.

“Come on, boy. We’ll find you a fire.”

Entering Candlehearth Hall was like going from the daytime into night with a single step. The bright frosty air of Windhelm’s streets gave way to a dark, smokey interior, glowing warm with candlelight. The tantalizing smell of roasting meat wafted through the air and Leara couldn’t help but giggle when Karnwyr scented it, his head perking up.

At the sound of the door, the woman behind the counter peered passed the customer at the bar. "This here's Candlehearth Hall. Great room's upstairs, an' there's a bed for rent on the ground floor,” she said as Leara stepped up to the counter. “Got some fresh-baked bread an' good cheese, if you're after a bite to eat.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Leara smiled, bracing her hands on the counter. Behind her, Bishop cleared his throat. “Enough for two, and some ale.”

“You’ll want to ask Susanna after the ale,” the proprietor said. “I’ll have your meals right out. Where is Nils?” she mumbled, slipping off down the hall.

“Don’t mind Elda,” the man at the counter said. “She’s always after the waitstaff here.”

“Good help is hard to come by,” Bishop said, eyeing the man darkly.

The man ignored him; instead, his attention seemed caught on the twin rings on Leara’s dominant ring and middle fingers. “I say, those are curious rings! I’ve never seen one with a band of fire in it before! How did you come by them?”

Her fingers curling inward, Leara glanced down at her rings. While one was a mithril band studded with starlit diamonds that both boosted her natural magic reserves and combatted her difficulty in regenerating magic on her own, the other was a jet-black band with a glowing vein of gold like fire running round the ring. Its only other feature was a trio of stars engraved on the interior side of the band. “Family heirlooms,” she replied.

“You wouldn’t happen to be interested in selling them, would you?” the grey-haired man asked.

“Ah, no, no thank you.” Then, to dissuade any further questions, she added, “They really are unremarkable. Just trinkets a mage in my family was toying with. I don’t even think they do anything.”

“Mages often hide secrets in their work,” the man chuckled.

“Hey, buddy, the lady said she’s not interested!” Bishop growled.

“Bishop . . .” Leara whispered, closing her eyes.

“I’m merely making conversation,” the man retorted. He turned back to Leara. “If you’re ever interested in uncovering what powers your rings may have, I own the House of Curiosities a few streets east of here. The name’s Calixto Corrium.”

“Thank you.”

Just then, Elda returned bearing two plates loaded with bread, cheese, and some jerky. “For your dog,” she told Leara as they traded plates for septims. Leara smiled in thanks – then winced when Bishop plucked a piece of meat and chomped down on it.

Upstairs, Leara and Bishop found a small table near enough to the fire for Karnwyr to curl up while still under their – really, Leara’s – watchful eye.

The great room wasn’t overly crowded, though there were a fair number of customers partaking of an early lunch not dissimilar to theirs. Most were alone or in pairs, so what talking there was was a low murmur. In the corner, a Dunmer woman was lightly strumming a lute, lulling the atmosphere into a cozy calm warmed by the crackling of the hearth. Leara found herself pleasantly surprised by how peaceful it was.

Across from her, Bishop was chomping down on his bread, polishing it off in the time it took Leara to set Karnwyr’s jerky next to him on a napkin and slice her own bread and cheese and put together little sandwiches. “Where’s that barmaid with the ale?” he wondered out loud.

“You may have to go find her,” Leara sniffed. Over Bishop’s shoulder, she saw a woman in a server’s apron disappear into a side room. “I think she went down the back stairs,” she told him.

Grunting, Bishop stumped in that direction, disappearing by the time Susanna reentered the room, a tray of mugs balanced on her arm. Passing by Leara’s table, she deposited a single mug of mead by her plate.

“Thank you,” Leara said, lifting the mug.

“Anytime, my burgundy beauty,” Susanna said with a wink.

Leara pushed her fallen hair behind her ear once the barmaid was gone. She needed to redo her braid again. “It’s mahogany,” she whispered into her mug, lips pinching around the rim.

Her eye caught a plumed red hat making its way through the crowd, coming to a halt across the hearth from her. Underneath, or rather, wearing it, was a short blond man in poet’s sleeves and a wide collar that belonged in an old Nibenese theater, not Windhelm. Was he preening?

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat.

Everyone ignored him.

“Our hero, our hero, clams a warrior’s heart. I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes!”

What was he doing? Leara frowned, noticing from the corner of her eye as Karnwyr buried his head under his paws. The performance continued. She knew there were bound to be songs about her – she was the embodiment of an ancient Nordic hero – but this? Windhelm was the last place she expected something as Bretic as spoken poetry to become popular. Though, she mused as the man continued his recitation, it didn’t seem to be that popular to begin—

Someone started clapping along to the second reprise of ‘the Dragonborn comes’. Then someone else, and another. She looked around in surprise to find the room far more crowded than before. Where did these people come from?

“What the Hell is that?” Bishop asked, plopping next to her. He pointed at her mead, barely touched, “and where the Hell did that come from?”

“Here,” Leara said, sliding the mug toward him, appetite lost.

“It’s an end to the evil of all Skyrim��s foes. I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes.”

It was like watching a wagon pileup in the middle of the marketplace. It was so bad, and yet she couldn’t look away.

Another drawn-out line, another round of applause, and then the – bard? – swept off his hat and gave a deep bow, his tussled blond hair falling just so around his face. Holding that pose, Leara saw him peek a glance at his audience, before his too green eyes fixed on her. He winked.

“I think my ears are bleeding,” Bishop groaned into Leara’s mug. “I need more mead.”

Bishop left. And the not-quite Bard came over, taking his seat. All Leara could do during this too fast exchange was stare.

“Forgive me, my lady, have I the honor to speak to the Dragonborn?”

How in the—? Divines, was she to be recognized everywhere now? Decades of successfully hiding in plain sight and now her face was imprinted in the minds of every citizen in Skyrim! Even if she managed to keep ahead of the Thalmor now, her lead would be lost as soon as the Dominion got ahold of someone from her growing fan club.

She was quiet for too long, she realized as the bard frowned slightly. It looked as if he didn’t do that often, his muscles seemed unsure as to how to form the lines. “Yes, I . . .”

He cut her off. “By the Divines!” he cried, jumping to his feet. His outburst drew the attention of nearly everyone in the room. “It is delightful to be standing in your presence.”

“Please sit down,” Leara said, hands fisted in her lap. Her palms were cold.

“Today, we witness a living legend among us, none other than the Dragonborn herself!” the bard said, his delivery full of drama. “Our hero, our hero, who indeed claims this warrior’s heart. I told you, I told you, and the Dragonborn came!”

Did he just wink at her again?

Her nails dug into her palms, and she regretted not putting her gloves on that morning.

She stood. “Thank you, but I really must—”

His hand on her elbow stopped her in her tracks. Was it her fate to run into every man in Skyrim who wanted to lay hands on her? “If I could just have a moment of your fine company, my lady! Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alec.”

“Lovely to meet you, Alec,” she said tersely. She was a sycophant magnet. Well. Her fingers curled into palm and traced a rune for frost on her skin. “If you would be so kind as to let go of my arm,” she batted her eyelashes. Alec tore his hand away from her as if frostbit. But when he looked back at her arm, there was nothing there.

He gave her an easy grin, bouncing back a little too quickly for her comfort. “I have spent so much of my time studying your adventures,” he explained, his eyes shining. “From the terrors at Helgen to your endless eradication of the dragon menace. You are our hero.” – He made as if to grab her hand but abandoned the movement, thank Akatosh – “Your strength and humility bring hope to every heart in Skyrim. We bards sing your songs so that our children’s children may remember the glory of the Dragonborn, the savior of Tamriel!” Then, in what might have been a smooth line from nearly anyone else, he said, “Though, meeting you I see no account of your beauty has ever given you the justice you deserve.”

“How kind of you.”

“Kindness holds no place over honesty.” And sarcasm cast no shade over rose-colored spectacles. “I speak only the truth. You are truly inspiring, a beautiful muse for the beating heart of a musician.”

“That’s great,” she said, tone as dry as the Alik’r.

“Please,” he pressed, “you must come to a special performance I’m arranging here in Windhelm. I would be delighted for you to be my guest.”

“Re-ally,” Leara drew out. “That sounds lovely, but I’m on a very important errand now, crucial to the safety of the world you understand. I—”

“Just you wait, my dear!” he said, steamrolling over her. Could she not get a word in edgewise with this bard? “I am so pleased to share the experience with you. I will see you at the palace, my muse.”

Wait— “The palace?”

Alec nodded, far too enthusiastic. “The Palace of the Kings. The Jarl’s steward has engaged me for the evening to perform for the court. But what is performing for jarls and lords when the most legendary woman in Skyrim will be there in a place of honor?”

The Jarl?

The tension in her chest snapped into place like an iron lung. Her insides were cold and hot at once. Was she nervous? She couldn’t tell, and she usually did so well at maintaining her internal equilibrium. It’s nothing, she told herself. Nothing. She saw him at Helgen and his eyes glazed right over her face. It would be the same here, certainly? He might show an interest in her being Dragonborn – hopefully one with more decorum than shown by some of her fanatics – but he would only see her as the Dragonborn, right? He wouldn’t see a ghost from his past. Not even Elenwen—

She thumbed the black band, pushing it back and forth around her finger.

“Tonight, my muse,” Alec said, and Leara was so preoccupied that when he reached for her hand and kissed it, she let him.

Leara was still standing, stiff and statuesque, when Bishop rejoined her. An involuntarily whiff told her he’d downed at least three mugs of mead, on top of finishing hers earlier. “We’re going to a bard performance tonight,” she said, face stony.

“The Hell? Why are we doing a stupid thing like that?”

“We were invited.” Leara closed her eyes, resigned. “Well, I was, and since you insist on following me everywhere, that means you’re coming as well.” At his baleful look, she stuck her nose in the air. “It’s the polite thing to do,” she sniffed.

“Polite? Ladyship, do you realize just how many things you do for people because it’s the ‘polite thing to do’?” Bishop asked, huffing mead scented air in her face. “What’s the point in endearing yourself to them? They’re useless and they will use you in return!”

“Perhaps,” Leara said, willing to play Daedra’s advocate. “But when people like you, it’s easier to get things done.”

He gave her a dark look. “Whatever. I still question your intelligence.”

She was too, seeing as she was about to risk exposure.

·•★•·

The worn silk slipped through her fingers with painstaking familiarity. After so long wrapped up in the bottom of her bag, she was surprised and relieved to find it still intact. The folds of the skirt needed steaming and the white lace girdle was pinched, but it was nothing she couldn’t fix with a little Alteration. Such spells were some of her first castings, even before she learned to dance with ice and fire.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Did your mother not teach you to knock?” she asked, pulling and tucking the lace with gentle quirks of her fingers. Tendrils of white gold magicka curled through the threads, aligning them to their original pattern.

“She taught me to drink and not to trust people,” he said. He leaned over her shoulder. “Is that some kind of housewife magic?”

“Tailor’s craft,” she corrected. She’d forgotten how much lace made up this girdle! “It’s not very common outside of High Rock or the Imperial City.”

“Huh.”

Leara continued to work her way through the lace, restoring it to order. Once that was finished, she cupped her hand and breathed a Bretic rune word; steam pillowed in her hand, and she ran it slowly down the gauzy skirting.

“So what’s this for?” Bishop asked. He’d sat down on the floor with Karnwyr as she worked.

“Tonight,” Leara said, concentrating on her gown. “You do realize we’re attending court, yes?”

“Yeah, I just don’t care,” he replied. “Why dress myself up for a bunch of lazy, entitled nobles and one creepy little bard?” He snorted, “Bards! As if he’d know anything about letting women come for anything. His voice alone is enough to send them running in the opposite direction.”

She decided to ignore literally most of that comment. “We’re attending the court of Ulfric Stormcloak. He’s hardly a lazy noble.” In fact, he’s so energetic that he could kill her.

“No, he’s worse.” Bishop said, sitting straighter. He braced his arm on his raised knee. “He’s a religious freak with the power to sway people to his side like mindless zombies. And for what? Talos worship? Pfft, I don’t like the Empire by any means and the Thalmor can rot in Oblivion for all I care, but starting a war just so you can worship a damn god is stupid. I’d sooner eat Karnwyr than die for any god.”

“I didn’t realize you hated the gods so much,” Leara murmured.

“I’m surprised you don’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Don’t you see?” His hand was on her calf. Leara stilled, her only movement the mechanic back and forth of the steam spell over her skirt. “They made you Dragonborn and left you to take care of their mess for them. How can you trust them when they’re the reason you have to throw yourself in front of every blasted dragon in Skyrim?” His grip tightened, right on the lined trousers that usually sat under her greaves. She continued steaming. There was a stubborn crease near the hem, and she needed to be careful getting out lest she burn the delicate skirt. “They play a game with everyone’s life, with your life, and you just stand back and watch it happen!”

“Yes,” Leara whispered. Contrary to Bishop’s intention, she felt a sudden urge to go join a chapel to one of the Divines. Maybe when this was all over, she could become a Priestess of Akatosh? The Dragonborn spreading the teachings of the Dragon God. The irony made her smile.

“—that’s why you need to be careful tonight, ladyship.”

What? “Yeah, sure.”

·•★•·

“I must say, you look quite sexy tonight. All that armor you wear covers up the best parts.”

“You’re too kind,” she said with a dry snort. Leara burrowed into the cloak she’d borrowed from Susanna; she would need to buy one of her own for the journey to Winterhold. An alchemist or the blacksmith may be interested in the dragonscales in her bag. Selling those would cover any cost. She hoped.

Bishop, as expected, wore his same old travel-stained leathers. Whereas Leara left her katana tucked in-between the bed and wall in her room with a napping Karnwyr to act as guard, Bishop’s bow and quiver remained on his back and she knew that if she searched him, she’d find more than one dagger, too. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for wanting to be armed; while she had a wide arsenal of spells she could reply on, his mundanity limited him to what tangible weapons he could get his hands on. Still, given his volatile nature, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with him walking fully armed into a jarl’s court.

Even if the Jarl might kill her.

“I take it you’re ready for the performance?” she asked as they left Candlehearth Hall for the frosty dusk coating Windhelm’s streets. Masser and Secunda were visible overhead against a backdrop of constellations and distant stars. Leara hoped that meant there would be no snowfall overnight.

“No, I couldn’t find enough wool to plug up my ears with.” Bishop held up a flask and took a long swig from it. “There’s not enough mead in all of Skyrim to make me ready for this crap.”

“But you’re still going to try,” Leara sighed. As much as she wasn’t looking forward to another spoken word poetry fest that would likely feature her as a subject, her own worry kept her mind too alert to think about drinking even the first mug of mead, much less the endless stream she knew Bishop would soon imbibe. “You might actually forget everything anyway.”

“Trust me, I have other ways of forgetting. Mead or not,” Bishop chuckled.

She pinched her nose; exhausted already and they hadn’t even arrived at the palace! “I’m sure they’ll have enough free alcohol that you want need any of your other methods.”

They were quiet the rest of the way to the Palace of the Kings, though Leara couldn’t consider it peaceful. Bishop was a specter at her side, glaring at passersby and sneering at the guards. His attitude was sour, and it blackened her already worried mind. As they ascended the steps to the palace avenue, Leara felt the tension tighten around her ribs, constricting. She forced a deep breath, and then another. Feim. Zii. She exhaled.

Everything was going to be fine.

After telling the gate guards why they were there, Leara and Bishop entered the great hall. Removing her borrowed cloak, she folded it over her forearm and took in the room. It was a long, high-ceilinged room with towering stone walls draped in blue banners depicting the golden outline of the bear sigil. Centermost was a banquet table where a team of kitchen maids were arranging bowls and platters in preparation for dinner. If all went well and they stayed for the feast, she’d try to take a beef bone back to Karnwyr. He would like that.

Bishop gave a low whistle. “A lot of history in place like this. And a lot of riches, for that matter.”

“Yeah,” Leara nodded, voice distant.

As if dragged by an unseen force, her gaze found the throne. Framed by the banners of Eastmarch, it sat high on a dais at the end of the hall. The throne of Ysgramor. The throne of the Jarl of Windhelm.

It was empty.

Leara released a slow breath. Where was he? As she looked around, a Nord with a rather impressive mustache exited from a side passage. On seeing Leara and Bishop, he hurried over, his fur lined hat flopping back and forth on his head. “Hail, you’re the Dragonborn, I take it?”

“Yes, I am,” Leara answered, resigning herself to public recognition no matter where she went.

“I’m Jorleif, the Jarl’s steward. I was asked to keep a look out for you, but,” his gaze shifted to Bishop, who loomed over Leara’s shoulder with a dark scowl on his face, “your guest wasn’t expected.”

“Go figure!” Bishop mumbled. It took all that was in Leara not to lean back and dig a sharp elbow into his ribs.

“His presence isn’t a bother, is it?” Leara smiled.

Jorleif shifted from foot to foot. “We have plenty of seating in the gallery. The two of you just won’t be together.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Leara cut over Bishop.

“Right,” Jorleif nodded, glancing between the ranger’s hard glare and the Dragonborn’s genteel smile. “If you’ll follow me.”

Jorleif led them down the passage he’d appeared from before and into a low hallway lined with torches. “The concert is being held in the Gallery of Kings. Normally Jarl Ulfric likes to keep it reserved for quiet reflections honoring the old kings, but he agreed for the concert to be held there.”

“Will the Jarl be in attendance?” Leara asked, forcing her lungs to expand.

“Oh yes,” the steward nodded as they crossed into a long room. It was smaller than the great hall, with a much lower ceiling, but that did nothing to diminish the effect of the statues framing the walls, situated between fogged glass windows like pillars. A large statue, holding the likeness of a war axe carved with the face of a screaming elf, stood across from the entrance and to the side. Leara twitched, uncomfortable at the sight. So that was the great Ysgramor and his mighty Wuuthrad. Lovely.

The hall was already fairly full as people milled about the side tables arranged on either side of the entrance where platters of tarts and rolls, though most were already settled in seats closer to the back. There were enough mead bottles available too, she noticed as Bishop snagged two, both for himself. Leara counted several empty benches closer to the front. She looked to Jorleif in question. “Assigned seating for the thanes and great families of the city,” he explained. “And you of course, Dragonborn.”

“You’re telling me all those empty seats already belong to somebody?” Bishop demanded.

“Yes,” said Jorleif. He pointed to a chair near the backrow that stood next to a statue adorned a large beard, knotted at the end, and a winged crown. The plaque beneath read; Jorunn the Skald-King. “This will do for you, I think, if the Dragonborn agrees.”

“Sweetness—”

“Sit beside the Skald-King, Bishop. Perhaps he’ll teach you something about music during the concert,” Leara quipped. She couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved not to be sitting with Bishop. She already wasn’t looking forward to whatever Alec had planned for her, but it would be infinitely more tolerable without Bishop griping in her ear through the whole thing.

“This way,” Jorleif said, leading her from the silently fuming ranger toward the front row. Leara’s jaw slackened when she saw the ornate highbacked chair in the center of the aisle. “That’s not mine, is it?” she asked, chest welling with trepidation.

“Ah, no,” Jorleif coughed. He directed her attention to shorter, though no less ornate chair. Its back was just low enough to let her hair cascade in an unobstructed waterfall. “There’s your seat, Dragonborn. Enjoy”

“Thank you,” Leara whispered, mouth pressed into a line as she stared at it. Why did something tell her that this chair was chosen just to display her hair? It was such a small idea, really inconsequential, but she got the impression that Alec was well attuned to such attentions to detail. Which was fine, except when it came to her. Then it was more than a little creepy, especially after they shared only one conversation. Sighing, she tucked a faded red strand behind her ear. She would need to reapply the dye soon.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable chair, she decided once she sat down. It’d be better if it was placed closer to the middle in the midst of everyone else. While she had an excellent view of the area sectioned off to act as the stage, she knew very well she was in excellent view of both Alec and the audience, which didn’t bode well if he did or said anything embarrassing.

Why was she subjecting herself to this, again?

A thud and a sigh next to her jerked her from her silent crisis. The taller chair was occupied. Crystal eyes glanced up, meeting a wall of storms before darting away, back to the stage.

“Ah, Dragonborn. I was told you would be attending tonight’s festivities,” Ulfric Stormcloak said by way of greeting.

“Jarl Ulfric, it’s an honor,” she said, ending in a squeak. She cleared her throat, flushing. She met his raised eyebrow with a reassuring smile. It didn’t do anything for her, but the Jarl of Windhelm nodded, placated.

She couldn’t help but stare at him. Aside from a brief glimpse from a separate prison wagon and then another stolen stare as they escaped the fires of Helgen, it had been twenty-six years since she’d seen him, really seen him. The decades between carried news of his campaigns, but they said nothing of the storm in his eye nor the steel in his face. This was the man who would be High King.

And if he knew the truth, he would be her executioner.

“I must admit, I wasn’t looking for you to come to Windhelm,” he was saying.

“Oh?”

“Yesterday, I received a report from a patrol of the dragon you felled south of Kynesgrove. That’s the second one you’ve slain in my hold, and yet you avoid the city.” He leaned across the armrest of his chair. “Are you nervous, Dragonborn?”

“Ye—no. I’m fine,” she coughed. Ulfric offered her his unopened mead. Surprised, she took it, but only picked at the wax seal.

“I don’t blame you if you are,” he said lowly. Leara gaped at him. He what? “The attention of bards can be overwhelming, especially ones such as this Alec,” Ulfric’s nose wrinkled. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy Alec’s spoken word poetry, either. “I heard he’s planning to pen the complete account of your travels. Says he’ll call it the Ode to the Dragonborn.”

“That’s a rubbish title,” Leara heard herself respond. “That couldn’t even be classified as an ode. It’s an epic.”

“What would you call it?” Ulfric asked her.

Her mind whirled. “The Strundu'ul Edda.”

The storm in his eyes lit up. “Stormcrown. Fearsome.”

“I thought so,” Leara smiled. She smiled? She exhaled and studied the Jarl of Windhelm under her lashes. His mask had improved by leaps and bounds in the last two and a half decades, of this she was certain. But she’d seen under it – was there when it shattered. She knew the invisible cracks only a few could see like the lines on her palms. None of them were telling; he held no hidden thoughts from her, not right now.

He didn’t recognize her. Not her voice, not her face. Nothing.

And of course he wouldn’t, she chastised herself. How could he? Her right hand tightened over the left, over her rings. The black band’s enchantment wasn’t active; she passed for an elf of mixed ancestry. Not an Altmer. Not a member of the Aldmeri Dominion. This whole time, she was working herself up for nothing. After all, she was a Blade, the art of concealment was her domain. If she could slip under Elenwen’s nose at the ambassador’s own party, why couldn’t she slip under Ulfric Stormcloak’s? One weight out of many left her shoulders, and she relaxed into the feeling.

“I take it you don’t particularly care for Alec’s work?”

Ulfric chuckled at her inquiry. “Hardly, but Jorleif persuaded me. He said such festivities would be good for me and good for the people. For the people’s sake, I agreed. Though I do not think you agree,” he added wryly at Leara’s grimace.

Leara glanced over her shoulder. Several of the front benches were occupied now, though the ones closest to her and Ulfric were still empty. Turning back, she whispered in a conspiratorial whisper, “Oh, it’ll likely be very nice for the people. But not for me, I think.” At Ulfric’s inquisitive eyebrow, she elaborated: “As you know, as Dragonborn, I am Alec’s, ah, muse.”

“My condolences,” Ulfric bowed his head, though she could see the twinkle in his eye.

Leara couldn’t help but marvel at this entire exchange. If someone told her that morning that she’d be seated with Ulfric Stormcloak in his hall, making digs about a sycophantic bard, she likely would’ve accused them of being on skooma. And yet, here she was.

Both Leara and Ulfric straightened in their seats as a pale haired women swathed in crimson and gold stepped on to the manufactured stage. “Please, everyone, take your seats as the show is about to begin.”

“Here we go,” Leara sighed. Beside her, Ulfric barely suppressed a laugh.

Then Alec was on stage, poet sleeves puffed and plumed hat primmed. Spreading his arms, he gave a shallow bow. “Good evening, Windhelm! May I thank you all for venturing out on this cold, wintry night to witness the One, the Great, Alec, Prince of Song! I wish to dedicate tonight’s performance to someone very special to me.” His too green eyes found her, piercing. He winked at her. “She is the most inspiring, beautiful woman I have ever met, and I have a song in my heart I must sing to her.”

She mouthed a vague, “By Talos, this can’t be happening,” as Alec lifted his lute.

Then, honest to the Divines, he began to sing. “Let me dream of you and me and a place to be. Let me heal those scars unrevealed.”

Leara pressed herself into her chair, mortification building with every word this so-called ‘Prince of Song’ sang to a crowd of Windhelm’s citizens. Words about his feelings for her. What she could do for him. Her worrying nails broke the seal of Ulfric’s mead, and she guzzled it just to distract herself from the unpleasantness.

“Only you can save me. Only you can heal me,” he pleaded, strumming a handful of chords on his instrument. “Cure my eternal loneliness and kill my blinding hopelessness!”

Every mode and method of interrogation she was taught under the exactingg hand of the Aldmeri Dominion paled in the face of this new torture. Perhaps, perhaps Alec was a Thalmor agent sent to break her and return her to the Embassy? If so, she had to hand it to Elenwen for her originality. Prolonged exposure of this kind might just break her.

Would definitely break her, she corrected once Alec begged for her to let him love her. Whoever said things were better when put to song was wrong. They were actually so much worse. The urge to bury her face in her hands and scream mounted the longer and more explicit the song drone on, especially once the audience began to participate, clapping hands and snapping fingers to the steady tempo set by the lute.

“Let me dream of you and me for all eternity in a place where you can be with me . . .” Alec sang drawing out the final note. His ardent verdant stare didn’t sway from her in the moment.

Applause swelled throughout the gallery. In the chair next to hers, Ulfric gave a few short claps, but no more. The lines drawing down his mouth told her exactly what he thought of the performance.

And it was only the first of the evening.

·•★•·

“I have never been so embarrassed,” Leara whispered when Alec finally left the stage and a trio of Nords were drums and a flute took up a pounding jig.

“I’m sure,” Ulfric told her. “It was wildly inappropriate.”

“The audience didn’t seem to think so,” Leara sniffed, baleful. “They were quite into it.”

“They did not have the advantage of observing the lack of amusement from the bard’s muse during the performance,” the Jarl reminded her.

Leara’s mouth popped open. “Was that a pun?” she asked, a giggle springing up and taking her by surprise.

Instead of answering, Ulfric gave her a little half smile. Getting to his feet, offered her his hand. “Would you join me for some refreshment, Dragonborn?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, pretending she didn’t see his hand as she gathered the stray wax from the mead’s seal. Straightening, she met his eyes, and felt the curious eyes of the crowd on her – them – as the people intermingled around them. She cleared her throat, and added, “My Jarl,” in a subdued tone.

Ulfric gave her a wry smile, and she wondered about it as he led her through the chattering crowd toward to the refreshments. There was a quiet humor in him, wry and seasoned, but subtle in its delivery. Backhanded compliments were likely right up his alley. She recalled his dry retorts those first few days in the chamber. Before his voice gave way to the strain of screams.

A sharp intake of breath. She closed her eyes. This evening was getting to be too much, too memorable in more ways than one.

Warm fingers brushed against her hand, encircling her wrist. Her heartbeat stuttered. “Yes, my Jarl—”

“Pet names, darling? Not too sure how I feel about that one.”

Leara’s eyes blew open. Bishop stood in front of her, his hand clamped over hers like a manacle. Over his shoulder, she could see Ulfric Stormcloak engaged in a quiet conversation with Jorleif, a crease lining his brow.

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Bishop bit out in a hiss, just audible over the murmur of the crowd and the lively music beat out by the band. “You do realize that I and every blasted fool in here could see you two? What the Hell were you thinking, giggling and batting your eyes at him like some cheap whore?”

“Bishop—” Not here, please. Not here, not now.

“Did I not tell you to keep your head down and avoid the damn Jarl?” His voice was quiet, but it cut through her with the subtle precision of an assassin’s blade.

She swallowed. “If you did, I wasn’t listening.”

“You stupid woman!”

Breathe in, breathe out. She mustered an air of indifference, “I didn’t pledge myself to the Civil War, if that’s what you’re worried about!”

The cold eyes and curled lip Bishop gave her chilled her blood more than her frost magic ever could. “As if that’s the only thing I was worried about.”

In a sea of people, she was an island, caught in a hurricane as the waters churned around her. Not here, the little voice in the back of her mind whimpered. Not in front of all these people. Not in front of—

“My muse!”

Leara jolted backward, freeing herself from Bishop’s grasp as Alec materialized at her side.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again! I’m overjoyed that you came!” His hand sought hers, but she pressed it into the folds of her skirt, just out of reach.

“Are you serious?” Bishop frowned. Alec ignored him.

She was strangling on cotton. “Ah, Alec, your music was . . .” Embarrassing. Discomforting. Creepy. “. . . sweet.” Nauseatingly so.

That sickening feeling resurfaced at Alec’s lovesick expression. “My beautiful muse, I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “Please, dine with me tonight, my lady. I wish to sing for you more. I wish to hear all of your wonderful stories from the road. We can spend an unforgettable night together.”

In whose bed? she wondered, her stomach churning. “I—”

“The Dragonborn has agreed to be my guest tonight, bard. Save your offer for another night,” Ulfric Stormcloak said. He’d rejoined her without anyone noticing. “Unless she would like to accept your offer. Mine can sit for another night,” he said, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He knew bloody well she had no intention of spending an evening with Alec, tonight or any other!

“Jarl uh, Jarl Ulfric,” stammered Alec, eloquence lost.

In the background, Bishop growled. He was ignored.

“I,” Leara began. Her eyes were caught in Ulfric’s storm. She wanted to – but no. Tonight was too much, even after – or in part because of the unexpected camaraderie between her and the Jarl of Windhelm. If only . . . But Bishop’s burning stare torched her skin. There was an expectancy in them, as if he knew she would choose him. It dawned on her then to fear what he might say or do if she didn’t. Don’t test him here, she told herself. Not tonight. “I’m rather tired,” she said, voice thin. “I beg your pardon, my Jarl, but I believe I’ll take my leave for the evening.”

Ulfric frowned, and Leara wondered if it was directed toward her or either of the men beside her. It could be for the war, she thought. His mind could be leagues away with his war camps, returning to his cause after the momentary distraction she brought him. She was an evening’s entertainment in more ways than one, it seemed. “As you wish,” he said, tilting his head in acceptance. “Until we meet again, Dragonborn.” And then he was gone without acknowledging either Bishop or Alec, lost in the sea of people.

“Are you certain you wish to leave so soon, my muse?” Alec asked. “I can promise you a night you will never forget!”

“She said she’s tired, boy. Let the woman rest, will you?” Bishop growled.

“Savage,” Alec sneered, the movement awkward and stiff, but no less pretentious on his smooth face. He turned to Leara, “Are you sane, my lady? How can you trust a man like this?”

Bishop made a move toward Alec, but the bard didn’t seem quite as intimidated by Bishop as he was by Ulfric Stormcloak. In fact, he looked purely disdainful. A fight was sparking between them. Before it could rise into a blaze there in the middle of palace, Leara did the only thing she could think of to put out the fire.

Throwing herself at Bishop, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Let’s leave, Bishop.”

Alec made a strangled noise, but Bishop’s attention was focused solely on her. There was a glimmer in his eyes that unsettled her stomach more than it already was, but she remained where she was. A blanket of snow to put out the fire.

“C’mon.” Bishop’s voice was gruff. Leara felt eyes boring into her as Bishop’s arm encircled her waist. He led her from the hall, Alec spluttering gracelessly in their wake.

She could never show her face in Windhelm again.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

So, first step in putting together the Windhelm open mic night is compiling a transcript from three different Let's Plays so I can know EVERYTHING!

Not everything. People don't yell at Bishop as much as they could. But I digress. Leara is going to die from cringe.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Part III will be up when @ravenmind2001 is done reigning my madness in.

Meanwhile, doing some reading for Part IV and . . . oh boy. Um. I know we've already talked about it, it's part of the reason I'm writing this fic in the first place, but the characters in this mod — not just Bishop, but everyone — they're just really cringe. And I don't like to say cringe or reference that culture, but if ANYTHING deserved it, it's this mod.

Saying that, the Windhelm open mic night is going to be wild.