Chapter 23

Chapter 23

     I sat in a corner of Candlehearth Hall, which had luckily escaped any damage.  Many surrounding buildings had not been so lucky, and a few people had died in the fire caused by the flame atronach.  The guards had worked half the night to put out the rising flames, and now many angry people had gathered outside the Palace of the Kings, demanding to know how a force had entered Windhelm of all cities and attacked the people right in the heart of it. 

     Not that I was thinking of any of this, of course.  I reached for another bottle of mead and downed half of it in one draft, my hand shaking slightly.  I would end up having far too many before the night was done, I knew, but I couldn’t take the headache caused by my frenzied use of the Death Shout any longer.  The buzz of the liquor was the only thing that stood between me and the skull splitting agony of the headache that had been going on since the night before, and I would drink until it killed me to keep it away.  I had spent the entirety of the day curled with my head between my knees in my room, and I couldn’t deal with it anymore.

     And it wasn’t just my head, either.  My shoulder also ached, the same one that Relonikiv had stabbed nearly a month ago.  It should have been long healed by now and I didn’t understand why it kept flaring up, but right now I could think of nothing except that it was multiplying my discomfort.

     The mead alleviated the pain but did nothing to stop the memories.  Gods, it had been years since I’d lost myself so completely.  What if Brynjolf or someone else from the Guild had been there?  I knew in that state I would have killed anyone who came too close.  And I had, too.  Everyone assumed the three guards who had also been found in the circle of death I had created were killed by the Summerset Shadows, but I knew better.  I had killed those guards with my uncontrolled Death Shout, and I would have done the same to anyone else who might have tried to approach me, be it friend or foe. 

     My head twinged painfully again and I finished off the bottle, almost dropping it as I went to set it back on the table.  I didn’t care if I ended up with a hangover headache as long as this Shout-induced one went away.

     A tear tried to escape down my cheek and I swiped it away angrily, wincing at the pain the sudden movement caused. 

     I couldn’t stop picturing Aetra’s death, that last expression of surprise and confusion and fear.  I had seen it a hundred times before on the face of every Stormcloak soldier that had died in battle, and I guessed one day soon I would wear it myself.  What was it like, that last second of life in which you realize you’re dying?  Did it hurt, or did all the pain and suffering life caused just fade away?  The souls at rest in Sovngarde had not seemed to be in pain or have any regrets.

     Aetra’s death hurt, sure, but it was everything on top of that that caused me more pain than the headache.  I was sick of people around me dying because of mistakes I had made. 

      My parents had died because I couldn’t run just a little bit faster.  Mirjoln had died because I left all those years ago.  Vipir had died because I had allowed him to go into that shop instead of me like we had originally planned.  Frea and her entire village had died because I failed to defeat Miraak in Apocrypha.  Last night Aetra had died because I told her it would make Brynjolf suspicious if she left the city. 

     I knew what survivor’s guilt was, but every single one of these cases was genuinely my fault.  No matter how powerful I became or what Shouts I learned I could never protect anyone, only get them killed.

     “By Talos, you look terrible.” 

     I would know that voice anywhere, and normally I would be thrilled to greet its owner, but right now I could just manage a small smile as I looked up from the empty bottle of mead at Ralof.  “Well, I feel worse.”  I rubbed my eyes.

     He slid into the seat opposite me.  “Ae you hurt?”

     “I don’t know.  At least, I don’t think so.  It has something to do with a new Shout I learned,” I said by way of explanation.

     “I’m not here just on a social call, as you can probably guess.”  Actually I hadn’t been thinking about it much at all, but now that he mentioned it I noticed that he was wearing his Stormcloak officer uniform.  “Jarl Brunwulf needs you to report to him in the Palace of the Kings as soon as possible.”  He eyed me, probably wondering how likely I would be to fall over if I stood up.  “I suggest you wait at least until tomorrow.”

     “I meant to speak to him yesterday, but then last night happened.”  My head started throbbing dully again so I pulled the last bottle of mead toward me and opened it.  “I knew that group was after me, but I had no idea they would attack a city like Windhelm openly.”

     “I heard about your friend,” Ralof said sympathetically.  “But really, drinking it away?  That’s not like you at all.”

     I knew it would hurt to laugh so I didn’t try.  “That’s not why I’m drinking.  It’s the only thing that stops this blasted headache from the Shout.  Trust me, I’m not looking forward to the effects I’m going to feel later, but I was about to go insane.” 

     “Did you try a potion?”

     “Nothing helps,” I said shortly. 

     Ralof went silent, but I knew I hadn’t offended him.  “You should try to get some sleep before the Jarl sends guards to come looking for you,” he suggested. 

     I sipped at the bottle.  “What’s making him so desperate that he needs me to fix it?” I asked, to tired and sore to sugarcoat my words. 

     “The Imperials, that’s what,” Ralof said grimly.  “If you came from Solitude I’m sure you heard they were mobilizing.  Well, they’ve mobilized and started conscripting bandits as well.”

     “What?”  I tried to imagine the proud, stiff-necked Imperials working with bandits. 

     “We don’t understand it either, but….” he trailed off.

     “Just go on.  You can’t make me feel worse than I already do.” 

     “They took Falkreath, rebuilt Helgen, and we think they intend to march on Whiterun next.”  Well, I was wrong.  Gods, I was tired of being wrong.  “We still have numbers on them, but the Stormcloak forces are not mustered.  Whiterun could be taken before we even raise an army, and then we would be cut off in communication and trade.”

     Thinking did not help my head at all, but this was important so I tried to force myself to focus.  “So their main camp is in Helgen?”

     “We think so, yes, but our scouts rarely come back and those that do never get very close.” 

     “I can get you a scout that won’t get caught and can be there and back in a few hours, but he won’t be able to get close either.  He can give us an estimate on numbers and should be able to sense if the leader is there, but he won’t be able to do much else.”

     “Who?  We’ve lost several good men trying to get information on the Imperials, and Jarl Vignar isn’t likely to send in more.”  Nevertheless, Ralof looked interested.

     “Not a man; a dragon.  Specifically, the dragon I caught in Dragonsreach, Odahviing.”

     “A dragon?” Ralof said in disbelief.  “Well, if you think that’s best.”

     “I’ll call him tomorrow.”  I didn’t want to know what would happen if I tried to Shout right now.  “In the meantime, you’re right, I should try to get some sleep.”  I finished off a fourth bottle of mead, not remembering when I had started on a fourth but not questioning it, then tried to stand up.  “On second thought, I think I’ll just die here.”  My tone was only half joking.

     “No you won’t.”  Ralof pulled me to my feet and helped me down the stairs.  “You survived Helgen, the Civil War, and countless other conflicts, you aren’t going to die because of a bit of a headache and too much alcohol.”  He laughed, despite looking concerned for me all the same.

     “Don’t count on it, and I can walk.”  I pushed Ralof off and managed to make it to my room under my own strength.

     “I’ll tell the Jarl that you’ll report in tomorrow,” Ralof called after me.

     Everything can wait just one more day, I convinced myself as I gingerly lay down. 

     When I woke up the next morning the first thing I thought was, Well, at least I didn’t have one of those dreams last night to add on to everything.  Then I noticed that my headache was mostly gone, although my head still felt heavy from the mead I had consumed the night before and my shoulder still ached a bit. 

     These things were minor discomforts and I could handle them, but I swore to myself that the next time I used the Death Shout it would be on Miraak.  Killing him would be the only thing that would make the pain worth it. 

     Now that I was able to think again I realized I was starving, so I reclaimed my table from last night and had a quick breakfast.  Compared to the last time I had sat at this table my mind felt as clear as glass armor, and I winced to remember my mental tirade of the night before.  I blamed the mead….  While I had in no means wanted Aetra to die despite of what she had tried to do to me, her death, while saddening, was absolutely no reason to discard sanity. 

     Maybe this had been coming for years, the time when I would finally lose it at a world that didn’t care whether its inhabitants lived, died, or were permanently tortured.  Whatever the cause, I actually felt better for what I’d done.

     Gods, I think I’d actually lost more of my sanity than I thought.  I had killed three guards who were only doing their duty, lost a friend, uncovered entirely unexpected problems with Cynric’s betrayal, and I felt better?

     Contrary to the fury I had felt yesterday, now I would honestly describe my mood as… honestly, in a word, whatever.  I was glad I had killed Linwe, but I didn’t feel any anger toward Cynric, the Summerset Shadows, or Brynjolf, whom I suspected had ordered Cynric to kill Aetra.  I felt… impersonal towards everything, like all these things weren’t happening to me, but instead I was watching someone else suffer through it.

     I decided to look at it a different way.  Every person had different sides, and I was no different.  The adventurer side of me wanted to take on challenges and defeat them while making a profit, and while the Thieves’ Guild side agreed with that desire for profit, it also kept my friends in the Guild in mind during my ventures.  Then I had a defeatist side, the part of me that simply wanted to give up on all these problems and quests that I couldn’t avoid simply because what I was.  The Dragonborn side of me felt the need to protect Skyrim from dragons, as I was destined to do since birth.  Finally, the Stormcloak general mindset required me to put all these other Kisvars aside and concentrate on the destruction of the Imperials and their leader.

     Following Aetra’s death the defeatist side had taken over for a while, and now my Stormcloak general side was at the forefront.  Cynric was long gone, Brynjolf had headed back to Riften when he escaped the Summerset Shadows, and I didn’t have the time to chase either of them.  There was nothing I could do about that for the moment, but the war was something I could plan for and assist in.

     Speaking of which, I needed to meet with Jarl Brunwulf.  I flipped a couple coins to the innkeeper and left, heading out the entrance closest to the Palace of the Kings.

     The guards admit me instantly upon recognizing me, one informing me, “They’re in the war room.”  I walked to the left of the long table and pushed open the door.

     Ralof, Jarl Brunwulf, and two other Stormcloak officers I didn’t recognize stood around the table.  “-superior numbers,” Brunwulf was saying as I walked in.  “Kisvar!  Thank Talos, we need you right now.  These are captains Valmoor and Abesild,” he introduced them, nodding to each as he spoke.

     I nodded at them politely, ignoring the twinge in my head.  “Ralof filled me in on the current situation with Falkreath Hold.  Did he tell you what I proposed to do?”  I bent over the map, noting the little red flags that denoted Imperial holdings.

     “With the dragon, yes.  If you think he can help, send him in.  It can’t hurt anything.  However, we have more important things to think about.  The greatest concentration of Imperials is in Falkreath, and we need to protect Whiterun, Riverwood, and possibly Ivarstead from invasion.”  Brunwulf’s finger moved from spot to spot on the map. 

     “Riverwood is one of the least defensible towns in Skyrim.”  I remembered well the first time I had entered the town, and I knew it wouldn’t hold up to a group of fifteen bandits, let alone a strategized Imperial attack.  “It will never hold up to an Imperial attack, no matter how many guards we assign it.”

     “We should move all the inhabitants to Whiterun.  We can protect everyone there,” Valmoor suggested.

     I wanted to make a dire prediction about how no one was safe anywhere, but I abstained.  “That would be a start.”  I examined the map more closely.  There were very few red Imperial flags compared to the blue of the Stormcloaks.

     “Don’t be fooled by the flags,” Abesild warned me.  “The Imperials don’t hold many forts because all their strength is gathered in Falkreath.  This isn’t going to be like the small skirmishes of the Civil War.  When we meet the Imperials in battle, and meet them we will, expect a full blown confrontation between armies.”

     Armies and dragons, I corrected her mentally.  “We cannot lose Whiterun,” I stated the conclusion we had all come to. 

     “No,” Jarl Brunwulf agreed.  “Whiterun was the true turning point in the Civil War.  When we captured it we cut off Imperial supply lines and communication, and if they reconquer the city it will have the same effect on us.”  Everyone around the table nodded grimly.  “Which is why, General Kisvar, I’m putting you in charge of the defense of Whiterun, to make whatever commands and use whatever resources you feel necessary to protect the city.”

     What?  Of all the things I had expected, to be given command over the entire defense of Whiterun was about as far from it as Solstheim was from Skyrim.  I could think of three generals off the top of my head who would were probably better strategists, if not better fighters.  “I’m honored to accept the commission, of course.”  I winced inwardly, hearing the dubiousness in my own voice.  I knew better than to question the second most powerful man in Skyrim openly, but I also wondered where this order had come from. 

     Either Brunwulf had not caught the odd note in my voice or he had chosen to ignore it.  Either way, all he said was, “Excellent.  You will start for Whiterun immediately, and reinforcements will follow shortly.  Just to be clear, you have full autonomy in all decisions, though I suggest you appoint Jarl Vignar Gray-Mane as an advisor.”

     I suppose I should have said something about being proud to accept the command, but I was too busy wondering why in the names of all the Divines I had been given it at all.  If Brunwulf had seen me yesterday when I had been drunk, emotionally compromised, and in agonizing pain to boot he would never have thought of giving me command of Whiterun. 

     Then again, the death of a friend was something every soldier could understand.

     Wait, if….  “If I’m in command of Whiterun, does that include the Companions?”

     “If they choose to fight alongside the Stormcloaks, and I’m sure they will, then yes, the Companions too.  Why, is that a problem?” 

     “Certainly not.  I will be honored to fight among such legendary warriors.”  By Nocturnal, of course it was a problem!  Vilkas at least already disliked me, and when I took charge of Whiterun’s defenses Cerawyn would know I had lied about visiting family in Winterhold then returning to Windhelm.  I suppose I could always tell her I had been undercover or something….

     Still, Kodlak I had known and respected as someone who would protect innocent people.  Cerawyn was like a closed door in a ruin that could either lead to the burial room where the treasure was stored or into a dead end.  She seemed nice enough, but one did not earn their place as Harbinger merely by being nice, and the Companions would indubitably have some agenda of their own.

     “Well, if you don’t have anything else for me I’ll send out that scout and head to Whiterun.”  I glanced across the table at Ralof, a question in my eyes.  He shook his head slightly, and I knew he wasn’t going to Whiterun.  It was probably for the best, actually.  I didn’t need anyone else I cared about to get hurt right now.  Well, not that I wanted anyone to get hurt ever, but-  Ugh, my head still ached and I didn’t even know what I was thinking anymore. 

     “Nothing that can’t be conveyed by messenger.  Good luck, and may Talos guide you,” Brunwulf said seriously. 

     I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was going to need that guidance. 

 Yes, I know alcohol doesn't generally help headaches.  However, apparently red wine does help by relaxing your brain or something like that, so I'm just going with the assumption that Black-Briar mead has whatever red wine has in it that helps headaches.

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