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"He is happiest, be he King or Peasant, who finds peace in his home."
-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

They were a beautiful couple, she had to admit. Asta’s white-blonde hair and Ulfric's wheat gold. Her pale blue eyes and his steel ones. Her long, willowy frame next to his tall, imposing one. They looked right.

And everyone celebrating the opening night of Harvest’s End had to see it that way as well. Finally, the man who could prove capable of taking Skyrim back and ushering in a new rule seemed to have a proper potential queen at his side. As she watched citizens rush about the streets, dousing the braziers, hanging garlands, and setting up stands and tables aplenty, she knew at least some of the revelry had to be done for the sake of celebrating Asta’s place at his side. Then again…

What had not been used or smithed of the Elder Dragon she’d slain right in front of the Candlehearth had been turned into a sort of ceremonial archway. The bones of the creature’s ribcage and back stretched from the first wall of the courtyard halfway into it, decorated with chrysanthemums, spruce sprigs, sage, and rosemary. Ulfric, always the tactician, knew that putting on display the defeat of a dragon in Windhelm would bolster support to his cause, and he’d earned it…

...though he stood at Asta’s side, he’d fought by hers.

Stupid Northman! If I hadn’t cast Stoneflesh on your ruddy ass you’d be quite literally half the man you are today!

She felt a little better than Asta for a moment, perhaps could see herself held in higher regard by the enigmatic Son of Skyrim, when she thought of how the Nobleman the statuesque Lady Nord courted had been willing to die for her, but then the sight of them together underneath the slain wyvern tugged her poor heart into places she’d rather it not go.

A beautiful couple, all too beautiful.

---

“Must be hard work for a one-handed man,” the Cat quipped through a sly grin as she helped the recovering Dunmer merchant hang some holiday appropriate dried garland over the threshold of his shop.

“And it’ll be really hard to call attention to the difficulty if I relieve you of that sharp tongue, Kitten,” Sadri returned through a smile of his own, and Iona caught him nearly dusting his hands after the last bough was placed, looking instead to the folded over sleeve where a right arm should have been.

“Really should still be taking it easy, Sadri.”

“We Elves live much longer than those of you from other races.” Though he politely refused Iona's hand, he did take a little more care coming down the steps of the ladder than he’d have exercised if he’d had two arms instead of one to help steady himself. “I’ll have plenty of time to rest by the time you’re grayer than you already are.”

The day was turning to dusk, and yet all of the lamps were still cold and lifeless as they’d been nearly since dawn. She’d watched from the walls of Windhelm and then the rooftops of the Grey Quarter as the leeries, bedecked in colors both of Summer and of Fall, squelched the flames for the first night of the festivities. “Do they always take Harvest’s End so seriously here?” she asked, gazing upwards into the globe of a flameless streetlight.

“The Jarl has always made it a point to make sure the old holidays are observed, yes.” Iona could hear the squeak and tumbling of the shop’s lock behind her as her elder friend turned from her for a moment to close his business for the day. “But as...well[/b]...as you know Jarl Ulfric, I’m sure you understand the man sees the importance of celebrating unity when one considers the supposed purpose of his war.”

Iona nodded and looked down the street to the steps that would lead her back into Windhelm proper and back into the presence of the man who captivated her. Her attention was called back to the present with a gentle bump from Revyn’s elbow against her upper arm. “C’mon, girl, I’ll walk you to the courtyard. Our local Dragonborne should be on someone’s arm after all.”

A hearty chuckle rose in her throat as she looped her arm through her friend’s bent elbow. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you still got one for me to be on, Sadri. Thank you, truly.”

Their footsteps echoed through the quiet stone of the Grey Quarter and became indistinguishable in the gathering throng between Calixto’s House of Curiosities and the Candlehearth. Her thoughts lost themselves too in the cacophony of voices around them as they all made their way to the main courtyard in front of the Palace of Kings.

Ulfric’s commanding figure did not need a hastily erected stage to stand on in order to be seen over the heads of men who were also tall, and the absence of such a structure made him seem even larger than his legend. He stood there underneath the rib cage of the Elder Dragon in a white tunic Iona considered to be over-decorated for him and under-decorated for many of the other Jarls with blue trimming and gold thread with exquisite knotwork and stylized wolves racing through the cobalt blue. Asta stood just a few yards in front of him in a complimentary indigo dress with a flower crown that matched the one on his own head braided into her flowing hair. As the last of the citizens in attendance filtered in, it lifted Iona’s heart to see that the crowd was mixed of race where once it would have been nearly all Nord.

I meant it, Ulfric, you might not have the Crown of a King, but you ‘ave the Heart of one.

The congregation was brought to a hush when a single flaming torch was carried out to their warrior king, the light bobbing through the reds and purples of dusk like a large torchbug. Nodding to Jorleif who handed the flame over to him and motioned for Asta to take her place beside him, Ulfric facedthe crowd, head held high, eyes leveled over his people.

“It is unknown whether our ancestors brought with them a single spark from the lands they once called home, but it is known that once Skyrim, then Cyrodiil, then High Rock became the home of Man, we learned the importance in not only cultivating the fires that light our own hearts, but the one flame that burns when we are all together.”

Sadri leaned into his friend just the slightest bit, reminding Iona gently that she was tensing and squeezing his arm. So many emotions bounded through her heart. Good ones, proud ones, lonely ones, sad ones. Mainly there was the one screaming at her that even though she’d obviously been included in the holiday, she had no business being there.

“Barely a week ago, a dragon rained hellfire down upon our home, our people.” His voice climbed effortlessly, and the rumbling of the Thu’um could be heard in the timbre of each word. “Windhelm as a city proved that in spite of the foolishness of generations previous...and in spite of my own hubris...that it is a city alight and aflame and will not be extinguished so easily.”

Fault. He was admitting fault. Iona heard just the barest murmuring of a few of those around her and saw the nodding of Breton, Dunmer, Argonian, and Altmer heads. None could have predicted he’d show humility. It was a brave choice when his main role was, admittedly, not unlike that of a Warlord...a position that cannot be questioned.

“I thank you for all of that, for the growth I have seen in all of us in mere days, and I thank you for the trust you’ve given to a man who must grow worthy of it. You do me honor in lighting the fire of Harvest’s End with me.”

The torch sailed towards the large stack of wood, dragon’s bone, and cattle bones, catching the pyramid aflame almost immediately. The elated roar of the crowd echoed off of the stones of the First City of Men, and those who lived within Windhelm and the homes and farms clustered outside her gates gathered embers of the fire in cauldrons to relight their own hearths while others celebrated.

“In all my days...I never[/b] thought I’d see him as anything other than Hoag’s Son...equally hateful, equally unmovable,” Revyn stated, almost in awe, while Iona helped shovel some glowing coals into a heavy pot for him. “Remarkable.”

“A bad man is a collection of decisions. A good man is a collection of mistakes.” She passed the handle to the Dunmer shopkeep. “Sure you don’t want me to help you carry it back?”

“Girl, I survived Dragon’s-Flame...if I can’t carry some coals to my home, I have problems bigger than the both of us can handle.” They both shared a laugh before he turned to leave, telling her he’d see her tomorrow for the closing of the celebrations.

It was almost like she wasn’t really there, like she was caught in limbo between worlds. Was this how the dragonsoul had felt as he’d left his corporeal form, become spirit, and surged into her own? Was she doomed all her life to feel like a traveler and never a settler. The diminutive Khajiit entertained some conversations with those she knew and those who were altogether unfamiliar with her. Word had spread. A Cat from Cyrodiil with a voice from High Rock was the Heir to Tiber Septim’s Legacy. She was all at once a hero and a curiosity. And she disliked both.

Once the attention of a couple of men who she felt were getting a little too friendly with her was diverted, she’d bowed out of the courtyard and instead stood yards from the large brazier at the entrance to it, staring into the surrounding mountains as the pastels of sunset became the dark purples and light blues of falling night against the snowcaps. Tomorrow, her Companions would be there to properly celebrate Harvest’s End...it would be the first time in many years that the guild would be in Ysgramor’s city in an official capacity. As a Companion herself, she’d need to be refreshed and ready to welcome them and represent them appropriately. She’d have to quiet all the thoughts and worries in her head, all the unhinged emotions and fears.

Mostly, she’d have to get her mind off of things that simply could not be. Peace needed to be made with it.

“You look a woman frozen in her steps, my Dragonborne.”

My...his…[/b]

And yet not.

She turned to see him standing behind her, his posture relaxed and more inviting than she wished. Formality would be so much easier to deal with, so much less tempting. The firelight in that wheat gold hair didn’t help either.

“Oh...I’m just thinking, don’t mind me, Jarl Ulfric.”

He took a few steps closer, each one confident, each one making her melt. “A Septim for your thoughts then.”

“Just seems like everything is falling into place, I guess,” Iona replied with a wistful but somehow sad smile, tucking some of her unruly midnight lockes behind her cheek rough. “People...all the people...see you as a leader, Ulfric. I’m...I’m glad.”

The Nord took in a deep breath, a fair bit of bonfire and cold Eastmarch chill entering his lungs. “I cannot take all the credit, you know.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

He was so close, and she began to ever so slightly tilt her head from side to side, her ears rotating outwards to catch the potential hiss of onlookers, her eyes searching for the sapphire blue of Asta’s dress and the golden halo of her hair. “I’ve heard it said that a good woman can give a man reason to change.”

She couldn’t handle it. Her eyes began to sting with more than the smoke and oils from bones and cedarwood aflame. She had to run. “I’m grateful to Lady Asta then...if you’ll excuse me…” Bowing quickly and sharply at the waist, Iona began to pivot towards the Candlehearth, towards shadows she could hide in.

“Have you a place to light a flame, Iona?” Why was he pacing closer to her, why was he being so damn poetic, so damn charming? Why did she want to trace the gold-kissed embroidery of his ecru tunic with hungry, curious fingers?

“The Candlehearth IS a flame, Ulfric, but you know that already.” Losing patience. She needed to leave.

“Ah, as miraculous as the flame on that candle is, as unique as it is since it’s been the only one to light all of Eastmarch before tonight, that is not a place for your own fire.” His right hand barely lighted on her elbow, and he dipped his head, his voice a whisper close to her face. “I would ask you to follow me.”

She could politely refuse. She could leave him to his people, to Asta wherever she was in the crowd, but she didn’t. Doing her best not to allow the heat of her cheeks to glow even in the firelight, she nodded and followed her Jarl to the bonfire he’d christened not so long ago.

The sounds of conversation, merriment, and feet dancing and walking on the cobblestones warbled into her ears, sounding more like everything was happening underwater than in the crisp, clean air of night oncoming. She looked at the weathered cauldron she’d heard him scrape some of the hot coals into and spotted a handsomely sized piece of dragon’s bone within the ash and burnt evergreen, the fire surrounding it, glowing like liquid amber...

Fire within fire. Somehow engulfing but not destroying.

---

She was surprised when not many seemed to have taken notice of the Cat following the potential High King into his palace when it should be the woman he was courting at his side, the few glances they seemed to earn being quick and almost without care.

Oh, that’s right. I’m the Dragonborne. I’m another feather in his cap. Why would they think my occasional presence at his side would be strange?

While the heir of Ysgramor inviting the Dragonborne into his halls, into his throne room, might not have been odd, him gesturing to the stairwell that would carry them to the residential wing...to HIS chambers certainly would be. The long silver and black marbled tail went bottle-brushy, and her white hands wrung themselves against one another. “My Jarl…”

“Please.” His hair fell over the seasonal flower crown wreathed up on his head and into his handsome face as he half-bowed to her. “I promise you I won’t keep you long if that is your wish.”

With his request, her tiny pawpads made purchase on the first cold stone that led the way forward. As they climbed the stairs, so did her pulse, the lack of lit torches making the way something she could see, something he could feel. This was his home. The last time she’d been in this part of the palace had been after she’d stumbled through his throne room doors, ice wraith teeth clenched in one hand, what was left of her life force in the other.

His room...he’d had her taken to his room. Though gruff at the time, his gentle nature even then had shone through in making sure that he could oversee her recovery. The dichotomy of thinking about being in that safe space again, the Bear of Markarth watching over her, and the dawning realization of that being lightning in a bottle, a thing she’d possibly never hold in her hands again...it all made the stairwell infinitely taller as she kept up with Ulfric’s long strides.

Moonlight turned the way to his door blue through the Atmoran windows at the end of the hallway. She felt like she was wading into a river’s surface, felt her emotions ready to wash her away as the metal sound of his hand lifting the ring of the door echoed in the lonely stone of Windhelm. Once more, the man invited her into a space entirely his.

Her keen nose checked for the sweet smell of purple mountain flowers and juniper berries that seemed to flow freely around Asta as she stepped into the first room which if it were truly fine like those of the other Jarls, she’d have called a proper study. While a tidy and proud space, it was mostly narrow but tall windows, bookcases, and potted herbs with a few occasional chairs and a modest table for reading arranged on either side of the door that would lead into his bedroom.

There was no smell of the lady who all seemed to consider their future queen. No, just the scents of him, scents she’d grown so accustomed to, scents she missed. Lavender, mountain sage, snow, steel...all things free. When he entered the main chamber, the vacuum of him not being in the anteroom with her drew her inside before she considered the thought that maybe, just maybe, it’d be more proper to call out to him a fond goodnight and take her leave.

“Sit.” His hand waved towards a collection of bear pelts on the floor in front of a currently cold fireplace as he grabbed a few logs and began arranging them within the hearth. “Would you like some ale?”

“No, no thank you.” Iona sat on the rug, tail curling tightly around her in an anxious ring. “Ulfric...am I keeping you from...someone?”

He chuckled, the tone making it obvious that he found her insinuation to be absurd. “I assume you mean Asta.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything offensive…”

“Come here.” The purring thrum of his voice, calm and collected like a tumbling stream, interrupted her racing thoughts. “I want you here with me.”

It sounded weighty. As though the significance of his simple statement would fall on her like some great epiphany. Curious, she crawled closer, sitting to his right, tilting her head at him. “What is it I can do for you?”

He bent over and took a small iron shovel from a collection of hearth tools, placing it beside the pot that still carried a glow from within like a small pumpkin hued orb. “You have no place to call your own, Iona. In fact, it seems you’ve refused to allow yourself to have one since your stay in Skyrim...from what I understand...maybe even much longer than that.”

A trembling hand folded between her small breasts and clutched her own heartbeat. Why did he have to be right?

“I’d like you to bring life to my hearth here...with me.” An expectant scraping sound sang from him carefully pushing the small cast iron cauldron between the two of them. Sea blue eyes widened and looked first to the flame that clung to the dragon bone and then to her Outlaw King.

“I...I can’t…”

“It is braver to seek warmth than it is to suffer the cold, Iona,” Ulfric observed, an almost sad grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My home is your home.”

A few seconds settled between them before the young Cat rose upon her knees and reached her hands into the cauldron. Just as Ulfric leaned forward to stop her from burning herself, Iona clutched the dragon bone and placed it upon the kindling, the fire immediately walking from bone to cedarwood in a waving line.

“Heh...having the soul of a Dragon comes in handy sometimes.” A nervous giggle left her tight through before she changed to a more serious tone. “Thank you, Ulfric...Skyrim...it’s the closest thing to a home that I’ve had in…” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “...might as well be forever.”

He leaned back on the heels of his hands and shook his head slightly, chest rising with a few soft laughs. “While I am glad my country has become dear to you...it’s not mine to give you. You’re avoiding a simple truth, girl.” One of his huge hands reached into a fur-lined satchel on his belt and pulled out an unassuming looking iron key. He held it up to the light and watched the fireglow play over the lines of it. “Maybe giving you this will make my point a bit clearer.”

“A key?...a key to what…?” Her fingers tickled over his for a brief second as she investigated the small gift.

“My mother’s chambers.”

Her heart thumped in her chest, her hand hesitated between grasping his and retreating as far away as possible. It can’t be...he’s gone mad.

Madder than the Mad God. He’s gone MAD

And she could not find words, had even more of a problem forming them when his hand gently held her face. “Follow me?”

Of course she would. Standing up, the realization dawned on her that she’d follow the man through storms, fire, battles...anything...as long as it meant she got to be near him.

---

She’d been here once before. Hells, even rested in the large four poster bed. But then, it’d been wholly someone else’s, frozen forever in the memory of a woman long gone.

The crackle-spit of Ulfric lighting the fireplace within the long-dormant main room drew her attention to him as he stood up, wiping the wood-dust on his ivory and blue tunic. “In Cyrodiil...even in High Rock...it would be customary for you to give your mother’s rooms to your wife, Ulfric...I assume it is much the same here in Skyrim?” The words were slow, dreamlike, incredulous.

Leaning back against the wall in front of her, he crossed his arms over his chest, eyes holding her with serious but tender consideration. “Aye, that is the way of things.”

“Then Asta should be the one entertaining this offer, not the likes of me.” Even as she said it, her fingers held the key tighter as though holding on for dear life.

“These rooms are mine to give to whoever I wish. If I wished for Asta to have this room and the place that goes with it, she’d be here. Simple as that.” The Northman pushed off of the wall and sauntered towards her with that ever-present sense of possession in each step. “You told me you’d entertain the “folly” of me writing to you during your travels if I’d court those you deem more worthy of my company. I have a multitude of disagreements with your thoughts on the matter, and yet I’ve done the bare minimum to honor your request.” His long fingers reached out and ran a soft but calloused touch over the delicate bones of hers. “What I said at the Throat of the World stands true now, Iona. I’ve said my piece...the only one who holds sway over this decision presently is you[/b].”

She watched his form retreat through the doorway, felt the hush of the door closing in her ears, in the slight pull of air from it. The only Nobleman to ever extend to her a true choice about where she might stand in his life...a choice she feared to make either in the acceptance or refusal of it.

The key Ulfric’s gentle mother, Sigrun, had once kept as her own was warm in her hand, and she held it to her breast. The choice she made could not be put to words even in her own mind, but was instead a series of actions.

The gossamer dressing gown was light and airy on her as she shrugged it over her otherwise nude form, the bedding smelled of boiled herbs and flowers...like he’d had it prepared for her decision recently...as she pulled the corner of it back. Not long after she’d settled into the soft space Ulfric Stormcloak had carved into his hearth and home for her, the grey form of his Markarth Bearhound, Mani, padded in through the door that had been so desperate to be open again that it’d stubbornly come ajar. Iona patted the woolen blankets for the beloved wolfish thing to join her on the bed, and she stroked the large dome of Mani’s head as she fell asleep, knowing full well all of this was a place and a thing she wanted to be.

---

She was gone by morning when he came to investigate whatever choice she’d made in the night. The fire was doused, the bed still looked made, all was pristine, and his chest felt sad and heavy until he turned to look on the side table by the door for an abandoned key which would be an offer refused.

He blinked. There was none. Instead, he found a book with a page freshly dogeared that had not been sitting there before, and a bone comb that had just a few midnight hued strands woven through its teeth.

A smile stretched his face, and he felt more boyishly hopeful than his years should allow. It was a step in the right direction. While she might not be ready to walk the streets of Windhelm arm in arm with him, she wanted to share his home.

And in the pit of everything he was, that was what he truly and deeply wanted.

---FUCKING FINISHED FOR NOW---

Monthly piece my lovely Patreons voted on. I based the Elder Scrolls holiday, Harvest's End, on what in Asatru is called FallFest. Lots of fun!

Also, Asta is a fairly well-bred Nord who Ulfric is courting mainly out of political pressure and because a certain Cat DID say the only way she'd entertain his letters is if he bothered chasing women who deserve him rather than chasing her. More on that later. Asta's not TOO bad for a highborne, but she's not Ulfric's style.

Anyway, enjoy the TRASH!

Sketched traditionally, colored in ClipStudioPaint