Chapter 132 Festering Hatred
Windhelm, also known as the City of Kings, stands in the harsh northeastern reaches of Skyrim, a place where the cold feels ancient older even than the towering stone walls that surround it. As the capital of Eastmarch Hold, it rises from the frozen landscape like a relic of a forgotten age, its weathered architecture bearing the weight of countless centuries. Said to date back to the Merethic Era, it is not only the oldest city in Skyrim, but perhaps the oldest surviving human city in all of Tamriel.
The air in Windhelm is perpetually bitter, each breath sharp and biting against the lungs. Snow falls endlessly from a pale, unforgiving sky, drifting through the narrow streets and settling into thick layers that are never given the chance to melt. Ice clings stubbornly to every surface rooftops, walls, even the harbor where very cold waters is so cold that anyone who touches it can get sick or worst frostbite. The wind howls through the stone corridors of the city, carrying with it a hollow, mournful echo that seeps into every corner.
The buildings themselves are massive and austere, carved from dark, ancient stone that seems to absorb both light and warmth. Torches flicker weakly against the relentless chill, their flames struggling as if the cold itself seeks to snuff them out. The streets are often quiet, save for the crunch of boots against snow and the distant creak of frozen wood.
In Windhelm, the cold is not merely a part of the environment it is a presence, constant and unyielding, shaping the lives of all who dwell within its walls.
It's not the most welcoming place for outsiders. The Dark Elves are forced to live in a slum known as the Gray Quarter, while the Argonians are not even allowed within the city walls, left instead to remain out on the docks.
Ulfric Stormcloak, who currently sits upon the throne in Windhelm, rules alongside his soldiers nearly all of whom are Nords. Beyond his own people, Ulfric is highly discriminatory toward other races, with his prejudice most harshly directed at the Dunmer, also known as the Dark Elves. In Windhelm, there is a district known as the Gray Quarter, where the Dark Elves are forced to live, alongside the Argonians who are likewise marginalized.
A soldier pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Ulfric's throne room, the hinges groaning under their weight as a gust of cold air followed him inside. His boots echoed against the stone floor as he stepped forward, careful yet urgent.
At the far end of the hall, Ulfric Stormcloak sat upon his throne rigid, imposing, one hand resting against the armrest while the other gestured faintly as he spoke. Beside him stood Galmar, leaning slightly forward, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as the two were deep in discussion over their rebellion strategy.
The soldier came to a halt several steps away, straightening his posture before raising a firm salute. "Greetings, my lord."
Ulfric didn't even look at him at first. His gaze remained fixed ahead, brows slightly furrowed in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a trace of impatience, his fingers tapping lightly against the throne. "If this concerns the Gray Quarter, then ignore it. I have no time for such matters I am occupied with plans for the coming rebellion."
The soldier hesitated for only a moment before speaking again, his tone steady but more deliberate. "No, my lord… this is information regarding the Dragonborn."
That single word caused a shift. Ulfric's tapping stopped. His head turned sharply toward the soldier, eyes narrowing with sudden interest. The annoyance in his expression faded, replaced by focus. He leaned forward slightly on his throne, resting his elbow on his knee. "Oh?" he said, voice now more attentive. "Good. Tell me my soldiers… you didn't get hurt, did you?" His gaze hardened briefly. "Because some of the informant were reported missing without a trace."
Before the soldier could answer further, Galmar let out a low, irritated scoff, his jaw tightening. "It must be those damned Thalmor again," he muttered, his voice edged with anger as his hand instinctively curled into a fist at his side.
Ulfric gave a slow, grim nod, his expression darkening as the same bitterness surfaced within him. His grip on the throne tightened slightly, knuckles paling. "May those Thalmor scum meet their end," he said coldly, his voice carrying a quiet but unmistakable fury.
Ulfric then turned his gaze back to the soldier. "Forgive me, I got carried away. Now, tell me what do you know about the Dragonborn's condition?"
The soldier delivered his report. "The Dragonborn has successfully defeated Alduin, and a week later, she was married to a man named Alex."
Ulfric looked slightly shocked. "What!? Wait Alex?"
Galmar then reminded him, "My lord, the one who threw Elenwen during that meeting."
Ulfric burst into loud laughter as he recalled the incident. "Ah, so it's him. Then I have nothing to worry about. The Dragonborn marrying him… besides, he's a Nord as well. The blood of the Nords remains strong hahaha!"
After laughing, Ulfric suddenly realized he had overlooked something. "Wait if she's married and has already defeated Alduin, then why wasn't it announced? If the news had come sooner, we would have moved at once to offer our congratulations, wouldn't we?"
The soldier replied, "Perhaps the news was kept hidden at first. But then something unexpected happened the death of Alduin was revealed when Emperor Titus Mede II announced that dragonborn herself was the one who slew Alduin. After that, the news spread rapidly."
Ulfric stroked his chin, deep in thought about what might unfold next. "Why did the Emperor come? And why would the Dragonborn hide her achievement?"
Galmar shrugged slightly. "Ah… perhaps it's to keep the Thalmor from taking action?"
Ulfric nodded in agreement, a faint grin forming. "Ah, that could be it. The Dragonborn is clever enough to conceal information and mislead our enemies hahaha."
Ulfric is a man who is extremely cautious and vigilant. However, when it comes to his fellow race and especially Astrid, who is no ordinary Nord but the Dragonborn he does not harbor the slightest suspicion toward her. Even he was inspired and even amazed because nord was still blessed by his god for sending him a nord dragonborn.
Ulfric then rose from his throne. "Galmar, bring me paper and a quill. I want to offer my congratulations and recruit them to join the Stormcloaks."
Galmar looked uneasy. "But are you sure, Ulfric? What if they choose to side with the Empire?"
Ulfric laughed, as if the idea were impossible. "Impossible, hahaha. After what Alex did humiliating them at that meeting and with how deeply the Dragonborn cares for him, the Thalmor will surely bear a deep grudge."
Galmar then smiled, his worry fading. "Ah, that's true. Someone like Elenwen would surely repay it many times over, wouldn't she?"
Ulfric's expression turned serious. "That's exactly why we must bring them to our side so they won't fall victim to the Thalmor's schemes, and so they can be protected. But if they refuse… then I will have no choice but to withdraw my protection. May Talos watch over them."
Ulfric fell silent, his gaze drifting away as something darker crept into his thoughts. The mention of the Empire stirred old memories chains, humiliation, betrayal wounds that had never truly healed. His jaw tightened, and the muscles along his face began to tense. Slowly, his expression twisted, shadowed by a rising fury that burned far deeper than simple anger… something colder, heavier hatred refined over time.
His hands cleanched into a fist and cleanched even thigter. His breathing grew heavier, slower, as though he were forcing himself to contain something on the verge of breaking free. "And if she sides with the Empire, then…" he muttered, his voice low, strained, almost trembling with suppressed rage.
The air around him seemed to grow heavier. His eyes darkened, unfocused, as if he were no longer seeing the throne room but something far worse, something buried in his past. The anger kept building, rising uncontrollably, threatening to swallow his reason whole.
"My lord!… My lord!!… My lord!!!"
Galmar's voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stepped closer, his tone firm yet edged with urgency, his hand lifting slightly as if ready to steady Ulfric if needed.
Ulfric suddenly blinked, his body giving a small jolt as if waking from a nightmare. His grip loosened, fingers slowly relaxing from the throne. He drew in a sharp breath, eyes refocusing as he turned toward Galmar. "Ah… what is it?" he said, his voice quieter now, though still carrying a faint roughness.
Galmar studied him carefully, concern clearly etched across his face. His brows furrowed, and his posture softened slightly. "My lord… you should rest for now," he said, more gently this time. "I fear you've pushed yourself too far, discussing strategy for so long. You're exhausted."
Ulfric slowly exhaled, the breath leaving him heavier than it should have, as though it carried the weight of everything festering inside his chest. His shoulders lowered slightly, but there was no true relief in it only a brief pause before the storm within him stirred again. His gaze dropped, unfocused, as his thoughts churned violently beneath the surface.
(My condition is getting worse…)
His fingers twitched faintly, as if resisting the urge to clench again. A faint tremor ran through his hand before he stilled it by force.
(Every time I think of the Empire… this anger… it won't stay contained…)
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding ever so slightly as the memories clawed their way back betrayal, chains, humiliation. His breathing deepened, slow but heavy, like a man trying to cage something wild within his own chest.
(I must destroy the Empire…)
His head tilted ever so slightly upward, his eyes sharpening with a dangerous clarity.
(For my people… for Talos… for my revenge…)
A pause.
(…then I will find peace.)
Silence settled around him, but it was not calm it was the kind of stillness that comes before something breaks.
Then, slowly… a smile formed.
It was faint at first, barely noticeable but it spread just enough to twist his features into something unsettling. There was no warmth in it, no trace of relief or joy. Only anger. Only purpose. Only a deep, burning resentment that seemed to glow behind his eyes.
The corners of his lips lifted, but his gaze remained cold unyielding, as if that single thought had anchored him completely.
Ulfric is unaware that Illusion spells can affect the mind of those who fall under their influence. For someone like him, with such strong mental fortitude, it would normally be difficult to penetrate. However, after the incident in Markarth where he was betrayed by the Jarl his mental state weakened. When he was later captured by the Thalmor, his hatred toward the Empire began to grow. The Thalmor then nurtured and deepened that hatred, planting even stronger resentment within him with illusion in his mind.
Ulfric does not realize that this hatred has already reached its peak, and that he can only find peace once the Empire is destroyed.
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