Whitney Writes…

Crying echoed through the halls; but not just any crying, no, it was them. Nilsine shook her head and covered her ears with her pillow. “No, no, no,” she murmured into the sheets, “they are not really here. They died years ago, Nilsine,” she reminded herself. Yet still, the crying continued. A sob escaped Nilsine and she pulled the blankets up to her chin. “My babies died,” she shrieked into the darkness of the night.

She hated being alone in this drafty, ancient palace. Who knew how long it would be before Ulfric or her son returned from the capital. Ulfric had said he would be back to Windhelm in a few weeks, it had been two months since he had left, and still there had been no word. And Alistair was off doing… well, whatever it was a nearly twenty-year-old young man disappeared to do. Nilsine vowed she would speak to Ulfric about having their son join the army, or obtaining some official post in his father’s court, or perhaps married off. Yes, that one was it, marry him off to some lovely noble girl and have him spend his time running some forgotten manor and fathering dozens of children. The lad needed some responsibilities, some obligations; he was nearing twenty for Talos’ sake. And everyone knew idle boys got illegitimate children.

And Nilsine was not certain the Stormcloak family name could survive another one of those scandals.

She rolled over in the massive bed that loomed in the center of the room, wishing for sleep to overtake her. She had thought the life of a Jarl’s wife would be glamorous and exciting. It had been, she chidded herself, until you had to go and have a meltdown in front of the Court last Yuletide. Nilsine sighed with a growl.

“Milady?” came a soft voice, “You sound restless, can I get you anything to help you sleep?”

“No, but thank you, Suri,” Nilsine said into the darkness, “I think I shall just do some reading.”

The lady of the manor waited for Suri to leave her chamber, then reached into her bedside table and produced a thick leather-bound book with soft vellum pages. Nilsine felt a wave of calmness wash over her as she traced her family’s crest: a shield shattering over a grand oak tree. The tree represented the family, the shield was protection. She couldn’t help but think how poorly that protection had been going. The death of her beloved sister all those years ago, the the deaths of her own daughters when they were only little girls.

She read the letters she had written to her sister, and later, to her two girls, as well. A smile crept across her lips as she read the joy she had described of the birth of Alistair, then Isolde, then Frey to her sister, Friga. She flipped forward into the book, to the pages that recounted her courtship, and later, marriage to Ulfric Stormcloak. She returned to sleep as she re-read about the day she had become Lady Stormcloak.

Frantic hands shook her awake and Nilsine sat up with a start. “Ulfric!” she cried. But once her eyes focused, she saw it was just Suri. Again. “What is it child?” Nilsine asked breathlessly, “Did you have another nightmare?”

“It’s your son, milady,” Suri said.

Nilsine gripped the satin coverlet, bit her lip and steeled herself for the blow. Stendarr have mercy on me, she pleaded, don’t take my boy, too. “What has happened to him?” Nilsine asked finally.

Suri blinked in confusion, then realized her error. “Oh, nothing, milady,” she said hastily, “he has returned and I thought you would wish to be informed immediately.” The girl fidgeted uncomfortably with the sash on her nightdress when Nilsine simply stared at her. “I… I beg your pardon, milady, if I was mistaken.”

“My… my son is… here?” Nilsine asked, the news reaching her as though through a fog. Suri nodded. “Oh, thank the Nine!” Nilsine exclaimed. “No, no, Suri, you did well. Fetch my robe if you will.”

The girl bobbed her acknowledgement and scurried off and reappeared a few moments later with Nilsine’s thick silver robe trimmed in white sabre cat fur.

Nilsine wrapped the garment around her thin frame and turned to her little serving girl. “Take me to me son,” she commanded. Suri nodded in obedience and led her mistress from her bedchamber, down the corridor, across the Great Hall, and down to the kitchens of the Palace of Kings.

Seated at the low wooden table in the center of the kitchen, perched on the middle of a bench, was her son, Alistair. He was being served a rather vigorous meal for it being the middle of the night. Her heart warmed with pride as she looked on at her golden boy. His hair was the same honeyed-brown as his father, with the slight reddish-gold tint to it. His eyes were a sparkling blue, again, like his father, and his face was golden from days in the sun.

“My gratitude, Sif, it looks delicious as always,” Alistair was saying gratefully to Sifnar, the chef of the Palace of Kings. The way her son treated those beneath him, truly warmed Nilsine’s heart.

“T’s a pleasure, milord,” Sifnar said in his deep voice, “so much food goes to waste when you’re not around.”

The slight at Nilsine stung. She lifted her chin, it wasn’t her fault if the cook could not properly determine how much food was needed on a daily basis. But what of it, she would be the bigger person and ignore his remark.

Nilsine swept into the room, her robe flowing dramatically behind her as she descended the few steps down into the kitchen. When she reached the table, she slid her arm around Alistair’s shoulder. “My boy,” she breathed, leaning into him, “it is good to see your face once more.”

“Mother!” Alistair exclaimed, carefully pushing the bench back so he could rise and embrace her. “And here I thought I had snuck in undetected by you,” he joked, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She felt smaller than he remembered against him.

“You should know a child never sneaks past his mother,” Sifnar chuckled, “especially after he has been away.”

“I’m sure your sneaking about is why your mother died so young,” Nilsine spat. She had the joy of watching the cook go rigid.

Alistair squeezed his mother’s shoulders gently. “Now, Mother, I know you get surly when your sleep is interrupted, but that’s no reason to be cruel to Sifnar.” He gave the other man a sympathetic, apologetic smile and clapped him on the shoulder.

“I think you’ve grown taller, my son,” Nilsine said, ignoring the opportunity to gracefully apologize. She was the Lady of Windhelm, she did not apologize to the help.

Alistair forced a laugh. “I’m nearly twenty-one, Mother, I’m quite sure I’m done growing.” He kissed the top of Nilsine’s head, “Come, Mother, sit with me while I eat, since you’re awake.”

As Alistair helped his mother into a chair, she did not even notice that the companions that had been with Alistair melted away. But, then again, she would not. All Nilsine saw these days was her son. Or Ulfric. Or ghosts. It was as though nothing else existed for her.

“You look happy, Alistair,” she observed as he sat down beside her.

“Do I?” Alistair grinned cheekily at his mother.

“I wonder why that is…” Nilsine murmured, encouraging but not begging him to tell her.

He smiled again. Alistair loved nothing if not to indulge his mother. “I think I found her, Mother.”

“Oh? Her?” Nilsine’s dark brows arched interestedly. Perhaps the Nine had heard her musings earlier…

“The girl I’m going to marry.”

“Oh, you’re interested in marriage now, are you?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight when I said that, Mother,” Alistair said. He smiled the smile he knew melted his mother. “It was just… her…” He made a face. “I’m not noble enough to wed an Altmeri princess.”

“You’re plenty noble,” Nilsine tutted.

“Fine,” Alistair shrugged. “She was too rich for my blood.” He gave a little shrug. “But you know I always do my duty.”

“You do,” Nilsine agreed.

“And Father was just being so…”

“Your father?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “But this girl…” he could not help but smile when he thought of Adelais.

Nilsine smiled proudly at her son. “I knew you would find her.” She patted his hand, “I told your father we just needed to give you time. What is her name? Where is her family from?”

Alistair slid his hand out from beneath his mother’s and avoided her gaze. “I would prefer you met her before I tell you that,” he said firmly, in a tone that dripped Ulfric proceeding over courtly matters.

Nilsine bit back a laugh. “How many times have you practiced that line?”

Alistair deflated in relief. “Oh, at least half a dozen on the ride in from the gate alone.” He finally met his mother’s gaze. “But… mostly for when I tell Father.”

Yes,” Nilsine said with a nod, “best to plan out what you will say to him.” She leaned in closer to Alistair. “At least tell me where she is from,” she said conspiratorially.

Alistair smiled; he could never refuse his mother anything, he was the only one who could save her from herself, after all. Not even his father was as effective as he, although Divines help him, he did try.

“She’s from Riften,” he said finally.

“Please, tell me she’s not a Black-Briar!” Nilsine cried, her hand fluttering to her collar.

He let out a barking laugh, wiping his hand across his brow. “No, Mother,” he chortled, “she is not a Black-Briar.”

“Thank the Divines,” she sighed, “that would have been the only family I could not talk your father into allowing a girl from to join our ranks.”

“Dibella’s blessing, I didn’t fall in love with a Black-Briar girl,” Alistair said with a laugh. His mind wandered to Ingun, Adelais’ friend. While she was attractive, she proved to be an incredibly difficult personality to get along with. He smiled at his mother. “I think you’ll like her, Mother. She has a warm, happy spirit; a lot like I imagine Isolde would have been.”

Nilsine squeezed her son’s hand; for just a moment, a look of utter despair flickered across her features, but it was soon replaced by a quivering smile. “She sounds lovely, my love,” she whispered. A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Alistair reached over and dashed it away.

“Now, Mother,” he murmured, “don’t fret.” He squeezed her hand in return, “This is a happy moment, a happy time. The family is going to grow again, there will soon be little peals of laughter, the pitter-patter of wee feet padding down these harrowed halls.”

“But they should be here for it,” Nilsine whispered, more tears streaming down her cheek. “Our girls should be here.”

“They are here, Mother,” he said, pressing his mother’s hand to his heart. “Isolde and Freya are always here in spirit, remember? We carry them with us. Do you not feel them?”

A sob escaped Nilsine as she nodded. “I see them in the sunrise, and the falling snow. Those little red birds that sit outside my window.”

“See?” Alistair said, forcing a sad smile, “They watch over us all, but especially you.”

“I’m so sorry,” she sniffled, “my poor, sweet boy, I’m ruining your happy time.”

“Now, now, Mother,” he said gently, rubbing her shoulders to soothe her. “Come, let me take you back up to bed.” Alistair rose and helped his mother up, holding her gently under the elbow.

He wrapped his arm around her thin, boney shoulders, wondering if she had been remembering to eat while he had been away.

“I told her I would return for her in a fortnight, that we might buy some land in the plains of Whiterun,” Alistair was chattering. “She loves horses, always has, and she has always wanted her own. So, I think I’ll buy her a little farmstead, I think. Perhaps while it’s being built, she can stay here with you?”

“I would love the company,” Nilsine murmured wistfully.

“You two can develop a true bond,” he continued. “Perhaps we’ll have a guest wing, or a guest house, so you can come visit any time you like. Perhaps even spend the summers with us, or winters.”

“And leave Windhelm?”

“Just for visits, Mother,” he said reassuringly. “You would be spending time with me, and my new little family I plan to build. It would do you some good for you to lessen the time you spend with the ghosts here in Windhelm.”

“Yes,” Nilsine nodded, “that might be nice, indeed.”

Alistair opened the door to his parents’ bedchamber; it was cold and dark, the fire had long gone out. He slid his mother’s robe from her arms and tucked her into the massive bed, he was startled to see how much like a little child she looked sitting there amongst the pillows as she shivered. He reminded himself to have a word with her serving staff, how long had her fireplace been cold? Surely she was not being left in this condition regularly?

Once he had the fire crackling merrily once more, Alistair went to his mother’s bedside.

“Shall I stay with you until you fall asleep, Mother?” he asked gently.

“Like we used to?” Nilsine asked hopefully.

“Just like then,” he said gently as he climbed into the bed beside her, wrapping his arms tightly around his mother. She smoothed his linen tunic before laying her cheek against his chest. He began humming the old lullaby his mother had sang to Isolde and Freya.

The next afternoon, Nilsine and Alistair were shut away in her drawing room having tea and discussing the details of Alistair’s upcoming wedding. He knew he hadn’t officially asked Adelais, but Alistair also knew she would not refuse him. And he trusted she would be eager to have the helping hand of a motherly figure and would thus welcome the help and ideas of his own mother.

Nilsine’s heart felt close to bursting with joy; she could tell Alistair had not broached the subject of marriage with the mysterious girl, but she would be a fool not to accept his proposal. It had been fifteen years since Isolde and Freya had died in the massive outbreak of the plague in Windhelm in 4E 186. The girls had fallen ill weeks into the outbreak and lingered for days upon days in feverish misery. In the end, they had died nearly in the same moment, clasping hands with one another as they entered the afterlife. Nilsine had never been the same after that day. She had lost so much over the years, it was time for something new, for her to gain something: a new daughter.

There was another urgent knock at her bedchamber door. “You may enter,” Nilsine called, not looking up from the book of wedding murals she and Alistair were studying. “I think we should have something done like this in the Great Hall,” she said, pointing to the page, “it might really liven things up for a wedding banquet in there. It just gets so dark-” she trailed off.

“Milady,” Suri gasped, stumbling into the room, “oh! And milord, apologies!” She hastened a bow. “Urgent news!”

Alistair turned, startled, to regard his mother’s little serving girl. “Well, out with it,” he barked, “or do you always enjoy making my mother wait in such a manner?”

Nilsine placed her hand on her son’s arm. “Alistair,” she scolded sternly with a cold look. He bristled. Usually his mother enjoyed when he made a fuss about her importance and the manner in which she was served. Then he noted the serving girl was… in fact… a girl. A young girl. Not Isolde or Freya’s would-be-age, but a little girl, scarcely ten. Since his sisters died, his mother had always liked to surround herself with the sounds of little girls. She was addressing the girl warmly, “What is it, Suri?”

“Lord Stone-Fist has returned, milady,” Suri stammered, bobbing in place with a fearful glance at Alistair. “He requests an urgent meeting with you in the Great Hall.”

“Galmar?” Nilsine muttered, confused, “Why doesn’t he just come up here?”

“Is my father not with him?” Alistair demanded.

Suri looked uncertainly between the two, “Some army men are with him, milady,” the girl stammered. “And I did not see him, milord.”

“You did not see him?” Alistair asked sharply. “You do not sound very certain of this.”

“Hush, my son,” Nilsine snapped at Alistair. “We shall be right down, Suri,” she added in a gentler tone to the girl.

Nilsine waited for the girl to exit her bedchamber before rounding on her son. “You do not speak to my staff in such a manner,” she snapped angrily. “I raised you better than that, you treat those under you with a respect that inspires loyalty, not with a iron fist of fear.”

“Of course, Mother, I apologize,” Alistair said quickly, bowing his head. “I did not mean to overstep; it was just the way the girl was presenting things to you, I feel it must cause you unneeded stress.”

“Do not trouble yourself with such things,” Nilsine chided, waving a hand dismissively, “remember, I am still your mother, regardless of my short-comings.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Mother,” Alistair hastily explained. “I just know how much things affect you in this manner. How heavily they way upon you. I hate to see you despair, even for a moment.”

She gave a small, pleased smile. His appeal as her protector was working. “Regardless,” she warned airily, “mind your tone.”

When they arrived in the Great Hall, Nilsine fought the urge to shy away behind her son, the hall was crowded with many army folk. Galmar Stone-Fist stood at the front and bowed to his lady as Nilsine approached Ulfric’s chair of state. She refused to call it a throne, as her husband did. Sitting upon it felt like an assumption. A usurpation. The floor felt like it was falling away beneath her; she had not been before so many souls in years.

“Galmar,” she said, nodding to her husband’s right-hand-man to acknowledge his deep bow. “I hear you have need to speak with me.”

“I do, lady, a great need,” he sounded utterly exhausted, “it is regarding the High King-“

“I do not see my father among you,” Alistair interrupted, “where is he?”

Nilsine turned an icy glare to her son that caused him to take a few steps back, to stand behind his mother. “Do not speak out of turn again,” she hissed at him. “Do you understand?” Alistair gave a curt nod as his mother spoke through clenched teeth at him, but it was not soft enough for those close enough to overhear. Galmar was glancing between the two of them, neither of them had expected the hermit Lady of Windhelm to step into the power void left by the missing Jarl Ulfric. She turned back to Galmar, a portrait of grace and beauty, “You were saying, Galmar?”

“Thank you, milady,” Galmar bowed his head, “my news involves your husband, as well as the High King. The Jarl has… done something stupid.”

Nilsine raised one, dark, skeptical brow, “His usual stupid, as his treatment of the Dunmer and Argonian populations go, or something new? A more… severe stupid?”

“Far more severe, lady.” Galmar swallowed nervously, “I believe he has started a civil war, milady.”

Nilsine let out a bark of laughter in disbelief. Then her face blanched when she saw the sober expressions on all the men’s faces. “I’m sorry, excuse me?” Her voice was faint, “And just how did he achieve this in such a short time?”

“He’s killed the High King, lady.”

“He’s what?” Her blood turned to ice in her veins. She felt lightheaded. But she must push through…

“He used some sort of magic against His Grace-“

“My husband knows no magic,” Nilsine cut in viciously.

“Forgive me, lady, but he does,” Galmar stammered. “It was no ordinary magic, but the High King was standing there, strong and mighty against Jarl Ulfric, speaking calmly, and truthfully, and then… without even a touch… he was stricken dead, falling right before his queen.”

“And what sort of spell does this?” Nilsine demanded in disbelief. “What sort of spell can kill in a breath? With no fire? Nor ice? Nor electric shock?”

“It was Dragon Magic, lady, like the ones those Greybeard monks use in the mountains.”

“A… a thu’um?” Nilsine asked icily. That was ancient magic. Largely forbidden magic. Magic of the long-dead dragons. No one but the monks on High Wrothgar knew how to wield those… But then, Nilsine recalled the summers Ulfric had spent there while his mother had been ill. Her eyes slid to the side as she turned her head and glanced back over her shoulder at her son, who had also spent summers with those monks…

She sensed something. A plot? A plan? A scheme? Something brewed between father and son. She pursed her lips, disliking being kept in the dark. “And where is my husband now, Galmar? Why is he not with you?”

Galmar shifted uncomfortably, as though this were the part he had been dreading. Not telling Nilsine about the impending civil war. Nor her husband committing murder. But this. Whatever was about to come out of his mouth next. “I… we do not know, milady,” he said, stammering once more.

“You do… not… know,” her voice trailed off in angered shock and disbelief. “How does my husband’s second-in-command not know where he is?” Nilsine’s voice was rising in anger and frustration, ringing throughout the stone hall. “Especially… after he has MURDERED THE HIGH KING?!?” She gripped the ends of the armrests of her husband’s chair. When no one responded, she shrieked:

“HOW?!”

“Milady,” Galmar stumbled over his words, hastening to respond, “we did out best to create a distraction so the Jarl could flee the capital,” Galmar explained. “He had not shared with any of us, let alone me, his intentions. Believe me, I would have planned better, had I not been able to talk him out of it all together. We did not have the opportunity to establish a meeting place for after, nor a plan. My men and I simply had to improvise when we started seeing the queen’s men closing in on Ulfric.

“After… we all split up,” Galmar continued, “watching various exits of the city. After four days of nothing, we simply hoped he had managed to slip past us and returned home here to you.” Immediately upon his completion of the retelling, Galmar could tell it had been the wrong explanation to give the Lady Stormcloak.

Her face clouded in a dark fury. “This happened four DAYS ago?!” Nilsine roared, her tone like burning ice. “And this is the first I am hearing of it?! You are also telling me it is possible my husband planned this, planned to murder his king, in cold blood? Talos save us,” she added in a murmur to herself. She rubbed her eyes. “And if you hope he snuck past you, what else do you think got past your line?” she demanded coldly.

“I am sorry, milady,” Galmar said, falling to a knee. “I have failed you, my lord, and the House Stormcloak. There is no excuse for what has happened and the chaos that has ensued, punish me as you see fit.”

Nilsine was tapping her fingers idly on the arm of her husband’s chair of state, her long nails clicking on the smooth surface. She chewed the inside of her lip in concentration. What was the best play here… she wondered. She had to out maneuver her husband and son, they had clearly been plotting together, before they sent Skyrim into ruin.

“That will not be necessary, Galmar. One mistake does not require the iron fist. Especially considering the proceeding mistake was my husband’s.” She considered for a moment, before looking back down at the man where he knelt. “Has Elisif not announced it?” She asked curiously, “Do the people not know their king is dead?”

“Mother, if I may…?” Alistair ventured quietly.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured distractedly, “you are always free to speak your mind, darling.”

Alistair cleared his throat loudly, hoping none of the gathered army had heard his mother contradict her own orders to him. “I had heard rumors on the road home from Riften,” he said loudly. “People saying that it was curious that the king had not been seen in a few days.”

“What is she playing at, I wonder,” Nilsine mused, half to herself.

After a long silence, she turned back to Galmar, “Go out and find him,” Nilsine commanded. “Use any means available to you to find my husband and return him safely home to me.”

“Yes, lady,” Galmar said obediently.

“My son shall take a second troop and sweep west to east through the Reach,” Nilsine continued. “Ragnar, you will sweep east to south, through the Rift; and Gamar I want you to cut straight through Whiterun to Falkreath, where you shall all meet in ten days’ time.”

“We shall leave straight away, milady,” Galmar said, wearily.

Nilsine sensed the harshness of her commands and turned back to the army leaders. “You can leave at dawn tomorrow,” she said in a gentler tone, “I invite you all, and your men, to stay here in the Palace of Kings, tonight for a feast and housing. Spouses and children, or any sort of family is welcome to join you. Or if you choose to spend the evening in your own home, I shall not fault you. Just be ready to gather on the bridge out of Windhelm at dawn tomorrow, for you ride to find your Jarl.”

The men nodded gratefully and began to disperse. Alistair waited until the two of them were back in his mother’s chambers before he broached the subject.

“What was he thinking?” Nilsine fumed when they were finally behind closed doors.

“Mother,” Alistair began calmly, “might I have a word?”

“What? Oh, fine, what is it, dearest?”

“I have already given my word to be in Riften at the time you wish me to be in Falkreath,” he prompted. “Remember?” he added when she said nothing. “I am to collect my bride-to-be?”

Her face softened. “Oh, I am sorry, my darling, but the girl will have to wait.”

“What if I were to take the route closer to Riften?” Alistair pressed, “I could make a quick stop and-“

“I said she will have to wait, Alistair,” Nilsine said coldly. “Your father went and started a civil war without telling anyone first, though I suspect you have had an inkling about it. Your intended shall have to wait for you to collect her. You do not wish for her to travel cross-country in wartime, do you?”

“But-“

“I said no, Alistair,” she snapped, “I am still your mother and lady of this house and city. You go where I bid you, boy.”

Alistair clenched his jaw in fury. “Yes, Mother,” he said stiffly.