The next morning found Torin walking back into the courtyard of Castle Dour, the familiar sounds of training echoing off the stone. Echo padded along behind him, a silent, furry shadow.
In his hand, Torin casually tossed a one-handed axe, catching it by the haft with a soft smack against his palm. It was a sorry excuse for a weapon. He'd picked it up from Solitude's main smithy—not the fancy one under the arch, but the utilitarian one that supplied the city guard and the docks. It was a lumberman's tool, mass-produced.
The blade had a dull, utilitarian edge, good for chopping wood, not for cleaving armor. The balance was off, the head too heavy for the thin haft. A far cry from the master-crafted, silvery perfection of Eorlund's work at the Skyforge.
Its only distinguishing features were the simple Nord knotwork carved into the wooden handle and a crude etching of Wuuthrad's symbol on the flat of the blade—patriotic decoration on a tool. For Torin's purposes, however, it would have to do. He wasn't planning on fighting with it.
He slipped the axe into his belt and scanned the courtyard.
The recruits were gathered in a semi-circle, attention fixed on two figures: a grizzled Imperial drill instructor and, standing beside him with an air of detached superiority, a Thalmor soldier in full, gleaming golden-elven armor. Torin's gaze lingered on the Altmer for only a second, his expression unreadable, before moving on.
His eyes lifted to a stone balcony overlooking the yard. Torygg was there, leaning on the rail, watching the demonstration below. The young king spotted Torin almost immediately. A small, surprised smile touched his lips, and he gestured subtly, inviting him up.
Torin rolled his eyes skyward in a flash of pure annoyance but started moving. He made his way to the castle's main entrance, where a Solitude guard stood at rigid attention.
"I'm expected by the High King," Torin stated, not breaking stride.
The guard's eyes flicked from Torin to the bear looming behind him. He straightened further, his face a mask of official protocol. "You are indeed expected, young sir. But the… animal… will have to remain outside. This is no place for a beast."
Torin stopped and gave the man a wide, easy grin. "Most certainly. I understand completely." He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Though I feel I must warn you… you'll need to keep a very close eye on her out here."
He glanced meaningfully over his shoulder toward the training yard, then back, his expression one of grave concern as he began to whisper.
"She's developed a… taste, you see. A specific one. For elf blood. And she's been eyeing that particular Altmer down there since the moment we stepped into the yard. Can't seem to help herself..."
The guard's expression underwent a rapid transformation—from stern authority to dawning horror to a kind of constipated panic.
His eyes darted to Echo, who chose that moment to let her tongue loll out in what could be mistaken for a hungry pant. She let out a low, rumbling sound deep in her chest.
The guard took a swift, involuntary step back, putting himself squarely in the doorway. "I… I'm sure we can make an exception," he stammered, his voice tight. "For such a… well-behaved and clearly… dedicated animal. Please, proceed."
Torin flashed him a toothy, triumphant grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Much obliged. She's a real treasure." He strode past the flustered guard, and Echo ambled through the doorway after him, her bulk brushing against the stone frame.
As they disappeared into the gloom of the castle interior, the guard remained frozen for a second before turning to stare, wide-eyed, at the oblivious Thalmor soldier in the courtyard below, suddenly seeing him not as an ambassador, but as a potential bear-snack.
They reached the top of the stairs leading to the balcony. Echo took one look at the narrow, enclosed space, gave a soft snort of disapproval, and wisely decided to sprawl her considerable bulk across the doorway instead, effectively blocking it and creating a furry, immovable doorstop.
Torin gave her an approving pat as he stepped over her and walked out onto the balcony.
Torygg was already there, leaning heavily on the stone railing. He seemed too absorbed in the scene below to notice Torin's arrival, his knuckles white where they gripped the cold stone. Torin moved to stand beside him and looked down.
His frown was instant. Below, in a cleared circle of the training yard, the Thalmor soldier was sparring with one of the young Nord recruits. It wasn't a friendly match.
The Altmer moved with a fluid, contemptuous ease, his practice blade a blur of precise, stinging strikes. The recruit, a sturdy-looking lad, was already sweating and bleeding from a cut on his brow, flailing defensively.
Every parry was a beat too slow, every counter was easily deflected and punished. It was a humiliating, one-sided beating.
Given that the Imperial instructor and the other Thalmor observers were just watching, arms crossed, it was clearly a 'sanctioned' spar. No doubt initiated under some flimsy pretext of 'cultural exchange' or 'demonstrating advanced techniques.'
In reality, it was just a pointy-eared bastard flexing, using a young Nord's pride as a whetstone.
Torin quickly lost interest in the ugly spectacle. He cleared his throat. "Good morning, Your Majesty."
King Torygg finally jerked his gaze away from the courtyard, as if waking from a painful dream. He turned to Torin, his expression strained, forcing a bitter smile. "Good morning, friend. Do forgive my absentmindedness. It is… difficult to watch."
Torin shrugged. "There's nothing to forgive. You're watching a bully at work. It's never a pleasant sight." He didn't wait for further pleasantries. He reached to his belt, drew the crude, unbalanced woodcutter's axe, and held it out horizontally to Torygg, offering it on his open palms. "Please. Take this. Before anything else."
Torygg was confused for a moment, his eyes dropping to the weapon. Then he noticed the simple carvings—the Nordic knotwork on the haft, the etched symbol of Wuuthrad on the blade. His eyes widened.
This wasn't a simple gift.
He didn't reach to take it. Instead, he lifted his gaze to meet Torin's, his young face suddenly looking much older. "Are you certain," he asked, his voice low and intense, "you wish to give me this? To place this in my hands?"
Torin nodded, his own expression grave and utterly serious. He didn't lower the axe. "Yes. I'm certain. There are too many lives at stake—Nord, Imperial, everyone caught in the middle—for me to shirk away from this because it's heavy, or because it's not my fight."
He held Torygg's gaze. "This… this is a part of my answer to your question. The first part. You must accept it to hear the rest."
Again, Torygg did not move to take the axe. His hands remained at his sides, clenched. "Even if I take it from you," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "I might not heed the counsel you give. A king must listen to many voices. The one I choose to follow… may not be yours."
Torin's nod was just as firm. "I know. Even if you don't heed a word I say, I still want you to have it. Hold it. Feel its weight. Remember what it is, not just what it represents."
That seemed to decide him. Torygg finally reached out, his fingers closing around the rough wood of the haft. He took it, testing its weight with a short, experimental swing. The poor balance was immediately apparent. He raised an eyebrow, looking from the crude blade back to Torin. "A woodcutter's axe? Really?"
Torin offered a bitter, apologetic smile. "It's the best I could find on short notice. Solitude's forges are busy making pretty swords for nobles and standardized gear for the Legion."
He shook his head. "I'd offer you my personal weapon, but, eh…" He trailed off, not wanting to outright say that Torygg probably couldn't even lift his axe, let alone swing it effectively. In all of Jorrvaskr, only Farkas and Kodlak could manage it with any grace.
Torygg simply chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "Fair enough. The sentiment is what matters."
He set the axe down carefully against the balcony rail, its symbolic duty done for the moment. He turned, clasping his hands behind his back, his full attention on Torin.
His expression was open, intrigued, but intent. "Now then… speak freely. You have my undivided attention."
Torin took a deep breath, steeling himself. There was no gentle way to say it. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he began, his voice flat and cold, "is a delusional fool and a greedy hypocrite. He cloaks his ambition and his bruised ego in the language of faith and freedom. He should be put down like the rabid dog he is, before his barking starts a fire that burns all of Skyrim to ashes."
Torygg just stared at him. There was no shock, just a deep, profound exhaustion that seemed to settle into his bones as he listened. He let out a long, weary sigh, as if the mere act of hearing the words was a physical effort.
"So," he said softly, "you are of the opinion that we must continue to support the Empire, then? That it is the only bulwark against men like him?"
"No."
The single word was sharp, definitive. Torygg's head snapped up, confusion replacing the exhaustion.
Torin was already shaking his head. "The Empire has made it perfectly clear what Skyrim and her Nords are to them: resources. Manpower. Ore. A buffer zone against the Aldmeri Dominion. Not allies. Not brothers-in-arms. A useful tool, and one they are willing to let the Thalmor bludgeon to keep it compliant."
His gaze drifted back down to the courtyard. Below, the first battered recruit was being half-carried away by healers. Another young man, face pale but set with determination, was stepping forward to take his place against the smug, unchallenged Thalmor soldier.
Torin watched the scene, his voice dropping, taking on a harder, older edge. "Our ancestors didn't swear fealty to Cyrodiil. They didn't bend the knee to the Ruby Throne. They swore to Tiber Septim. To Talos. They joined his empire."
He looked back at Torygg, his eyes fierce. "But his divine blood ran thin, then ran out. What sits on that throne now is just a line of mortals. Politicians. No better than you or me. And they have proven time and time again that they will sell our gods, our pride, and even our dead to save their skins."
Torygg gave Torin a wide-eyed stare, his earlier exhaustion replaced by sheer bewilderment. "You've called Ulfric delusional, greedy, and hypocritical in one breath… and now you stand here and sound just like him."
Torin smiled, but it was a thin, bitter thing. "Because he's right," he admitted bluntly. He let the statement hang for a moment before qualifying it. "About the problem, if nothing else. He sees the rot in the Empire's promise, the insult of the White-Gold Concordat. He's right to be angry. He's right that Skyrim deserves better."
Torin's expression hardened. "But he's catastrophically wrong about the solution. He sees himself as the man chosen by the gods to free Skyrim. And in his mind, if he has to burn her down to rule her liberated ashes, then so be it. The ends justify any means, any lie, any life sacrificed."
He met Torygg's gaze directly, his own grim. "You might not see it yet. There's nothing I can say or do right now to make you see it. But he will be the death of you. And if he succeeds, he'll be the ruin of these lands. If we follow him, we trade one master for another, and the new one will wear a bear's head and speak with the Voice of a murderer."
Torygg was silent for a long time, absorbing the brutal assessment. Finally, he let out a low, thoughtful hum. "Let's say you are right. A… thought experiment. Let's say the Empire and Ulfric are both poison to my kingdom. That I somehow… miraculously… rid myself of them both. Cut out the twin tumors. What then?"
He shook his head, the practical worries of a ruler surfacing. "Are we to stand alone against the Thalmor armies? The same armies that brought the entire Empire to its knees on the Red Ring? And what of the Empire itself? Even weakened, they will not be pleased to see Skyrim slip away entirely. We'd have enemies on all sides."
Torin shrugged, as if the geopolitical nightmare was a simple logistics problem. "We wouldn't be alone. The Redguards of Hammerfell would be more than happy to fight the Thalmor alongside us. They've been doing it alone for years, and winning. They know the cost of the Concordat better than anyone."
A faint, calculating smile touched his lips. "And the Bretons of High Rock have always been… pragmatic. Quick to change allegiances when the wind shifts. I'm sure a wise king could make them see the reason in a united northern front. Trade agreements go a long way."
He leaned back against the balcony rail, his tone turning almost casual.
"As for the Empire… well, what can they do, even displeased? Their legions are stretched thin, their treasury emptied by war."
"If Skyrim stands firm with Hammerfell, the Empire is faced with a choice: they can either swallow their pride and join the fight against the common enemy, finally showing some spine… or they can sit in Cyrodiil and suffer the Thalmor's next invasion in isolation as the easiest target. Either way, Skyrim is no longer on the menu."
...
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