Still-Born Shout [#wattys2017]

Epilogue

"Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky.

His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.

Men ran and they cowered, they fought and they died.

They burned and they bled as they issued their cries.

We need saviors to free us from Alduin's rage,

Heroes on the field of this new war to wage.

If Alduin wins, man is gone from this world,

Lost in the shadow of black wings unfurled.

But then came the Tongues on that terrible day,

Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray.

All heard the music of Alduin's doom,

The sweet songs of Skyrim, earth-shattering Thu'um.

And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin's rage,

Gave the gift of the Voice, and ushered in a new age.

And if he is eternal, then eternity's done,

For his story is over, and the dragons are...gone."

A sigh escaped Ulfric's lips as the bard finished her tune, plucking the final string with a sharpened fingernail.

"Thank you," Ulfric's voice sounded strained to his own ears. The bard held her lute to her side as she knelt into a graceful curtsy.

"It's an honor to play for you, my king," she said in a musical voice. Ulfric watched as she receded down the long hall and disappeared into the shadows. He heard the heavy door shut behind her. He turned to his friend, one of his oldest companions, and lazily rolled his eyes.

"Jorleif, have you seen my wife about the palace recently?"

"No, sire, not since this morning," came Jorleif's predictably respectful reply. Ulfric let another sigh escape, this one noticeably more exasperated than the last.

"My friend," he began, before Jorleif cut him off.

"I know, my king, but I'm afraid my formal habits are becoming harder and harder to break as the years pass."

Before he could issue his reply, he was once again interrupted by the door at the end of the shadowed hall slamming shut. He heard her shuffling steps before he discerned his wife's form approaching the throne, round with his child. He stood and descended from his high seat, opening his arms as she approached.

"My dear Queen," he took her shoulders, stopping for a moment to appraise her pale, moonstone skin and her hair that was as black as Oblivion.

The only woman Ulfric had ever loved disappeared from Tamriel ten years past. He had searched, no, scoured in vain for her, even with the knowledge that her soul had never returned to the material realm. At first, and for many years, he had refused to marry, but his stewards had convinced him the importance of an heir to Skyrim's High Throne.

On a tour of the province, he was lucky enough to find a Nord woman who had beautiful features that were mildly comparable to Sif's; Olfeildi was the closest thing he could've ever found had he scoured the surface of Nirn itself.