Across the province, people went to their beds unaware of the atrocities already taking place in all corners of their homeland. The Thalmor struck decisively, simultaneously, without mercy. By the time the first beams of morning light hit the bloody snow, Skyrim was broken beyond mending.

Arngeir was pulled from his evening meditation by a hand on his shoulder. Ulfric Stormcloak, five years a Greybeard, looked down at him with stricken eyes.

"It's happening at last." Ulfric said, and walked away stiffly. Arngeir made to follow him, and then felt the first waves of agony. A bright pain flared through his mind and down into his veins. Arngeir stumbled and braced himself on a stone pillar. A groan of pain escaped his throat. The Gildergreen is dying.Kynareth, the sky god that the Greybeards dedicated their lives to, was in anguish.

He staggered outside to the front steps, where he found the rest of the Greybeards gathered. A stormy wind threatened their balance, no doubt a sign of Kynareth's growing wrath. They all looked shaken, presumably sharing Arngeir's discomfort. Only Ulfric stood firm, looking out towards the west.

Arngeir saw the smoke. Two pillars of ash, one rising above Skyrim's central city. The monks watched in silence as the sky darkened. Whiterun was burning. The other pillar was concentrated above Falkreath. None of them had any question of its source. Sky guard you, Dragonborn.

Ulfric seemed to take notice of the other Greybeards, shaking himself out of the trance.

"A storm's coming," he said, "We should get inside."

There was movement in the distance, past the altar stone that marked the end of the Seven Thousand Steps up to the monastery. Many slender forms in black robes tinged with gold, coming up around the bend. He hadn't seen the robes of the Thalmor since the truce meeting of the Civil War. Arngeir had always feared it would come to this. Now that the time had arrived, though, a curious peace came over him.

"Not quite. I think this is where we say goodbye, my son." Arngeir summoned the strength to stand upright. Ulfric looked confused for a moment before seeing the approaching band of elves through the snowfall.

"No," Ulfric replied, "We fight them together."

His hands curled into tight fists, as if he meant to tear the elves apart with his bare hands. Arngeir inclined his head, and the other Greybeards moved into a line in front of Ulfric, silently preparing. Arngeir turned to face his old student. "The gods are not yet done with you, Ulfric Stormcloak."

Ulfric opened his mouth to protest, to no avail.

"IIZ SLEN NUS!"

Ulfric's limbs stiffened as the power overcame him. The Shout was Ice Form, a powerful combination of dragon words that left the target encased in a suit of ice. No man could withstand it. Ulfric froze for a moment and then fell to the ground like a statue. Arngeir placed a foot against his side.

"I forgive you, my son. For everything." Arngeir gave a mighty push.

Ulfric slid off the stone platform and down into a heavy snow drift, sinking deep.

The Thalmor contingent continued their march. Arngeir saw the glimmer of warding mages in the front, presumably meant to block their shouts, and quick infiltrators sneaking around the sides. Clever. These elves were an enemy to be reckoned with. Arngeir could only pray to Kyne they hadn't seen Ulfric before he was concealed.

Arngeir joined hands with his old brothers and sent a silent prayer to his god. Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth stood with him. They had been his only companions for many years. "You may speak now, my friends," he said in a rising voice. "Let them taste the unshackled Voices of the Greybeards!"

Ulfric willed every fiber of his being towards movement, uselessly. Darkness. The unrelenting snowfall had already filled in what little his fall might have displaced, but he could still hear the sound of battle through the frost. Shouting, powerful enough to shake the earth, and the righteous taunting of the Thalmor. The twang of bow strings, and the roar of Fus Ro Dah. The heavy crash of lightning bolts, and the cries of men and elves alike. They're holding back, for my sake. If the Greybeards so wished it, this entire mountain would collapse around us.

He knew not how much time passed before the shouting and the dying came to an end. Finally, he heard the heavy footfalls of the elves ascending the steps into High Hrothgar. He noted with low satisfaction that few elves remained of the contingent he'd seen approaching the monastery.

Minutes passed before the elves came out again. Ulfric seethed in fury inside the cage of his body. The murderers were walking away, and he'd never even know the faces of the Thalmor that had murdered his beloved teachers. I came to this place to escape death.

Movement slowly returned to his limbs. The shocking cold hit, and he struggled to breath. Digging upward, Ulfric broke through the snow drift gasping for air. Once he had collected together, he looked around. His eyes searched desperately for any living Thalmor, the adrenaline running through his veins demanding release. Alas, they were long gone. Ulfric Stormcloak was alone.

The signs of battle scarred the once holy ground. Broken bodies and arrow shafts littered the snow, and there was blood splattered across the path. Ulfric had been in many battles, quite a few of them in Skyrim, but the bold display of bright red on white still disquieted him.

A dark storm was brewing overhead. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders as the winds pulled angrily.

Arngeir was leaned up against the final altar. Many arrows pierced his bloody robes, and scorch marks from lightning spells. Damn it all.The old man had been more of a father to him than his true parent, the elder Bear of Windhelm, could have ever hoped to be. I wish I'd told you that while you still drew breath. Ulfric knelt down and gently closed Arngeir's eyes with the back of his hand. There would be no burials, not at this time of winter. He said a silent goodbye and left Arngeir in Kynareth's care. The fresh bodies were already being covered by the unrelenting snowfall.

Frustration took hold of Ulfric, but he pushed it aside with no small amount of effort, clenching and unclenching his hands. There was too much to do, and no time to be outraged. He went into the monastery, leaving the dead behind him, as he always had before.

His sword and armor were still where he stored them when he arrived, in a forgotten cabinet near the Shrine of Kynareth. The symbol of a blue bear adorned the chestplate. Five years ago, Ulfric had led the Stormcloak Rebellion against the Empire. He'd wanted freedom for Skyrim from what he considered a puppet state controlled by the Aldmeri Dominion. He'd fought for free worship of Talos across his home province, where the Ninth Divine had once been a hero. Instead, he had lost everything. The Dark Elf Dragonborn known as Jaxius Amaton led the Empire's forces against Ulfric. One by one, the Stormcloak controlled cities fell to Jaxius and his legionaries. The Stormcloaks had lost the war.

Ulfric wearily pulled on the lean plate and strapped on his boots. Flickering movement caught his attention, and a shiver went down his spine. The Shrine of Kynareth was pulsing red, like an angry scar. The Goddess of the Sky had lost her most devout worshipers.

The downpour was fierce when Ulfric emerged geared up into the rear courtyard. The sword that had killed High King Torygg rested on his hip. He rubbed the pommel absently with his thumb as he crossed the courtyard. Ulfric ascended the ancient steps, and then the passage up to the Throat of the World was before him. The howling winds were deafening. He had never been up to the Throat before, though he knew of the pacifistic dragon that lived there. Arngeir had trusted him with that knowledge, but some part of him had hesitated to bring Ulfric to meet Paarthurnax, master of the Greybeards, in person. Some small shred of fear that the old rebel in him would return, perhaps. He may have to, if events are as dire as they seem.

The trek up to the Throat was treacherous, but Ivarstead, nestled at the foot of the mountain, was surely unsafe. The Thalmor would've had to pass through the town to get to High Hrothgar. No, this is the only path I can take. Ulfric cast a last glance back at High Hrothgar. Combined, he had spent over fifteen years at the temple. The gray pillars and battlements had become somewhat of a comforting sight to him. I won't see them again in this life. Ulfric turned to the winds. Clear Skies was one of the few shouts he knew, and the only way to reach the top of the mountain. Minutes ago, Ulfric had been a Greybeard in training, and the violent part of his life had been over. Now the Greybeards had been murdered in their own monastery, and Whiterun had been attacked along with the renowned Dragonborn. The time has come to take up my sword for Skyrim once more. This time, maybe for the last time.

"LOK VAH KOOR!"