DISCLAIMER

I own nothing but the OCs.

It's my 2nd Skyrim fanfiction, painfully translated from French. Hope there aren't too many faults.

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In Dragonsreach, eyes soak up the same scene tongues will later eagerly spread. The jarl is quite taken with his new thane. Every evening, he invites her for dinner. She declines every other day just to keep her conscience clear. There she sits, at his own table, tasting every treat he presents her with. Balgruuf has the best cook in skyrim. He has the best taste in the world. As evidenced by the rich furniture, old tapestries, vases and moldings of his Great Hall; a discreet yet luxurious comfort. The jarl has a rugged face and even more rugged manners. But she knows his smile. The smile in his eyes. Two sapphires so mirthful they amend the man for all his harshness.

He named her thane the day she brought the sapling back. She was in for a ceremonial, complete with an axe and all – an axe, what an idea! Her weapon expertise goes as far as her butterknife…

Neige is not a warrior. Nothing predisposed her to find fortune in Skyrim. She's only an orphaned Breton who sang and played for an ambulant theatre company until an idiot decided to steal the boss' horse.

"Catch him! Bring him back!"

And there she was, trailing behind, without her knowing that an imperial would reap her only a few yards away. Of course, her usual luck had her run into an ambush. Aimed at capturing Ulfric, jarl of Windhelm, traitor and kingslayer, no less. Thinking of that, there was many a celebrity back in Helgen : General Tullius of the Legion, First Emissary Elenwen, Ulfric Stormcloak, the Dragonborn and of course, Alduin! Therefore, she still finds it hard holding any grudge against the World Eater. He saved her life, in a way. Well… with Hadvar's help. While the soldier cut through fire and enemies, she hid behind and threw her meagre spells.

Fate sometimes takes inexplicable turns.

Dinner comes to end. The jarl stands up. Everyone follows. He doesn't leave her side while going through the customary courtesies. She herself nods politely, mutters some barely audible good-byes. She knows what's bound to happen. As soon as the guests will pass the great door, the gossip will begin. They'll say that she's earned her title lying on her back. If only they knew…

Balgruuf never had a single equivocal gesture. He treats her like a highborn lady, like an equal. Her, Neige, the slum child!

They could head towards his chambers. She wouldn't object to it. They instead retire under the great porch and gaze at the stars. There, he tells her about his lack of men, about the walls that need consolidation and the destroyed tower he'd like to rebuild: he speaks of his love for Whiterun.

His voice trembles, he stumbles over a word and suddenly falls silent. Neige lets the silence bloom. A moment later, growing impatient, he heads for drinks.

"Neige…"

He wavers a little but carries on:

"Where does that name come from?"

"It was snowing on the day I was found."

"Found?"

"I was abandoned."

"Forgive me. I didn't want to bring up painful memories."

"Don't worry. I don't remember anything anyway."

"Have you ever found your parents?"

'I never looked for them."

"Why?"

"They're just strangers to me. I had Granny, and that was all I needed. Why ask?"

"I've always thought…"

Balgruuf leaves his sentence midair.

"Yes?" she encourages him.

"Since I know you, I've always thought it was the Gods that led you to Skyrim."

"Hum… Don't exaggerate. I'm not the Dragonborn."

"Svanhilde walks an extraordinary path."

"And yet…"

"Yet?"

"She's a just woman. Like any other."

A woman like her. In love with her jarl.

"Yes, sure."

Once again, silence settles between them. But this time, Balgruuf seems at ease. He sips a little wine and says:

"It will soon be snowing on Whiterun."

This takes her by surprise. Is it a bad joke?

"The hills inhabitants will be coming back to town, for wintering."

His voice is serene. Why, no, that was not a joke.

"In the empty houses of the Plains District?"

"Exactly. You'll see, Whiterun is very lively during winter."

For a moment, she pictures the smoky roofs coated in their white mantle, children roaming the streets, the daily routine of busy citizens purring smoothly. She then remembers her oath.

"I won't be here to witness all that."

At her side, Balgruuf stiffens. He pours some more wine and stares at her, his brows knit in concern.

"The Dovahkiin asked me…"

Neige chokes on words.

"Go on."

The jarl's voice is pressing. She swallows hard.

It's just one moment. One only.

A tough one.

"She asked me to fight by her side, as a Blade."

"Of course. That's a tremendous honour."

"Svanhilde joined up the Stormcloaks."

"What?!"

"My jarl…"

"Did you know of this?"

Silence is her only defense.

"Answer me!"

"Yes, I did." she admits reluctantly.

"How could you…?"

"She saved my life."

"And the other way round, if I recall correctly."

"Svanhilde is my friend."

"And I? Am I not yours too?"

His voice rings with accusation.

"You…"

"Yes?"

She should confess her feelings for him. She instead remains silent. As always.

Since she would not speak, his temper flares up.

"Haven't I always treated you with utmost respect? Haven't I helped you when you were in dire need? Haven't I… Oh, by the gods."

He presses his palm against his eyes, his face nothing but grief.

He looks at her once more.

"Leave me."

"My jarl…"

"LEAVE !"

Neige clenches her jaw and obeys. She loves Svanhilde but tonight, she resents her. The Dragonborn has fallen for the Stormcloak. The man dished her up his grandiose speech about freedom, pain and sacrifice, and had the lass on her knees in no time.

Ulfric is a man of power, strong willed and charismatic. He's clever, a fierce fighter, a capable leader, able to inspire an entire nation, but above all, he knows how to shout. In a rare fit of weakness, Svanhilde has confessed to her how lonely it feels to be Dragonborn, how much she too, wants to believe in someone. Hence, on the very day they did stop in Windhelm, what was fated to happen happened indeed.

Neige lets out a small laugh. Balgruuf and Ulfric. The two sides of the same coin. Both are Nords, but neither will ever look in the same direction.

Although she loves her jarl and wish nothing but to remain loyal to him, she can't sort out which one is right, or wrong. She lets the Dragonborn decide for her, and pray Mara to watch over them all.

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*Neige means snow in french