The Battle of Christmas
The one day in the year where everyone seemed to be in a joyous mood was just around the corner. The last few days had seen some of the bloodiest combat that Ralof had ever seen. Blood soaked the snow for miles around the center of each battle. Bodies lay everywhere, twisted faces silently screaming a thousand tales of horrid pain. For the faint of heart, the sight would conjure up nightmares for endless nights, but at this point, he had become a much more calloused than he would have thought possible. He himself had gutted more men and women than he could count. His iron waraxe's handle was now stained a deep red. Soldiers with whom he had fought many battles had died next to him, and new recruits had taken their places, only to die themselves. No longer did he try to learn the names of the newcomers, but simply let them fall beside him, no matter how he tried to keep them alive. Even the presence of the Dovahkiin didn't stop the empire, for they had at their side the one known as The Goddess of Stone on their side. Some had told stories of her razing a hill outside Windhelm in revenge against the Thalmor. Others said she was just a girl from Falkreath. Either way, The Goddess of Stone, who also was quite proficient with fire, was devouring the rebellion every time she decided to fight. Thankfully, this had only happened three times: Whiterun, the battle of the Valtheim towers, and one battle near Riften.
The evening sky lit up red with the setting sun, an unusual sight in the deep winter that surrounded them. When the clouds didn't obscure the sun, the smoke of the empire's burning campfires would. Ralof, taking the opportunity to relax, pulled his furs around his body and lay down on his back. Stars twinkled overhead and the twin moons dueled for prominence in the sky. A firebolt shot across the sky, and a dozen soldiers around him tensed. This often signaled an imminent attack from the enemy, for often the ball of flame surrounded a small boulder, one that had been launched from a trebuchet. Tonight was not a night for fighting however, as the bolt of fire sailed straight over their heads, it's target: one of the lunar orbs. A magical dragon floated up from the forest to the west, entirely composed of ice. It was quite the display, as the dragon flapped it's pale wings to get their attention, and then spat fire. In crimson letters, the flames spelled out a message that few had hoped to ever see. "Brothers for christmas?"
Officers scrambled to their superiors, and soon runners began sprinting across the encampment. The air buzzed with excitement, but Ralof simply grinned and unbuckled his weapons belt. It was refreshing to be free of the oppressive thing every once in awhile. A small whisper began making it's way across the fires of the Stormcloaks, reaching Ralof in record time. Ulfric had agreed to the ceasefire.
Soon, there was a small gathering of mages hurrying towards the open area in which Ralof had made his fire. He had always found those people to be the weirdest of all. At almost any time of the day or night, these strange little people could be found with their noses in ancient books that had long since become unreadable, and yet they seemed to gain some knowledge from the experience. If you caught one alone, they would make an easy target. This, however, was not true if they had an armed escort. Given some cover, these funny little bastards could deal massive damage to those around them. Together, they presented a hilarious picture, though in the back of his mind he knew that messing with them would be a deadly mistake. Working together, they began to cast a spell.
The spirit-like form of a bear reared onto its hind legs over the camp, taking over the sky in almost every direction. It then bowed, and revealed with it's arms the words, "Brothers for Christmas we are."
Jolly laughter filled the woods that night as Imperials drank mead with Stormcloaks. A small hill soon served as a platform on which impromptu plays unraveled. There were grand stories told of everything but the war. Hunting, fishing, and even a few tales of past banditry flowed around the bonfires that now dotted the hillsides. Somewhere near the center of all the merriment, a hush began spreading throughout the soldiers of both sides as the two men around whom the entire war whirled approached each other.
Ulfric eyed Tullius warily, unsure as to whether he could trust his greatest enemy for one peaceful night. Tullius yanked his sword from its sheath, and with a grin, twirled it around its axis. Ulfric unhooked his axe, the muscles in his arm twitching nervously. Ten seconds passed, though it felt like a hundred years, and then with a snap of his wrist, Tullius flung his sword into a nearby tree. The blade sunk deep, and the hilt wobbled back and forth for a few seconds before Ulfric's axe sunk into the bark next to it, the vibrations from the weapons harmonizing before being drowned out by the tumultuous cheer that rose up from the men on both sides. For the rest of the evening, the two could be found trying to outdo each other in every thinkable way short of a full on duel.
The morning brought with it many groans of agony, for the night's drinking had left almost everyone hungover beyond belief. Many women found themselves in various states of undress, having slept with soldiers from either side of the war.
Ralof grunted angrily at the sun when the form atop his chest shifted in her sleep. Raising his arm to block the early morning sun from his eyes, he found that the woman that lay on his bare chest bore the distinct marks of a highborn Imperial woman. Her skin was softer than most Nord girls skin was this late in the year, though goosebumps had formed on her back when he had lifted the furs from it. Her plump breasts pressed against his chest with every breath. Glancing to his right, he found a highly polished Imperial commander's helmet resting by his bedroll, along with a hastily discarded set of officer's armor. He ran his hand down her toned back and firmly grasped her ass, which both gave him great delight and also woke her up.
She awoke with a soft smile on her face, and obviously remembering something of the night before, shifted her hand to grasp his hardening manhood. She licked her lips with anticipation and whispered, "Let me give you a little Christmas cheer."
A while later, the two finally got themselves dressed and decent, though he still found and took every opportunity to "accidentally" grasp some part of her anatomy, and she did the same. Soft laughter attracted their attention, for they had been the only ones awake, so far as they knew. Upon investigation, they found an Imperial soldier, still quite drunk, in the process of awakening the desires of the three Stormcloaks around him. The two girls seemed quite pleased by this, though the general that filled out the trio didn't seem too enthusiastic about the prospects of the lad approaching his body. That, however, was not the cause of the laughter. This lay behind the afore mentioned group.
General Tullius lay on his back, a large Stormcloak banner the only thing covering his naked form. His hand lay on the naked ass of one rather infamous fellow, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. A young maiden appeared to have been involved, though she now had been pushed aside for comfort's sake.
Ralof, not wanting to miss the reaction that their awakening would bring, yelled as loud as he could. Confused faces everywhere turned towards him, many covering their ears. The two leaders of men awoke with a start, and it was Tullius that first realized what exactly was going on. He retracted his hand quickly from his nemesis' derriere, but the shame would not go away too quickly, for he knew what he had done, and he knew that everyone else would know too. Ulfric, realizing where his head lay, pulled his female companion from the night before over to himself, and used her body to cover his, though that was slightly difficult, given his large height compared with her rather diminutive one.
The rest of the day was spent lazily enjoying the oddly warm weather, telling jokes about the war being won by Ulfric's ass, and generally making the most of the companionship which they had found with each other. All too soon, the sun began to sink once again, and an icy dragon rose in the sky. Soldiers said goodbye to those that they had shared drinks, stories, and their bodies with, and set off to their respective camps.
Nobody wanted to fight for the next few days, and even the new year managed to make its way into the lives of every soldier before any more died by the blade. The first day of the year, the two armies found themselves face to face. Many wore facemasks to distance themselves from the killing of their friends. Midway through the battle, Ralof raised his axe to deliver a deadly slash to an Imperial captain, and their eyes connected. His hand stayed his blade an inch from her neck, and he grabbed her helmet, unclasping it. When he lifted it off, a wave of auburn hair flowed down around her shoulders. He had found her. With a nod, he removed his own helmet. A quick understanding was reached, and the two stood back to back. They would not stop each other from killing their allies, but they would not kill each other. The battle raged for hours, blades flashing, arrows whistling overhead.
At last there were no more sounds of fighting. Ralof had sustained many small injuries, but all of these were nothing, for from his side, a stream of blood ran down his leg, pooling in his boot. He turned around and sadness filled his heart as he collapsed to the ground. Ariana, the Imperial captain doubled over as one final arrow sailed through the air and landed with a sickening thwack, penetrating her chestpiece. She fell backwards, then rolled towards the dying man, her breath ragged, blood dripping from the corner of her soft lips. With one final heave, Ralof pulled himself to her, and pressed his lips to hers. She quivered, then kissed him with her final breath. His body went limp as the sun slipped behind the hills. With the final golden rays illuminating the lovers, their arms wrapped around each other in deaths final embrace, a bell tolled in the distance, signalling the end of the war.