Galmar hated Rain's Hand. The month, true to its name, was filled with storms. Gray clouds filled the skies, with partially frozen tears falling down to the ground. The snow, which blanketed the country in white during colder months, was turned to brown slush and served the sole purpose of soaking boots and numbing toes. Razor-like winds tore through layers of hide and steel, chilling even the hardiest of Nords with a sense of dank misery. He had seen soldiers' feet become blackened and rotted from the excessive rain during wartime, and those very same men lose their appendage as a result.
The old bear sighed deeply, and rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand. After so many years playing at war, he could honestly say that he desired nothing more than a rest. He couldn't help but glance at the bedroll, which rested so comfortably in the tent's corner. Wolf pelts lined the feeble mattress, enough for two to fit in comfortably.
Footsteps approached his tent, and Galmar looked up to see the delighted, soaked face of his jarl. Galmar's smile shadowed that of Ulfric's. There was perhaps one thing he desired above a nap. This was neither the time nor the place for such thoughts, however.
"Galmar," Ulfric grinned. His housecarl swore that he could hear the smile in his voice, the same goofy, slightly bucktoothed smile that he had known so well in their youth. His jarl, who had been trapped inside of his palace for the past three years while Galmar had been commanding the front lines, looked like a child in a candy store. It was the first time since their victory in Solitude two years prior that Ulfric had gone out with the men to raid, and by the Gods was he loving it.
"Ulfric," The old bear responded, the smirk never leaving his lips, " You look awfully happy for being soaked to your small clothes."
"Bah," The Nord shook his head, sending droplets of ice rain onto the other man, "I am Stormcloak, am I not? Do you not think it's fitting that I go raiding under the cloak of a storm? It hides our presence, the rain's as much armor as our men's steel."
A half-hearted laugh escaped the housecarl's lips as he returned to studying maps, "Everything is like a fairytale with you around. Why are you in here, Ulfric?"
"I thought I would grace a sour old bear with my presence," He responded with a playful grin. They both knew that if any of the men could see their interactions, they might just soil themselves . The normally dour and serious Bear of Markarth cherished the small moments of laxity, where he could be himself, and forget, if only for a few minutes, that he didn't balance Skyrim on his shoulders.
"Well, then color me flattered," The grizzled warrior glanced at Ulfric, "While you're in here, why don't you make yourself useful?" He nodded to the maps, "Come here, we can talk strategy."
"Just like the good old days," The blonde Nord mumbled before walking to Galmar's side, and looking over the parchment. It was a fairly detailed map of the Pale, with countless markings scratched in. It had taken a beating during their two days' ride to the camp, with a few lines smudged or faded, and small tears around the edges.
Galmar pointed to an illustration of an old fort, "Here, near the southern tower, the scouts have reported that some of the wood beams are rotten and weak. They say that a well aimed spell or a warhammer could tear through it easily."
"And we have soldiers who can perform these tasks?"
"Aye," Galmar nodded, "Mages are useful, I try not to go into battle without at least one. There's a lass here who's good with fire, she'll be able to take it down. If we can make an entrance, it will be loud, and the fort is guaranteed to notice."
"Wouldn't we want to avoid that?" Ulfric frowned, "All of our troops piling in through one entrance?"
A sly smile formed on the housecarl's lips, "It won't be all of our troops, only enough warriors to draw attention, and the mage," He tapped the other tower, "This tower, the northern one, is right near a blind hill. We can sneak up while they cause a distraction, and tear our way through. We'll flank them, have the element of surprise, and they'll be completely unprepared."
"But what about the rain?" Ulfric frowned.
"What about the rain?" He repeated with a furrowed brow.
"If our men are charging up the hill, won't they slip?" He pointed out, nodding to the storm outside the tent, "I don't think they could do more than trot without falling on their face in this weather.
"Hm," Galmar grunted, "You got me there, what are you thinking?"
"I don't think that the mage can be too useful, not with this weather. She's a fire mage, and it's been raining for days."
"What do you suggest then? That we walk through the front door?"
Ulfric smiled at his friend, "In part," He glanced back toward the camp, where some of their men were eating their supper, "I noticed that there's a wood elf in our party."
"Aye, one of the archers. I was as surprised as you were. What of it?"
"I remember he mentioned that he's from Valenwood, which means he can climb." The Nord tapped the northern tower, "He could scale the tower, and pick off soldiers with arrows. Confusion and panic will erupt, men looking for the source of the arrows while trying to shield themselves. While they're distracted, we storm in through the gates."
"You think one lone archer can cause that much confusion?" Galmar frowned, "An elven one, at that? Besides, you said it yourself, it's wet. What if he falls?"
"A Stormcloak rises after the fall."
"If you really want to put that much faith in him… You're the jarl here, not me," The old bear simply shook his head, "I swear, your fantasies will be the death of us," He mumbled under his breath.
An amused brow rose, "Is that so?" He all but purred. A gauntleted hand took hold of Galmar's, squeezing lightly as Ulfric's hot breath whispered against his ear, "I seem to recall my fantasies have served you well before, my little bear."
Suddenly, Galmar didn't feel so chilled by the rain. His cheeks and ears burned as his hand clenched into a fist, "Ulfric, now's not the time for this, we need to plan, if the men see..." he growled in hushed whispers, then narrowed his eyes when it only caused his jarl's smile to broaden.
He could see it in his eyes, Ulfric was having the time of his life. The devious smirk, complemented by a drenched mane, the impish man wanted something, and wasn't going to leave without it. The Bear of Markarth always gets what he wants, after all.
"Come now, my little bear. We're getting older, and we won't be able to do this forever," He murmured as he took hold of Galmar's arms, and spun him, so that he was trapped between the table and his jarl. Ulfric grinned as he took hold of the other man's cloak, and gave it a swift tug, causing the bear helm to fall from the older Nord's head, the fur-coated steel clanking as it met the wooden table.
"Hey!" He objected with an irritated frown as his silver hair fell free from its restraints, resting just below his jaw. Before he could argue further, a pair of lips clashed against his own while Ulfric's hold on his grew tighter. Shocked by the otherwise steady man's excitement, Galmar attempted to take a step back, leaning against the table as he did so. The kiss was hungry, impatient, and filled with suppressed passion.
Chapped lips grinded over one another as Galmar's self control began to wane, as it often would. Ulfric could see the fire building behind his partner's icy eyes, the same blaze that he had known countless times before, and had added heat to Skyrim's frozen nights.
They pulled away for air, and Galmar panted as he stood back up. He eyed the other Nord with suspicion, though seemed to have no intentions of moving away from him. Instead of trying to maneuver out from his jarl's hold, he took a fist full of the shorter man's blonde mane, and pulled back, forcing Ulfric's head back. A laugh mixed with surprise and pain escaped from him, one Galmar had missed hearing during his months fighting his lover's war.
Galmar matched the laugh, a quiet, almost menacing sound, "You know," He breathed, "I'm starting to remember why I don't take you on raids. You're a distraction."
"Your favorite distraction," The jarl corrected before harsh lips met his own once again. The warrior was far rougher than Ulfric had been, never releasing his hold on the other man's hair. He began taking dominating steps forward, placing his knee between Ulfric's legs and causing their bodies to collide.
Galmar's free hand broke away from Ulfric's, and instead wrapped around the small of the other man's back, pulling him even closer in an almost possessive manner. It was as if he was worried someone, something, would rip his lover away.
The taller Nord bit down on his partner's lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood, though it sparked a groan from the royal. Moss green eyes met the cold steel gray of the old bear, who grinned. With a predatory smile mixed with lustful eyes, Galmar was as savage as ever, and the kingslayer thrived on it.
Ulfric ran a hand through the Nord's silver hair. It was fine, finer than one would expect, though as greasy as could be, with strands pointing in every direction but their intended. The wild hair fit his housecarl, he thought. It was as untamed as the man who donned it, and as rebellious and free as his mother country.
A strong piercing wind blew through the tent, reminding the two leaders of their situation. The map escaped the feeble hold from Galmar's helm, floating up, causing the inkwell to spill over the wood. The parchment danced in the wind, and Ulfric was quick to separate himself from his housecarl to catch it.
The gauntleted hand quickly clasped the parchment by the corner, causing another delighted smile to appear on Ulfric's face. He turned, and placed it back on the non-ink stained section of the table. Delicate hands folded the paper before placing a dagger upon it.
"Nice catch," Galmar mumbled as he wiped his lips of the remaining traces of saliva, "So," He smiled, "What brought that on?"
"The wind. Or were you not paying attention?"
"The kiss," Galmar's eye twitched. He was being elusive now, which was never a good sign. The last time he had been was shortly before they had invaded Whiterun, when the Jarl had sent a lone courier to deliver his axe, and refused to clearly state to the outlander the signifigance. It was unlike the jarl to have hidden agendas, and Galmar had found that only when he felt genuinely threatened would he evade questions as a rogue would a greathammer, "Something's bothering you, isn't it?"
"Of course not," The jarl shook his head as he ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back to its original style, in an attempt to make it appear as if it hadn't been manhandled.
"I'm not sure which one of us you're trying to convince," Galmar frowned as he took several steps toward the jarl, lowering his voice, "Ulfric, I'm not going to ask you again what's bothering you."
A heavy sigh escaped the Nord's lips, "It's that obvious, is it?"
"Not to most people," Galmar shrugged as he leaned on the table again, "But most people haven't gone through Oblivion on Nirn by your side. I have."
"I suppose that's true," The Nord smiled. It was unlike the grin he wore into the tent, this was a somber, sad smile, "Any one of us could die tomorrow, Galmar."
"Aye, and?" The warrior frowned, having grown accustomed to the idea, and surprised that his jarl hadn't. They had been soldiers for a long time, and he was surprised that the idea of death could possibly scare the younger man.
"My mother died when I was training in High Hrothgar, my father died when we were imprisoned, and I have no siblings," The Nord met Galmar's eyes evenly, "You are the closest thing to a family I have left, Galmar. When my father died, it was alone, without any family to even say they knew him well. If you are to fall tomorrow… I wanted to make damned sure you know you're not alone in this world."
Galmar smiled at his jarl, and placed a strong hand on his shoulder, "You almost sound like you expect me to keel over," He flicked his head to the side, "Those Imperials out there are common soldiers. We've killed a million of 'em."
"We were common soldiers once, Galmar," Ulfric frowned.
"Me? Maybe. I don't think anything about you is common," His smile remained. True, he knew that there certainly was a threat to face, as there always was, and he knew that it was possible that the battle could be his last.
Galmar extended an arm, and the smile upon his face became a grin, "Besides, are we not the heroes in this fantasy of yours? The hero can't die before the story ends, it's bad storytelling." He pulled Ulfric closer to him, and rested his forehead against the jarl's , "I'll be fine, Ulfric. We'll be fine, Talos preserve us. We'll kick those Imperials' asses, like we always do."
Ulfric couldn't help but snort at the older man's language, "Galmar," He began as his moss eyes met those of his housecarl, "You have absolutely no sense of dramatic moment."
"Eh, what can I say? We can't all be broody royals." He responded with a husky chuckle. Galmar stepped away from the future High King, and eyed the map, "Hm, you really are distracting," He mused as he lifted the dagger, and took hold of their map.
"Now, since you like the rain so much, I think I'll let you go outside and explain this nightmare of a battle plan to the men," He forced the parchment into Ulfric's hand, and turned, headed toward the bedroll that rested in the corner of the tent, "And after that, go to bed. We need you awake tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." Ulfric couldn't help but spare the man one last smile before rising to his feet.
"Good," Galmar muttered as he laid down, "And do us all a favor: try to fake some confidence while you're out there." As he lay, waves of relief flooded the man's senses. Finally, a moment of rest. The weary soldier's body practically collapsed, refusing to allow the exhausted man to rise to his feet again that night, no matter what the prize may be.
The housecarl watched Ulfric leave the tent as he settled down, and forced his eyes to stay open, if only for a little longer. He could see the men, how they all reacted to their leader, their High King coming to address them. Their eyes were filled with respect and admiration, even the elf's.
Galmar could see them leaning in as Ulfric spoke, hanging on his every word. The Nordic man had their complete, undivided attention, as a man of his standing should. The Bear of Markarth, veteran of the Great War, a surviving prisoner of war, and a man who was willing to risk everything for the sake of Skyrim and her people.
There was no smile in Ulfric's voice. No silly, slightly bucktoothed grin. When Galmar looked into his eyes, he saw not the dreamer who would weave fantastical tales of glory. Instead, he saw the eyes of a king, one Galmar knew Ulfric always would be. His insecurities, his jesting nature, and sly intentions had been left at the door of the tent. In their place was a dour man, who alone balanced Skyrim on his shoulders.
The rain had stopped, he noticed, leaving the nightingales to sing, and the moonlight to shine down upon them, kissing the pale faces of their soldiers. Galmar was no fool. Even though the thunder had died, and the lightning had faded, deep within the old bear, he knew that the storm had not ended. He could feel it in his bones, it would rise after the fall, stronger than before, and hit harder than ever. It was merely brewing. He stared at his king, comrade and lover. The man who had cloaked himself in life's tempest, as if it were armor, and fought with the ferocity of the strongest gales.
As his eyes closed, basking in a much-needed rest, his thoughts drifted to the following day. Most importantly, just how he would brave the coming storm.