A/N - This story was originally going to be three chapters, but now it is going to be more. How many more? Well...I don't know yet, but at least four. There is also the opportunity for bonus material, but that will probably depend upon reader/reviewer demand. The story just keeps evolving in my head, and so I'm rolling with the changes. It's like it has a mind of its own!
Disclaimer - Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters.
Somehow, they had won. The clang of steel upon steel echoed in her ears, her arms burned and ached from exertion, but they were victorious—and it was all that mattered. Ulfric offered her the killing blow, but she deferred, and when the Imperial leader was dead, she heard Galmar utter, "Good…it's done."
The two men exchanged words, and then Galmar left them to go gather the men in the courtyard of Castle Dour. Ulfric turned to her, offering her the pommel of his sword. "I want you to have my sword, a token of my appreciation. Now, then, the men will expect a speech. Will you stand by my side?"
He was too close, her mind swam in a sea of adrenaline, giddiness infecting every fiber of her, "I will."
He murmured, teasingly, "Now that this is over, maybe we can finish our conversation?"
Her jaw dropped, gaping, and she couldn't seem to get it to go back into place. He raised an eyebrow at her expression, smirking just a bit, "Not right now of course…later, in private."
She didn't have the heart to tell him that her shock didn't stem from the timing of his suggestion, but rather that he wanted to discuss it at all. It was the first time that he had acknowledged the eventful wagon ride from Windhelm, and she had believed this whole mess was behind them. When she had awoke that morning, alone, she had thought that he realized his mistake, and blamed all of it on a need for comfort mixed with extreme exhaustion on both of their parts. Easily brushing it off, she had focused on the life-altering battle before them, and that was all very possible because he had treated her like a fellow soldier. No words had passed between them as they fought wave after wave of Imperials in the streets of Solitude. Even when she had recklessly charged a group of three that had him cornered, all he had offered was a nod in thanks. His silence had been a welcome barrier to the turmoil that she had felt the previous night, and it had given her an edge that she had used to mow down the enemy. After all, she had wished for a return to normalcy, and his treating her like every other subordinate had allowed her to fight with a clear head.
His voice, concerned, broke her from the spell of her thoughts, "Feren…?"
"Later then," she managed to respond, finding her voice, as she gestured towards the door.
He looked at her, worry creasing his brow, as he exited through the door, and she followed him outside to the weary but delighted faces of their cheering allies. His voice boomed, resounding off the courtyard walls, as he called the men standing with them the true heroes of the war, a sentiment with which she concurred. She heard him refuse the title of High-King until the moot declared him such, which she thought a wise choice considering his desire to honor tradition. He even conceded the very real prospect that though they had won today, the war was far from over—that the Dominion could be next. Goosebumps rose on her flesh as he urged them all to help rebuild Skyrim, and she found herself admiring his eloquence and ability to rally his people. Finished with his speech, he turned to her and Galmar, "How'd I do?"
Galmar laughed before replying, "Not so bad. Nice touch about the High-King."
"Thank you, I thought so too."
"It's a foregone conclusion you know," the old man responded.
"Oh, I know," Ulfric glibly replied, and it took all her restraint to keep from rolling her eyes at the smugness that oozed from every pore of the future High-King.
Galmar continued to speak about the remaining Imperial threat, and she took the opportunity to excuse herself. As much as she admired many things about Ulfric, one thing she didn't appreciate was his inflated ego, and she wanted to check out the city to see how it had fared during the siege. She had almost made it out of the courtyard, when she heard a familiar voice call out, "Stormblade!"
She looked over her shoulder to see Ralof approaching. She turned to him, smiling, and before she was aware of what was happening, her feet were dangling in the air as she was swept into a huge bear hug. She threw her head back in laughter as he yelled, "I can't believe we won, and it's all because of you! You're an incredible woman…"
He was causing quite a ruckus, and she was enjoying the impromptu celebration with her friend. Amongst the rowdy catcalls and cheers of their fellow soldiers, she managed to convince Ralof to put her down, and she walked with him out into the city proper.
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She spent a couple of days in Solitude, enjoying her former home while delaying the inevitable. She knew that her procrastination was due in large part to the confusion she felt about the future High-King. There were times when his bloated self-worth made her nauseous and others when his infectious smile made her feel invincible. She could flat out detest his recklessness, yet admire his prowess in combat. For every positive thing she felt for him, there was a negative to match it, and still, she cared for him a great deal—they had become, whether she liked it or not, very close. He brought out emotions in her that she had never felt, and they would probably be her undoing. Just a few words and a simple touch—that was all he had done to nearly break her control. Yet, she would have never dared to approach him romantically. The realist in her, the hardened woman that she had become, knew that there was no point to those kinds of foolish thoughts.
Eventually, she made the journey back to Windhelm, and when she arrived at Hjerim, her housecarl informed her that a courier had left her an important message. She took the letter upstairs to her bedroom; she could read it after a proper change of clothes and some food. She suspected it was a summons from the Jarl anyway, and he could wait the thirty minutes it would take her to gather herself after traveling. Instead, what she opened was an invitation—to an event thrown in commemoration of the victory in Solitude. It was to be held that night in the Palace of the Kings, and of course, it required formal attire. Once again, she had to admire Ulfric's cunning—like a rat in a trap she was stuck, and he knew it. She wasn't so full of herself to believe that he was throwing a party just to see her, but her role in the rebellion had made it a necessity to invite her; and all of his motives, both celebratory and ulterior, could be fulfilled. Resigned, she decided that she would need to find something suitable to wear, when she heard a knock at the bedroom door.
"Yes?"
"Another delivery, my Thane. I'll set it down out here for you."
She heard the housecarl's retreating footsteps, and she opened her door to see a rather large brown bag with a note attached. She grabbed the note and read its brief contents: "See you tonight. Wear my sword. No wagon rides, I swear."
She could almost hear his teasing voice as she read the words, chuckling at his promise. Reaching in the bag, she found a sleek royal blue dress with a golden sash that had the familiar bear emblem of the Stormcloaks embroidered onto it. The color of the dress matched that of the tapestries she had seen hanging in the palace, and she carried it carefully over to her mirror to slip it on. A matching bear fur shawl and embellished leather belt completed the outfit, and when she placed his sword on her hip, she looked equal parts Stormcloak officer and elegant guest. She was loathe to admit it, but he was right about the sword; most in attendance would recognize the Jarl's personal blade, and the honor bestowed to her in carrying it. She disrobed, hanging the items carefully in her wardrobe, and emptied the bag to find a matching pair of slippers. The man really did think of everything.
With one nerve-wracking task complete, she spent the rest of the afternoon with a book, trying to relax. When the time came to get ready, she took a nice, long soothing bath and then got herself dressed for the evening's festivities. She opted to leave her jet-black hair down for once; she often had it pinned on her head to keep it out of the way during combat, but she didn't think that would be an issue this evening. She paused to look in the mirror, and decided that she looked acceptable. She felt apprehensive—tonight was going to be interesting at best or a disaster at worst. She descended the stairs, passing through the living area and out the door to the palace.
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From her vantage point, it appeared that the celebration was a success. The attendees were an equal mixture of Stormcloak officers and nobility from across the Holds, and she recognized the majority of them; the ones she did not appeared to be kin of the various Jarls for the most part. Dinner had been satisfying enough, and after the meal there were a few brief speeches that she managed to sit through without fidgeting. She was particularly uncomfortable in her seat at the head table—she felt as if she was a dagger in a display case—but she realized that she had little choice in the matter. The majority of the stares seemed to be coming from the direction of the Jarl, but every time she tried to catch his gaze, he was conveniently looking elsewhere.
After the formalities, the real party started: several bards began to sing and play, the guests intermingled, and the mead flowed from the barrels. Almost immediately, several women approached the table clamoring, it seemed, to speak with Ulfric. She watched their pathetic display in equal parts fascination and resentment. They acted like lapdogs, hanging on every word that he uttered, and he seemed to be reveling in it. She was fully engrossed in her observations, when the steward came over to occupy a seat beside her, "I'm glad you could make it, Stormblade."
Her false front came up, and the little white lie fell from her lips easily, "So am I, Jorleif. You did an excellent job of putting this together on short notice."
"Well, I try to keep the Jarl happy…as we all seem to be doing," as he gestured at the group of women.
She kept her face neutral, guarded, "Everyone does appear to be having a good time."
The man smirked, "I know the Jarl and he is definitely relishing the attention. Although, I suspect, he would find it more pleasurable from other sources."
She took a convenient sip from her flagon, and when she made no response, he continued in a hushed tone, "They all wish to be Queen one day…the curly haired one is Thongvor's third child, and the blonde is someone's daughter... Sorli's, I believe."
He droned on with his descriptions, and her skin crawled in disgust—at Jorleif for being a busybody, at the women for being throne-chasers, at Ulfric for being a pig, and at herself for being envious of the entire ridiculous scene. She wasn't sure if the steward was probing her for a reaction, or if he was just making small talk, but the conversation had made the somewhat tolerable party completely unbearable. A sour feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, and she eventually made the pitiful excuse of needing fresh air in order to escape the table.
It was a pleasant night by Windhelm standards, cold but not bitterly so, with a beautiful aurora that highlighted the stars. A few other guests roamed the patio with her, and she distanced herself politely from them, taking a seat on a bench near a blazing fire pit. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the crushing weight in her chest, recognizing the despondent nag of jealousy within it. There, alone in the night with her thoughts, she chastised herself for green-eyed emotions. Her rational mind knew that she had no right, no claim to them, but it did not stop her heart from aching. It was only fitting that she would feel so strongly for him—that she would experience emotions that caused her such great inner conflict—after all, the man himself was a walking contradiction, a mixture of opposing forces. He led a rebellion against the very Empire that he at one time fought to protect. He could deflect praise to others, or soak it up like an arrogant sponge. He could be gentle and soothing with his hands, or use them to crush an axe into an enemy's skull.
Deep in her thoughts, she didn't hear the source of her tumult as he approached; but finally, his voice reached her, "Enjoying the festivities, Feren?"