Chapter 11 – Engagements
Though Fjornir thought it best that Eirin rest, cry and mourn her family, Eirin told him that she needed to take a walk, alone. She wandered around Windhelm for most of the day, and once night fell she found herself wandering around the palace. When she arrived in the map room where Ulfric held strategic meetings, she studied the map of her world. She found Windhelm, Helgen, Whiterun, Markarth and all the landmarks in between, and discovered more villages and features to the east and north. Lost in her thoughts, she failed her hear Ulfric approach behind her.
"What are you doing in here?" The steady, deep voice startled Eirin and she spun around to find Ulfric encroaching on her personal space.
"I...," Ulfric stood with his face two hand's lengths from hers. "I'd never seen a map of the entire country before." She gulped. The mere presence of Ulfric was unnerving.
His expression softened somewhat. "You're from Helgen?" Eirin nodded. Ulfric frowned at his own memories of the town. "I am sorry for your loss, Healer."
Eirin managed a small smile. "I heard," she began, slowly, "we were headed to Whiterun." Eirin traced a finger along the river flowing from Windhelm, and then the road that turns westward, in the south. "Will we take the south route? Through Helgen?"
Ulfric eyed the woman he barely knew. "No," he said. He moved from facing her to standing just behind her right side. Eirin's body tensed. As they faced the southern part of the map, Ulfric leaned forward, molded his body to Eirin's, and traced a path with his own finger. "The troops will cut west, just north of where the river splits, and the entire army will converge in the mountain foothills." His thick finger followed the river, passed over drawings of towers, water mills, and mammoth skulls, then landed on a bear paw east of Whiterun. "The assault will be staged here," he moved his finger across the White River to an area just south of Whiterun. "Troops coming from the west will have to bypass the entire area, travel just south of Riverwood," his finger swept in from the west, "and up along the foothills. From the north," several fingers landed on the north coast, "moving south, giving Whiterun a wide berth," his fingers converged and curved slightly east, "across the river, working their way into the camp."
The entire time Ulfric spoke, Eirin could feel his mouth and breath at her ear. She wondered if he was attempting to intimidate her, but she could not think of why. She spoke with a shaking voice. "Many soldiers say that we need Whiterun for its central position. Fjornir says there is a second reason..."
Ulfric shifted to Eirin's left side. "Does he, now?" The Jarl's strong nose shot heated breath at the nape of her neck. "And what did the Dragonborn say to 'his' Healer?"
Eirin's body trembled in a physical reaction beyond her control. She realized then that the Jarl must know about her intimacy with Fjornir. She wondered if such a thing was even allowed among his Stormcloaks. "The palace at Whiterun... was built to capture dragons. Fjornir..." Eirin swallowed hard. "The Dragonborn... says you both want control of the city. You, Jarl Ulfric, for strategy. The Dragonborn, for luring dragons."
Ulfric said nothing, but moved to the front of Eirin, forcing her to stand away from the map table and against a stone wall. The Jarl studied the woman, her hide clothing, long braid, and worn, wolf-fur coat. Reading into her eyes, Ulfric asked, calmly, "Why did you join the Rebellion?"
Eirin was confused and anxious. Hadn't she already gone through this with Galmar? Did Ulfric not trust his second-in-command? Did they question her relationship with the Dragonborn?
She finally found her words. "I had many reasons, Jarl Ulfric."
"Do you praise Talos?" he asked calmly, remaining in front of her.
Her brow creased in frustration. "As much as any other Divine, Jarl Ulfric."
"Do you hate the Imperials?"
She considered the words carefully, but opted for an honest answer. "I hate no one, Jarl Ulfric." Except my ex-husband, she thought. And perhaps the dragon that killed my family...
The Healer's answer surprised the Jarl. He stood in silence for a moment, slowly scratching his chin. He spoke again. "Not even the dragon that killed your family?" Eirin's breath stopped. Had he read her mind? He continued, "Galmar says you can Heal with magic." He sat on the map table and folded his arms. "Show me," he commanded.
Eirin gulped. "Not magic, Jarl Ulfric. Magic is learned. This," she walked up to him, lifted her hand to his cheek, and emitted a warm yellow glow, "Is as natural to me as breathing."
Ulfric felt the warmth under her palm, then narrowed his eyes. "You have Aldmer blood within you," he declared.
Eirin's hand dropped to her side. "So I'm told... My mother's grandmother was Breton." She watched her hand lose its glow. "My Mer blood is thinned by a long line of Nord ancestors. That's why I'm not as powerful as some mages. Why I can't heal bad wounds completely..." She thought of Ralof and of the hole in Tille's leg, and her inability to use her other talent without losing consciousness.
Ulfric slowly rose from the table, approached the Healer, and pinned her to the stone wall with his imposing body. His steel armor pressed heavily against Eirin's breasts and his large, strong hands grasped her waist. His lips grazed her ear and his breath flowed down her neck. Ulfric's voice was deep, muted, and terrifying. "The Dragonborn must not falter, Healer. He must not fail. I will not have him distracted by a pretty face."
"Ulfric, I..." she interjected.
"Silence!" Ulfric commanded in a harsh whisper. "While at my camps, you will not fraternize with Fjornir. You will remain in the Healer's tent and tend to the wounded. You will not set foot outside of the camps until the battles are over and the army is set to move to a new location. Understood?"
Eirin stood silent, but nodded slowly.
"I need you to acknowledge..." Ulfric's tone was stern.
"Yes, Jarl Ulfric." Eirin was shaking.
The Jarl remained in this position, his body pressed against hers and hot breath streaming in pulses down Eirin's neck and shoulder, until the two heard nearby voices approaching. Without looking at the woman he briskly walked away and out to the main hall for dinner.
Eirin smelled venison.
The next morning, the troops at Windhelm left for the military camp south of Whiterun. Horse-drawn carts were full of Stormcloak soldiers and supplies. Extra horses trailed behind the carts.
Galmar, Fjornir, Ralof, Iver, and a female troop commander named Brynja filled one cart. Eirin sat between Iver and Fjornir. The Dragonborn insisted the Healer ride with him. Galmar insisted Iver ride with the Healer. Eirin sat directly in front of Ralof, who avoided looking her way the entire time.
Ulfric, his steward, and a handful of Stormcloak reserves stayed behind in Windhelm.
Under normal healing circumstances, Ralof would have been unable to travel, let alone fight so soon after his injuries, but both he and Tille were up and walking already, and Galmar decided it best not to wait any longer. The Battle for Whiterun would happen the day after they arrived at the camp.
Fjornir was all business while traveling. For this, Eirin was grateful. Surely Ulfric told Galmar what her new orders were. What would Galmar do, or say, if Fjornir made advances toward her, and she merely responded? The night before leaving, Eirin said nothing to Fjornir about her encounter with Ulfric. Fjornir and Ulfric were on good terms, and Eirin did not want to tarnish that relationship. After dinner, Eirin deflected Fjornir's amorous approach with claims of exhaustion, but she let him hold her while they slept.
When they reached camp, Eirin decided to comply with Ulfric's orders, and avoided Fjornir. She met with the other healers, who unlike her were trained in combat and had no supernatural healing skills. She set up a corner of the large Healer's tent with her own supplies, and found a space for her bedroll. Inside the tent were drapes of linen that could be used to visually separate areas for the privacy of patients. For now, they were tucked against the sides of the tent.
A second large tent housed the male officers and troop commanders, a third for females. The remaining soldiers slept in small pup-tents which dotted the mountain foothills, spreading out across the landscape as more troops arrived.
Several soldiers arrived wounded and were lead straight to the Healer's tent. Nothing major, Eirin noticed. She had to redo their hastily-made stitches, but with a few light Healing touches they might be ready for battle tomorrow.
As the army slept, Eirin walked to the edge of camp to take in the scenery which danced in the campfires and torch light. The sky was clear, the stars were bright, and the moon was a sharp crescent. She heard footsteps approaching. She turned to see a smiling Fjornir. He bent down to kiss her, but she held him at a distance. Her eyes shifted toward the direction of the officer's tent, but it was out of sight. Unable to hold back, she gripped his long brown hair and tugged his face down to meet hers in a passionate kiss. The embrace morphed into a sensual hug, with Fjornir's strong hands slipping under Eirin's coat and caressing her back. Fjornir whispered into her ear, "I need you."
Eirin felt her body melt at his words. "Where?" she whispered back.
Fjornir took her hand and they searched for a secluded spot. They turned left around some rocks, and found a flat boulder the height of Fjornir's thighs, partially surrounded by short trees. Fjornir sat Eirin down and kissed her forcefully. He removed her wolf-fur coat and laid it back onto the rock. Fjornir was no longer wearing his steel armor in which he had traveled, but had on his warm civilian clothes. Eirin deftly removed the belt and his heavy trousers fell to the ground. Fjornir untied the leather thongs at the top of Eirin's hide trousers, and she stood and the trousers fell. Both their trousers were caught by their boots. Fjornir practically ripped off his loincloth.
Fjornir lifted Eirin onto the wolf fur and ducked between the triangle formed by her legs and trousers. His lips found hers again and her legs wrapped around Fjornir's waist. Fjornir moved the crotch of her underwear aside and entered her. Eirin's moans were muted by Fjornir's mouth. Her arms wrapped around Fjornir's neck as he pounded into her. Desperation, lust, and the possibility of imminent death precluded the need for further excitement. Their kiss muffled their cries of pleasure and their passion climaxed quickly. Too quickly.
Unsatisfied, their tongues continued exploring one another's mouth. Still inside of her, Eirin felt Fjornir's excitement build again. Her feet pressed his backside forward, into her. Fjornir began thrusting again, slower this time, and moved his mouth to her neck, to that spot on the side that made her squeal uncontrollably in pleasure. Eirin planted her face onto Fjornir's chest and bit at the fabric of his tunic. No sounds, she commanded herself. Galmar must not know.
Fjornir's arms held her tight as he began thrusting harder, faster. His mouth sucked at the magic spot on her neck. Eirin's fingernails dug into the back of Fjornir's tunic. The pleasure was too much. She felt the ecstatic scream build within her. She bit the tunic harder, pinching flesh. Fjornir grunted. Terrified, Eirin raised a hand to his mouth. Fjornir sucked on her palm. Eirin's mouth opened in a silent cry. She bit again at the tunic and closed her eyes. Fjornir's thrusts were frantic now, deep, aided by the upward position of her legs. His grunts were muffled by her palm.
As their pleasure began to climax, Fjornir felt heat on his mouth. His eyes opened and he saw that Eirin's hand had begun to glow. No, not just glow. Her normal soft Healing light was sparkling. He grasped her hand with his own and buried his face in her neck. His frantic thrusts slowed into a deeper and forceful impalement of the woman. Their climatic screams of pleasure were unavoidable, but were muted by fabric and flesh.
Fjornir felt Eirin's entire body warm. Breathing hard, he looked down at her. She was luminous. Her Healing glow encased her entire body and tiny sparks traveled across her exposed skin. Her eyes were closed and mouth agape. A look of serene pleasure adorned her face. Fjornir was at once concerned and entranced. He decided to let her body relax on its own terms, and stood there, still within her, holding her close. He felt the contractions of her innermost parts slow, and cease. The warmth of her body faded. When Fjornir looked down at her, Eirin's expression was back to her normal, sweet, contented smile.
Fjornir thought it best to re-dress themselves, and helped her stand. They pulled up their trousers and fastened them. Fjornir lifted Eirin back onto the boulder and sat himself next to her. They then lay back onto the wolf fur and snuggled close within the tight space, Fjornir's body nesting into the back of hers. When his panting subsided, Fjornir said quietly, "You sparkled."
"What?" Eirin asked.
"The second time, when we finished, you were glowing, and sparkling."
"Sparkling?"
Fjornir realized she was tired, drowsy. "Your whole body glowed, like your hand does when you Heal. And then it sparkled."
"Wow..." When Eirin failed to say anything more, Fjornir propped himself up to look at her. She was asleep. Not unconscious, but snuggled onto the wolf fur in a sleeping position with her hands below her head.
Fjornir frowned. He worried that he just drained her energy and that she wouldn't be able to heal tomorrow. He'd had no way of knowing her body would react the way it did. He slid off the boulder from behind her, walked around to the front and took her and her fur coat in his arms. He walked as quietly as possible into the camp, weaving around pup-tents toward the Healer's tent. Thankfully, even the horses were fast asleep, and no one spotted them. Fjornir found an empty bedroll in the Healer's tent and lowered Eirin down onto it. She sleepily pulled her fur coat around her body. She appeared fine, just exhausted, so Fjornir retired to his own tent. Inside, everyone slept. Fjornir collapsed onto his bedroll and immediately fell asleep.
At that moment, Ralof opened his eyes. He sat up and turned to the other side of the tent. Fjornir had returned. Ralof had considered waking Galmar to report the Dragonborn's absence earlier, but who was he to raise such concern? Fjornir, being the Dragonborn, outranked everyone except Galmar and Ulfric. As long as Fjornir obeyed Galmar's orders and arrived on time for battle, he could do as he pleased. And then, the scent that entered the room when Fjornir returned awoke a deep, distant memory in the back of Ralof's mind.
Eirin was nearly sixteen, and Ralof nearly eighteen. They had run off to a flowery meadow outside of Helgen and had made love the entire morning and afternoon. This hadn't been their first time; that was months before. But that day in the meadow, Ralof painfully recalled, was for all intents and purposes their wedding day. In the seclusion of their secret meeting spot in a seldom-visited area of the Helgen defenses, the two had made their promises, and decided to consummate the vows the following day. They would have waited, but Ralof was going to leave soon to join the Stormcloaks, and Eirin's mother still said she was too young to marry.
As they'd lay naked in the sunshine surrounded by flowers, Eirin wove for them matching flower crowns and rings. The private ceremony would never be official or recognized by anyone but themselves, but they didn't care. They had belonged to one another.
The memory tore a hole through Ralof's chest. That scent, the scent Fjornir carried, was Eirin.