But, oh, what beautiful things I'll wear
What beautiful dresses and hair
I'm lucky to share his bed
Especially since I'll soon be dead...~
And when I'm beheaded, at least I was wedded...
"Marry Me", Emilie Autumn
Without a doubt, she fought with the strength and voracity of a wildfire. Galmar sometimes found himself looking over to her in awe when the enemies around him had already fallen, this woman who had come from literally nowhere, disowning even her own name for the sake of their cause. This woman who seemed to call down inspiration and righteous anger as flame, striking down those who would dare to cross her. Oftentimes he would find her just sitting in the middle of a circle of Imperial bodies, long after the battle was over, with a strange expression on her face, as though she was trying to absorb what she had done.
It was about then Galmar began to look at her and see fragility.
"Woman," He would say, every time. And she would turn to look at him, the deep green eyes fathomless and enveloping, and wait for him to continue. "That battle is over."
"I know, Galmar," She would say, looking back out over the charred and burned bodies. And she would say nothing more, and he would leave her until she came back to camp an hour or so later. He never did figure out why she stayed out with those bodies. It was almost as though she was trying guide the souls to Sovngarde herself.
Another thing he would notice is that when she finally did came back to camp, and her fellow soldiers asked her questions, she would never answer. It was as though as soon as she stepped out of his or Ulfric's presence, she became mute and unreachable, a thing too perfectly porcelain to be real, sitting on the edges of eternity.
It took him a long time to realize that she was young, maybe in her 20s. And he could not for the life of him figure out why he had thought she was older, except for the weight she seemed to carry on her face and her heart. Normally, he didn't bother thinking this much about his soldiers, but she was, in every way, an anomaly. A red headed, short, beautiful, fragile looking Breton mage, fighting a war meant for strong, large, Nord warriors.
"The men have taken to calling you Fire-Hammer," He told her one day, "For your ferocity in battle. So that is what we shall call you, from here on out. Fire-Hammer." She didn't respond, merely nodded, which made him wonder that a fighter with as much power and passion as she had could possibly be so dead outside the battlefield.
"How is she doing, Galmar?"
Galmar looked up from the map where he had been mapping out strategies. "As a soldier? She is absolutely brilliant."
"You speak as though there were more to say."
"Her flame shines only on the battlefield, my King," He explains, "As soon as she steps off of it, it becomes only cinders."
"What do you mean by that?"
"She speaks a word to no one but you and I," He says, "Her fellow soldiers think she is a mute and I have no evidence to convince them otherwise."
"Hmm," Said Ulfric, "That is indeed interesting. Send her to me when you see her next."
Gaella really, really didn't want to go see Ulfric. "This is an important battle. If we win this last tower, we'll retake the Reach."
"I think we will be fine without you this time," Galmar said. "If you had only answered my summons earlier, perhaps you could have attended."
She scowled heavily. "I was training."
"Indeed," Galmar said, "You were training during each of the five messages I sent you."
She set her mouth and didn't reply.
"Go see our King, and by Talos, be respectful for once. It is a great honor for him to seek a private audience with you."
Gaella didn't feel honored. In fact, she was fairly sure what he wanted to ask of her. And should he ask it...
...Well, she didn't know what she would do, then.
Honestly, she considered running. She stared up at the massive doors to Ulfric's palace, and marveled at just how much she wanted to run away right now. But she could not. This man had never wronged her before, and had even helped to give her a new purpose. The least she could do was hear him out.
So against all of her better instincts, she entered, even though she knew she would regret it later.
"I must admit," The great and true High King of Skyrim said to her, "That I was starting to wonder if you would come."
"Does a soldier have a choice when her King calls upon her?"
"Does a human have free-will?"
"Debatable, when will is subjective and easily manipulated."
"You do not seem the kind that is easily manipulated. You are here because you want to be here, not because you truly believed you did not have a choice."
For once, she is silent.
Ulfric stands, stepping down from his throne, and inspects the woman standing before him. She wears robes instead of armor, as befitting of her class, but they are still blue and emblazoned with the Stormcloak bear to mark her as one of his own. Perhaps his gaze gives away something he hadn't meant it to, for the woman squirms and wears an expression of discomfort.
"What ails you?"
"That's a broad question, don't you think?"
"Why do you become uncomfortable when I look upon you?"
"...I know that look, High King," She says, gritting her teeth.
Ulfric would smirk, but for that she looked so uncomfortable. "My apologies. I had meant simply to convey admiration."
"Yeah, right," She mutters, and won't look at him.
Ulfric tilts his head, honestly confused. "What is this?" He asks, walking in front of her. "Where is the Fire-Hammer that left my palace walls and struck fear into the hearts of our combined enemy?"
"I'm right here. Why are you asking stupid questions? You are not a stupid man."
Ulfric smiles. So there were still some flames left, after all. "Galmar tells me you do not talk to your fellow soldiers. That you do not make friends."
"What are you, my mother? What do you care? I'm just a soldier in your army." She sounds spiteful, angry.
He reaches for her, and lifts her chin up to look at him, gently, with a finger. "It is my place to decide who I do and do not care about," He says firmly, looking into her eyes, and he could swear he saw her wilting. Her gaze turns from him rather quickly, and he lets go of her chin. "So answer my question. Why do you keep to yourself?"
"There is no reason to make friends when they will just die tomorrow," She says bluntly. "This is the life of a soldier. Were I simply a city guard or court mage, it would be different. This is bloody, all-out war against an enemy more numerous than we are. What matters in the end is my own ability to protect them as best I can, and to win the war."
"Of this I can not argue, but do you not get lonely, simply being a soldier?"
"No," She says.
"You are lying to me."
"Look, Ulfric." She sighs, rubbing her face. "I don't understand the point of this. I came to join your cause, and I proved myself and joined it. Why are you trying to be...I don't even know what you're trying to be. But I sure as hell know you don't take a moody soldier away from a battle to speak to them about feelings and relationships and being alone. Why don't you tell me what you really want?"
Ulfric, despite himself, smiled. Even in her stubbornness, her honesty refreshed him like a fresh mountain stream. "I'm not sure you want to know," He said.
"I despise bullshit more than you do," She says bluntly. "Can we get to the point?"
He beckoned her over, and she followed him, albeit reluctantly, to a different room, much more private, with its own table where they could sit. "Sit," He commands, if only because he knows it will annoy her, and turns to pour some mead. When he is done and turns around, she still hasn't sat. He raises an eyebrow at her.
"...It's rude to sit before the King does, sir." She says, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"...Such a chess player," He says, walking over, putting the cups of mead down. "Don't bother with it, though I admire the set-up. I know you simply disobeyed me to disobey me, not because you were truly worried about what was proper and what was improper."
"It isn't often I find a good excuse to disobey a King. I figure I ought to take advantage of it when I can."
He stands above her- and truly, she is small, he realizes, looking down on her. Perhaps not for a Breton, but he is at least a foot taller than her, and he makes use of that height. "Gives you a little more control, which you lack," He says, and he can tell by the way she freezes that he is correct.
"I believe I've found the issue," He says smugly.
"Great. Can I go now?"
"No."
She sighs, irritatedly.
Ulfric leans in, close- uncomfortably close, he knew, and a part of him hated to do it this way- and caught her upper arms as she tried to scoot away. "I am your King," He whispered, and he felt her shiver beneath him, though from what, he couldn't say. His instincts told him fear. "If you cannot trust me to have control and power over you, then you are a fool to have chosen this side. Tell me, Fire-Hammer, oh brightly burning flame...why do you fight for me?"
"Let me go," She says weakly, and he notices, not with a little interest, that her voice sounds near tears.
He doesn't let her go, but he does straighten back up, and look down at her. She seems to have shrunk inside of herself, now refusing to even look at him. It would seem that even the smallest display of power could do this to her...he would have to proceed carefully.
"Why do you fight for me?" He asked again, his voice more forceful, his grip firm. He hoped to make it clear that he would not release her until she answered him.
And it does take a while. He is staring at her for what feels like an hour, though he knows it could not possibly be that long, until his hands start to ache from being in the same place for so long. But she finally whispers something...of course, he can't hear it.
"Speak up, woman," He orders.
"...Because you gave me a reason to live when I had none. Because you gave me hope."
"Ah," He said, and the answer pleased him. "And now?"
"And now I'd prefer to keep you at arm's length, sir."
"Sir...?" He shook his head. "Don't start that. You are too good for that. Why are you acting this way? If you fight for me because I gave you something to live for, why do you refuse to speak to me, even on equal terms? Why do you wish to stay removed from me?"
She is silent.
"Why do you separate yourself from those who would care for you?" He raises his voice, becoming frustrated. He is a patient man when he needs to be, but his patience for this has run out. "By Talos, woman-"
"I don't believe in that," She says quickly, and her answer so confuses him that he stops.
"You don't believe in what? Talos?"
"I don't believe in those that would claim they care for me. Sir." She adds obstinately.
"...Ah, yes. So that is what I saw in you at Helgen. That is why I was transfixed."
"It's just the hair."
"No," He says, unwilling to let her lighten the conversation. "You are the face of the Empire's victims, downtrodden and miserable. A beautiful thing beaten down by those who care nothing for others."
"The Empire didn't get me into that state," She says.
"What did?"
And then there was silence, and he sighs. He makes the mistake of letting her go, and she does something unexpected.
She runs.
Gaella hadn't the slightest idea why she was running from him. She didn't understand it herself. All she knew is that she had to get away from him, right now, or things would be horrible. Something bad was going to happen.
What she didn't know, or expect, was that Ulfric could be so damn fast. It didn't help that he knew the castle better than she did, and before she could get far, he was in the doorway of the adjacent room, arms crossed. And the look he gave her, dark and brooding, scared her so much she thought she would cry.
I knew it would be like this, She bemoaned on the inside, Oh, Gods, why did I come? Why did I do this to myself?
"Why do you run from me? To think, you won't run from Imperials, but from your own King..."
She backs up, and to her detriment, he follows her. She belatedly realizes that this amuses him. This is a challenge, a hunt. She the prey, and he, the hunter. Except it was worse. At least the prey in the wild knew that they would die if they were caught. Who knows what Ulfric would do to her, once he caught her. She couldn't read his face, nor see his intentions in those blue eyes, now stormy instead of calm. "Stop," She says, "I only run because you chase me."
"I only chase you because you run."
Pretty soon, her back hits the wall, and there is nowhere else to back away to. And then Ulfric is upon her, pinning her against the wall, one arm to either side of her. Uncomfortably close.
"I'll ask you again," He said, "What made you like this?"
"Life!" She yells at him. "Life did, and you're not going to fix my issues this way. You're only going to make them worse! You're going to ruin my view of you even farther, and fairly soon-"
He put his finger on her lips to quiet her. "No," He said quietly. "You will talk. I don't care how many moons it takes, or how far I have to chase you. You and I are two people destined to change the world. And you...dovahkin, this is behavior unbecoming. Where is the woman that called me a horse's ass the first day we met?"
She resists the urge to bite his finger.
"You do not have to talk now. But rest assured, this will not be my last summons." He moves his finger.
"How do you know I won't be clear out of here as soon as you move?"
"Because you and I have too much in common for you to run."
"Such as?"
"Burdens too big for us to bear alone. A hatred for the Empire. And..."
"...And?" She's afraid to ask.
Ulfric reaches down and turns her face towards him again. "A desire to protect the weak," He says quietly. "Against all those that would take advantage of, and destroy them."
Gaella says nothing, but her eyes start to overflow with tears.
He lets go of her chin, sighing. Perhaps the tears were a necessary thing, but still he hated them. And furthermore, he didn't know why he cared so much in the first place. He didn't know why he wanted to heal and protect this woman. She was right. She should have just been any other soldier in his army. But despite himself, he ended up putting his hand on her back and pulling her into him. Before he'd even fully registered himself doing that, he found himself wrapping her arms around her and holding her tightly as she cried.
Talos guide me, he thought, looking at the ceiling, feeling many strange emotions at once. She- Gaella Fire-Hammer- was the face of victims everywhere, and he didn't even know for what. He didn't know what had happened to her, for she wouldn't tell him. He wondered if he would ever know. He decided that it would be okay, if he could just get her to smile again. If he could just get her to laugh...Breton or not, she was one of his people now, and to let her suffer so was not something he would stand idly by and do.
"Gaella," He asks quietly. "What is your real name?"
"...Lucinda," She whimpers. "It's Lucinda."
"Lucinda is a beautiful name. You should keep it."
"No," She says, "I don't want to have that name anymore."
"Very well. May I call you Lucinda, when it's you and I?"
"If you have to. I hate that name."
"Why?"
"My family gave it to me."
He was silent, pondering this. He decided to make a joke. "Yes, that is generally how one receives a name."
"The difference is that they are normally born out of love. My family had no love for me."
"And that is why you are here."
"Yes..."
"Well, then, Lucinda," He says, "How about this..."
She sniffles, wiping her face, and looks up at him. Ulfric feels a strange pain in his chest, looking at those haunting eyes, and before he knows what he is saying, he says it:
"If you continue to fight for me, I promise that when we win the war, I will make you my High Queen. You will never have to worry about anything ever again."
Her jaw drops open, and he has to double check to make sure the emotion he's reading on her face is truly what it is.
...It is. Rage. Unbridled rage.