“You mistake my meaning,” she protested. “Skyrim belongs to more than the Nords now. If you pick apart strands of woven wool, you rent the garment, and yet the fabric is stronger for the weaving, stronger together than any individual strand.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Life here is harsh, wife. Nords are not so easily swayed by pretty words, and Skyrim does not yield to the musings of hopeful ideal.”
Her jaw fell open at his stubborn foolishness. “Do we inhabit the same land, husband? Did Skyrim not put hope in the musings of prophecy in the face of Alduin? Is Skyrim not the land that yielded to the legend of the dragonborn? Skyrim had the choosing of me, as you tell it, and yet here you sit, smugly dismissing ideal when it does not suit your arrogant hatred. Your land is choosing again, aiding herself with her own varied peoples, and yet you spit upon her offering. Why then am I here, husband, if your eyes do not see this?”
Her impassioned speech had left her leaning forward to poke her finger in her husband’s hard, muscled chest. The coverlet pooled around her waist, the paltry shield forgotten, as she continued, “Does Skyrim choose so wrongly? You would prefer another Dragonborn, one not of such lowly Imperial race? Perhaps it is a towering Nord you want, with long honey gold hair and a fat glistening dowry of mammoth cheese?”
His face was inches from her own now, his eyes nothing but a glint reflecting the fire as he studied her intently. Her own gaze fell to his mouth as she realized how close they were, as she heard the soft caress of his deep husky voice. “I am fond of grilled mammoth cheese,” he whispered, “with a drizzle of honey and…”
Before he could finish, she inhaled sharply, made a tight fist of her hand, and punched him in the chest. “Will you not be serious?” she hissed.
There was not much force behind the blow, nor did he even flinch at it, but his gaze bore into her own with an expression full of the serious conviction she had demanded. “In truth, I would prefer no other. I would have you, wife. And well you know this already, though you do fish for the telling of it.”
She felt yet another flush reach her already flaming cheeks at his candid observation, and she moved to pull away from him, but her grabbed her hand to flatten her palm against the warmth of his bare chest, and continued. “But yet I will say the words aloud, as there is need for the saying as much as for the hearing, so listen well, wife. I would have you with me as High Queen, with all rights held to such title. I would have you by my side in the upcoming war, with every hope you inspire.”
His chest was warm under her hand. She could feel the beat of his heart, and its swift cadence seemed in rhythm with her own. His gruff voice deepened, as he continued, “And I would have you in my bed at night, to do with as you will.”
The heat of his words seared her, like a pinch of Giant’s snuff, and drugged her senses just as quick. She had never been so aware of someone’s voice, and his was one that hummed with power and called to her body and her thu-um and the longer she listened to the stroke of his voice the more she yearned for the stroke of his touch.
His hand slid down to her wrist in a gentle stroke, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, sending tendrils of desire to trickle down her belly at his final words: “What would you have of me, Arria? Name it, give voice to desire, and let us see our marriage strengthened, and this land with it.”
She could treat with a dragon without hesitation or misstep, but put this man in her presence, her name on his lips, and she heard herself say, “I should like to renovate the Gray Quarter.”
The implication of that simple statement was not something she was comfortable admitting to him. She had not even admitted it to herself.
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timeasmymeasure
Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 12c/14
Date: 2014-11-13 04:09 am (UTC)He shook his head and sighed. “Life here is harsh, wife. Nords are not so easily swayed by pretty words, and Skyrim does not yield to the musings of hopeful ideal.”
Her jaw fell open at his stubborn foolishness. “Do we inhabit the same land, husband? Did Skyrim not put hope in the musings of prophecy in the face of Alduin? Is Skyrim not the land that yielded to the legend of the dragonborn? Skyrim had the choosing of me, as you tell it, and yet here you sit, smugly dismissing ideal when it does not suit your arrogant hatred. Your land is choosing again, aiding herself with her own varied peoples, and yet you spit upon her offering. Why then am I here, husband, if your eyes do not see this?”
Her impassioned speech had left her leaning forward to poke her finger in her husband’s hard, muscled chest. The coverlet pooled around her waist, the paltry shield forgotten, as she continued, “Does Skyrim choose so wrongly? You would prefer another Dragonborn, one not of such lowly Imperial race? Perhaps it is a towering Nord you want, with long honey gold hair and a fat glistening dowry of mammoth cheese?”
His face was inches from her own now, his eyes nothing but a glint reflecting the fire as he studied her intently. Her own gaze fell to his mouth as she realized how close they were, as she heard the soft caress of his deep husky voice. “I am fond of grilled mammoth cheese,” he whispered, “with a drizzle of honey and…”
Before he could finish, she inhaled sharply, made a tight fist of her hand, and punched him in the chest. “Will you not be serious?” she hissed.
There was not much force behind the blow, nor did he even flinch at it, but his gaze bore into her own with an expression full of the serious conviction she had demanded. “In truth, I would prefer no other. I would have you, wife. And well you know this already, though you do fish for the telling of it.”
She felt yet another flush reach her already flaming cheeks at his candid observation, and she moved to pull away from him, but her grabbed her hand to flatten her palm against the warmth of his bare chest, and continued. “But yet I will say the words aloud, as there is need for the saying as much as for the hearing, so listen well, wife. I would have you with me as High Queen, with all rights held to such title. I would have you by my side in the upcoming war, with every hope you inspire.”
His chest was warm under her hand. She could feel the beat of his heart, and its swift cadence seemed in rhythm with her own. His gruff voice deepened, as he continued, “And I would have you in my bed at night, to do with as you will.”
The heat of his words seared her, like a pinch of Giant’s snuff, and drugged her senses just as quick. She had never been so aware of someone’s voice, and his was one that hummed with power and called to her body and her thu-um and the longer she listened to the stroke of his voice the more she yearned for the stroke of his touch.
His hand slid down to her wrist in a gentle stroke, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, sending tendrils of desire to trickle down her belly at his final words: “What would you have of me, Arria? Name it, give voice to desire, and let us see our marriage strengthened, and this land with it.”
She could treat with a dragon without hesitation or misstep, but put this man in her presence, her name on his lips, and she heard herself say, “I should like to renovate the Gray Quarter.”
The implication of that simple statement was not something she was comfortable admitting to him. She had not even admitted it to herself.
She was not staying with him, was she mad?