A shiver skipped down her spine, of cold but perhaps also of fear. She heard his snort of disgust as he tugged her further into the warmth of the room, depositing her near a table set with cheese and mead and the flickering of candles.
A thick rug was now under her feet, instead of the cold, hard stone. She did not call it kindness, as this new position put her as far as possible from the door, with the table in between her and possible escape.
She curled her bare toes into the plush, warm fabric, and tried not to look at the massive four-poster bed that dominated the center of the back wall, across from her position. Instead she scouted under the veil of her lashes for anything that could be used as a weapon. To her chagrin, he had not left even a meager cheese knife on the table.
“Such a shame, that Skyrim chose you. You cannot even handle her mild weather.”
His taunt interrupted her search, and as if to mock her further, he shook himself out of his well-worn fur-trimmed coat. She watched as he gently folded the weathered garment, his movements slow and methodical, before setting it down on a carved chair in the corner. His fingers traced over the fur collar, a soft stroking. The gentleness in his touch was surprising, drawing her attention to the massive size of his calloused, scar-flecked hands.
She imagined he could come close to circling her own delicate neck with just one of them. She tried not to imagine how those large, warm, battle-roughened hands would feel skimming so lightly over quivering, sensitive flesh, and another kind of shiver knotted in her belly.
He bent over to remove his boots and set them on the floor next to the chair.
She knew he was angry, could see it in the tense set of his shoulders. But unlike her own tremulous control, he seemed to keep his temper under tight rein. This did nothing to calm her fractured nerves. She desperately needed to regain her focus. This kind of enemy was the most dangerous, the most difficult to read, to know when the strike would happen, or from where.
“You are not even of this land, but Skyrim chose you. I have thought to listen to her as my guiding voice, but this… you are her betrayer, Ysmir.”
He looked up at her then – at a seeming loss, his voice no longer mocking. Part of her wanted to argue that his version of Skyrim was not the only true vision. But another part of her couldn’t blame him for his dismay.
She would not have been her choice either.
She longed to tell him such a thing. To shout it to the rafters, to spit back his precious Skyrim in his arrogant face. But she could not answer, and for this she was relieved.
Because a small part of her was afraid, deep down, that she would beg.
Plead with him to simply let her go.
Was that not a choice he had offered her?
It was over. She had lost. She had failed her people, her family.
Her brothers.
Her home.
Oh, how she longed for it. But she knew going back would not be any sort of salve for her soul. Without her family, she was as much a lone wanderer there as she was here.
But at least it wasn’t here.
She cast a longing glance towards the door and a snort of sound escaped him.
“You are welcome to try.”
He stood there, legs braced in a wide stance of power, arms crossed over his massive chest. There was challenge in his eyes.
When she did not budge, the look of mockery again twisted the rugged planes of his face into a cruel mask. “Little dragon, are you so easily conquered? Perhaps the lessons of your people have taught you to bow too quickly.”
She clenched her jaw around the uncomfortable fabric, damp and abrasive between her teeth.
Patience is a powerful ally, child. Do not think her lazy, nor idle. Arrogance is an honest thing, but diminishes wisdom. Humility, however false, can gain you that which passion destroys.
The words of her father again provided comfort. Let him think he had won. Sacrifice her pride to his demands. Wait for his guard to slip.
She squared her shoulders, her only sign of rebellion. She was prepared for whatever punishment he had planned.
Or so she thought.
Nothing could have prepared her for just how diabolical the Stormcloak rebel truly was.
Re: Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 3a/?
A thick rug was now under her feet, instead of the cold, hard stone. She did not call it kindness, as this new position put her as far as possible from the door, with the table in between her and possible escape.
She curled her bare toes into the plush, warm fabric, and tried not to look at the massive four-poster bed that dominated the center of the back wall, across from her position. Instead she scouted under the veil of her lashes for anything that could be used as a weapon. To her chagrin, he had not left even a meager cheese knife on the table.
“Such a shame, that Skyrim chose you. You cannot even handle her mild weather.”
His taunt interrupted her search, and as if to mock her further, he shook himself out of his well-worn fur-trimmed coat. She watched as he gently folded the weathered garment, his movements slow and methodical, before setting it down on a carved chair in the corner. His fingers traced over the fur collar, a soft stroking. The gentleness in his touch was surprising, drawing her attention to the massive size of his calloused, scar-flecked hands.
She imagined he could come close to circling her own delicate neck with just one of them. She tried not to imagine how those large, warm, battle-roughened hands would feel skimming so lightly over quivering, sensitive flesh, and another kind of shiver knotted in her belly.
He bent over to remove his boots and set them on the floor next to the chair.
She knew he was angry, could see it in the tense set of his shoulders. But unlike her own tremulous control, he seemed to keep his temper under tight rein. This did nothing to calm her fractured nerves. She desperately needed to regain her focus. This kind of enemy was the most dangerous, the most difficult to read, to know when the strike would happen, or from where.
“You are not even of this land, but Skyrim chose you. I have thought to listen to her as my guiding voice, but this… you are her betrayer, Ysmir.”
He looked up at her then – at a seeming loss, his voice no longer mocking. Part of her wanted to argue that his version of Skyrim was not the only true vision. But another part of her couldn’t blame him for his dismay.
She would not have been her choice either.
She longed to tell him such a thing. To shout it to the rafters, to spit back his precious Skyrim in his arrogant face. But she could not answer, and for this she was relieved.
Because a small part of her was afraid, deep down, that she would beg.
Plead with him to simply let her go.
Was that not a choice he had offered her?
It was over. She had lost. She had failed her people, her family.
Her brothers.
Her home.
Oh, how she longed for it. But she knew going back would not be any sort of salve for her soul. Without her family, she was as much a lone wanderer there as she was here.
But at least it wasn’t here.
She cast a longing glance towards the door and a snort of sound escaped him.
“You are welcome to try.”
He stood there, legs braced in a wide stance of power, arms crossed over his massive chest. There was challenge in his eyes.
When she did not budge, the look of mockery again twisted the rugged planes of his face into a cruel mask. “Little dragon, are you so easily conquered? Perhaps the lessons of your people have taught you to bow too quickly.”
She clenched her jaw around the uncomfortable fabric, damp and abrasive between her teeth.
Patience is a powerful ally, child. Do not think her lazy, nor idle. Arrogance is an honest thing, but diminishes wisdom. Humility, however false, can gain you that which passion destroys.
The words of her father again provided comfort. Let him think he had won. Sacrifice her pride to his demands. Wait for his guard to slip.
She squared her shoulders, her only sign of rebellion. She was prepared for whatever punishment he had planned.
Or so she thought.
Nothing could have prepared her for just how diabolical the Stormcloak rebel truly was.
He took off his shirt.