Galmar’s expression was priceless. The loyal Nord opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was working on a piece of hardened taffy from the Rift, before finally sputtering, in his usual articulate fashion, “What?”
They were hunched over a map at Castle Dour, discussing locations to canvas for hidden Imperial camps. His announcement had come rather sudden in the course of their conversation, and so he took pity on Galmar’s surprise.
“I cannot keep her here,” he argued.
Galmar leaned across the table with a sneer. “After that big fuss you made to marry her? I urged for execution. I only agreed to your bloody plan under the condition she be kept under our thumb. And your cock,” he added, as a snarled afterthought.
Ulfric brushed off the Nord’s accustomed brashness. “She is Dragonborn. She is no pet to be kept.”
Galmar spoke in precise, clipped syllables, as if explaining to a child. “She is the enemy, Ulfric. She is capable of many things against us. And you were the one to argue that she could serve use.”
“She has served use. Her name, joined with mine, has strengthened our cause. Is Skyrim not more united?”
“There are still those who fight against us. And there will be yet more legion soldiers sent to test our course.”
Galmar’s words rang of uncomfortable truth. But Skyrim could not fight enemies from without and from within. He had pushed her to do so for too long, as he had pushed the problem of the dragons aside in favor of the rebellion. And now these beasts were a concern that could no longer be shut out of mind and eye.
Skyrim had suffered for his greed, along with her people, but there was no going back on his decisions now.
Only forward.
If only he could close his eyes and not see death and corpses and scorched earth and rivers of tears. In his nightmares and haunting, waking memory, they dripped over his hands in burning rivulets of grief and latent accusation, as he handed over to widowed wives and broken mothers whatever small tokens soldiers were wont to carry with them to battle.
Foolish reminders of home and family and stakes that only raised higher as war raged on.
He dropped his chin to his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger, as Galmar interrupted his moment of ridiculous self-pity.
“Be wary of your own course, Ulfric, and do not give strength to our enemies. Do not let her go.”
These words spoke to his baser desires. Oh yes, he wanted to keep her, and her responsive body, such a match to his own that he craved her even now, at simply the thought of how she felt pressed against him. Around him. He wanted to use her, and continue using her, in ways that would make Galmar’s weathered ears blush pink at the hearing of them.
Yet deeper, longer held desires called for sacrifice in the present.
He looked up and met the eyes of his old friend and confidant. “The moot will meet soon, Galmar, and we will have a true High King at long last. But keeping the Dragonborn locked in a tower, at the expense of Skyrim herself, will only serve as valid argument for the opposition’s cause. I have proven myself worthy to fight for Skyrim, and win her, and now I must show myself capable to hold her reins and guide her steps with careful hand.”
“And if your Imperial filly chooses to take bit between teeth and rally our enemies?”
Ulfric sighed. He was not looking forward to what must be done. “Then we will have to make sure any who would yet be enemy to our cause remain under hand and heel.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 9a/?
Date: 2013-03-10 09:41 pm (UTC)Galmar’s expression was priceless. The loyal Nord opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was working on a piece of hardened taffy from the Rift, before finally sputtering, in his usual articulate fashion, “What?”
They were hunched over a map at Castle Dour, discussing locations to canvas for hidden Imperial camps. His announcement had come rather sudden in the course of their conversation, and so he took pity on Galmar’s surprise.
“I cannot keep her here,” he argued.
Galmar leaned across the table with a sneer. “After that big fuss you made to marry her? I urged for execution. I only agreed to your bloody plan under the condition she be kept under our thumb. And your cock,” he added, as a snarled afterthought.
Ulfric brushed off the Nord’s accustomed brashness. “She is Dragonborn. She is no pet to be kept.”
Galmar spoke in precise, clipped syllables, as if explaining to a child. “She is the enemy, Ulfric. She is capable of many things against us. And you were the one to argue that she could serve use.”
“She has served use. Her name, joined with mine, has strengthened our cause. Is Skyrim not more united?”
“There are still those who fight against us. And there will be yet more legion soldiers sent to test our course.”
Galmar’s words rang of uncomfortable truth. But Skyrim could not fight enemies from without and from within. He had pushed her to do so for too long, as he had pushed the problem of the dragons aside in favor of the rebellion. And now these beasts were a concern that could no longer be shut out of mind and eye.
Skyrim had suffered for his greed, along with her people, but there was no going back on his decisions now.
Only forward.
If only he could close his eyes and not see death and corpses and scorched earth and rivers of tears. In his nightmares and haunting, waking memory, they dripped over his hands in burning rivulets of grief and latent accusation, as he handed over to widowed wives and broken mothers whatever small tokens soldiers were wont to carry with them to battle.
Foolish reminders of home and family and stakes that only raised higher as war raged on.
He dropped his chin to his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger, as Galmar interrupted his moment of ridiculous self-pity.
“Be wary of your own course, Ulfric, and do not give strength to our enemies. Do not let her go.”
These words spoke to his baser desires. Oh yes, he wanted to keep her, and her responsive body, such a match to his own that he craved her even now, at simply the thought of how she felt pressed against him. Around him. He wanted to use her, and continue using her, in ways that would make Galmar’s weathered ears blush pink at the hearing of them.
Yet deeper, longer held desires called for sacrifice in the present.
He looked up and met the eyes of his old friend and confidant. “The moot will meet soon, Galmar, and we will have a true High King at long last. But keeping the Dragonborn locked in a tower, at the expense of Skyrim herself, will only serve as valid argument for the opposition’s cause. I have proven myself worthy to fight for Skyrim, and win her, and now I must show myself capable to hold her reins and guide her steps with careful hand.”
“And if your Imperial filly chooses to take bit between teeth and rally our enemies?”
Ulfric sighed. He was not looking forward to what must be done. “Then we will have to make sure any who would yet be enemy to our cause remain under hand and heel.”