A?N: Yeah, I have no real excuse for letting this go for so long without an update. Mea Culpa. A prompt from Page 5 caught my eye recently, and I need to finish this before tackling that one - so hopefully that will kick my Muses into gear.
Summary: Ulfric has a broken leg and a cranky, temperamental Housecarl. And Ralof is also there.
Part 6
*-*-*
Galmar was kneeling before the shrine that Rozenn kept in the Manor's cellar, praying to Talos (and any other Divines that might have been listening) for a way to talk with Ulfric about his sudden burst of temper. Skeever bodies were piled in a corner, having made the ultimate sacrifice to placate Galmar's sudden fury. He snorted, wryly amused that Ulfric's flimsy excuse had had some truth to it.
As he breathed in the calming straw-and-sawdust scents of the room and meditated before the altar, Galmar missed the telltale creak of the trapdoor opening. He didn't, however, miss the sound of heavy booted feet upon the ladder.
"Can't a man have some privacy in which to pray?" Galmar bellowed.
"My apologies, General Galmar, but, well, you try saying "no" to the High King," Ralof replied, reaching up overhead.
"I do. Often and vocally. You'll learn, soon enough or - oh no," Galmar muttered, then halted, struck by a sudden, horrific thought. He turned and shook his head vehemently, pointing back upwards as he strode to the ladder. "No. No, no, no, no! Ulfric, no! Your leg's not even remotely set right! Get back in bed! At once!"
Ulfric Stormcloak looked down through the trapdoor at his long-time friend, and glared at him. "I will do no such thing, Galmar. It is high time we spoke of that which troubles you."
"You trouble me, Ulfric!" Galmar hissed. "You'll be lame the rest of your days if you are not careful! Do you want that?"
"Do you want that?" Ulfric countered.
Galmar shoved his way up the ladder, past Ralof, to stand tall in the small sitting area, glaring ferociously at Ulfric, who was braced on the shoulders of two of the young Stormcloak soldiers.
"You know, for a man famed for his rhetoric, your rejoinders are severely lacking in wit," Galmar said, shoving the two soldiers aside, and taking Ulfric's weight himself. The High King sagged slightly against him, testament to the pain he was hiding from his subordinates. "Idiot."
"Galmar," Ulfric began, but trailed off, uncertain for once how to talk to his friend.
"We'll talk in private, in the bedroom. Once your damned leg is elevated again and you've taken something to dull the pain," Galmar ordered, turning them both and walking back to the bedrooms.
"I often wonder, Galmar, if you know which of us is in charge," Ulfric murmured, although a jolt to his leg, crossing the threshold to the bedroom, left him gasping for breath.
"I know precisely who is in charge, Ulfric, and it's not some snotty, spoiled Jarl's son," Galmar said, in perfect imitation of himself at age fourteen. Ulfric managed a weak smile at Galmar's poking fun.
It took a little while for Galmar to get Ulfric settled comfortably, and then to have Greta bring in a small dose of some manner of poppy juice to dull the throbbing pain in Ulfric's leg.
"Now, you may tell me," Ulfric said.
"Oh, may I, indeed?" Galmar responded in an arch tone of voice.
"I could order you to tell me," Ulfric pointed out, without any real heat in the threat.
Galmar stiffened perceptibly. "You wouldn't, though, would you?" he asked warily.
"No. It would not be well done of me to force you. But I wish you would confide in me," Ulfric replied tiredly.
"Fine. It's all Thongvar Silver-Blood's fault. Him and the barkeep in that damned tavern of his," Galmar replied, sitting down in a comfortable armchair.
"What? Markarth? What has the ale from this afternoon got to do with Markarth?"
"Will you let me tell the story, please, Ulfric?" Galmar asked pointedly.
The Old-Fashioned Way 6/?
Summary: Ulfric has a broken leg and a cranky, temperamental Housecarl. And Ralof is also there.
Part 6
*-*-*
Galmar was kneeling before the shrine that Rozenn kept in the Manor's cellar, praying to Talos (and any other Divines that might have been listening) for a way to talk with Ulfric about his sudden burst of temper. Skeever bodies were piled in a corner, having made the ultimate sacrifice to placate Galmar's sudden fury. He snorted, wryly amused that Ulfric's flimsy excuse had had some truth to it.
As he breathed in the calming straw-and-sawdust scents of the room and meditated before the altar, Galmar missed the telltale creak of the trapdoor opening. He didn't, however, miss the sound of heavy booted feet upon the ladder.
"Can't a man have some privacy in which to pray?" Galmar bellowed.
"My apologies, General Galmar, but, well, you try saying "no" to the High King," Ralof replied, reaching up overhead.
"I do. Often and vocally. You'll learn, soon enough or - oh no," Galmar muttered, then halted, struck by a sudden, horrific thought. He turned and shook his head vehemently, pointing back upwards as he strode to the ladder. "No. No, no, no, no! Ulfric, no! Your leg's not even remotely set right! Get back in bed! At once!"
Ulfric Stormcloak looked down through the trapdoor at his long-time friend, and glared at him. "I will do no such thing, Galmar. It is high time we spoke of that which troubles you."
"You trouble me, Ulfric!" Galmar hissed. "You'll be lame the rest of your days if you are not careful! Do you want that?"
"Do you want that?" Ulfric countered.
Galmar shoved his way up the ladder, past Ralof, to stand tall in the small sitting area, glaring ferociously at Ulfric, who was braced on the shoulders of two of the young Stormcloak soldiers.
"You know, for a man famed for his rhetoric, your rejoinders are severely lacking in wit," Galmar said, shoving the two soldiers aside, and taking Ulfric's weight himself. The High King sagged slightly against him, testament to the pain he was hiding from his subordinates. "Idiot."
"Galmar," Ulfric began, but trailed off, uncertain for once how to talk to his friend.
"We'll talk in private, in the bedroom. Once your damned leg is elevated again and you've taken something to dull the pain," Galmar ordered, turning them both and walking back to the bedrooms.
"I often wonder, Galmar, if you know which of us is in charge," Ulfric murmured, although a jolt to his leg, crossing the threshold to the bedroom, left him gasping for breath.
"I know precisely who is in charge, Ulfric, and it's not some snotty, spoiled Jarl's son," Galmar said, in perfect imitation of himself at age fourteen. Ulfric managed a weak smile at Galmar's poking fun.
It took a little while for Galmar to get Ulfric settled comfortably, and then to have Greta bring in a small dose of some manner of poppy juice to dull the throbbing pain in Ulfric's leg.
"Now, you may tell me," Ulfric said.
"Oh, may I, indeed?" Galmar responded in an arch tone of voice.
"I could order you to tell me," Ulfric pointed out, without any real heat in the threat.
Galmar stiffened perceptibly. "You wouldn't, though, would you?" he asked warily.
"No. It would not be well done of me to force you. But I wish you would confide in me," Ulfric replied tiredly.
"Fine. It's all Thongvar Silver-Blood's fault. Him and the barkeep in that damned tavern of his," Galmar replied, sitting down in a comfortable armchair.
"What? Markarth? What has the ale from this afternoon got to do with Markarth?"
"Will you let me tell the story, please, Ulfric?" Galmar asked pointedly.