An attempt was made at formally welcoming Audric Bellamy into Windhelm. Ulfric had arranged for a fine dinner to be prepared, and had even decided to dress for the occasion. Upon his arrival, Galmar did not bother to disguise his laughter.
“Subtlety might be becoming on you, if only you could fit into it,” Ulfric smiled.
“Not as becoming as you in all this finery,” he gibed. “Is all this for the Breton?”
“That Breton is the reason I’m standing before you at all,” he replied. “The reason you’re not still rotting in a cell.”
The sun had fallen, its bloody light bursting past the tips of bare branches. As the world descended into evening, the curtains were opened, allowing the last decaying light of day to flood the palace rooms. When Audric appeared at last, his housecarl at his side, he seemed a shadow of himself. Throughout dinner, he kept quiet, answering questions with stock answers, making little in the way of conversation. He lacked his usual charm, his enthusiasm; he neither quipped nor laughed nor hardly drew more than slight breath. Rather, he was somber, subdued.
Ulfric did not make him sit through dessert.
“You must be tired.”
Audric shrugged, nodded.
“Is there anything you need, apart from a warm bed?”
At last, his lips pulled into a wispy smile. “A hot bath and some fine wine might do it.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
As Audric was shown to the apartments reserved for him, Ulfric looked on, concerned. To anyone else, he might have seemed puzzled or simply occupied, but he was plain as day to his old friend.
“You’re worried about him,” Galmar observed gruffly.
“He was not himself, this evening.”
“It’s a long ride from Riften. Though I’m sure he’s a delight.”
Ulfric snorted. “He can be quite disarming, when he feels up to it.”
“Disarming, eh?” Galmar ribbed him in the side. “I don’t suppose you mean that in the classical sense.”
Miffed, Ulfric’s jaw tightened. “The ‘classical sense?’ Galmar, I think your time with the Imperials has done things for you.” A pause ensued wherein Ulfric wondered if he'd gone too far.
But Galmar did not disappoint. “No more than your time with the Breton has done for you.”
All the rooms were dark, shrouded nests between slats of stone and wood. Audric sank in the great iron tub, hugging his knees to his chest. He dared tread the edge of sleep, even as the waterline tickled his chin. He retreated within himself, shrinking away from the world, not thinking about all that needed doing. He unfurled and breathed deeply. At last, he immersed himself, coming up for air only once his chest burned. Endeavoring to bathe after nine hours of being rocked and jostled, bumped and lacerated by his own worldly possessions, he gave himself a thorough scrub and soaked his hair not once, but twice. It was not his own soap, however, not his tonics, and he felt out of place.
It was only when the water turned cool and his skin began to rise that he finally got out, swathing himself in a warm, soft robe. And he realized, as he crept carefully into his room, that he was exhausted. He cocooned himself in bed and took to dreaming, safe and warm. His waking life fell, diminished, into the far corners of his mind, and where consciousness dropped off, imagination took up. He dreamed of strong shoulders, a pair of steadfast arms to hold him near; warm breath as it eddied between bodies, a low voice in his ear, like a summer storm.
Audric often dreamed of his lovers, past, present, and potential. He was born to it, after all, that most exquisite sign, more graceful than all others. He dreamed of wet kisses, and sweet touches; he dreamed of push-pull warfare waged in secret, and of covenants forged with skin in the meek light of morning.
Of all mundane pleasures, sex was Audric’s almost-favorite.
"Divide and Conquer" Ulfric Stormcloak/M!DB, 10a/??
“Subtlety might be becoming on you, if only you could fit into it,” Ulfric smiled.
“Not as becoming as you in all this finery,” he gibed. “Is all this for the Breton?”
“That Breton is the reason I’m standing before you at all,” he replied. “The reason you’re not still rotting in a cell.”
The sun had fallen, its bloody light bursting past the tips of bare branches. As the world descended into evening, the curtains were opened, allowing the last decaying light of day to flood the palace rooms. When Audric appeared at last, his housecarl at his side, he seemed a shadow of himself. Throughout dinner, he kept quiet, answering questions with stock answers, making little in the way of conversation. He lacked his usual charm, his enthusiasm; he neither quipped nor laughed nor hardly drew more than slight breath. Rather, he was somber, subdued.
Ulfric did not make him sit through dessert.
“You must be tired.”
Audric shrugged, nodded.
“Is there anything you need, apart from a warm bed?”
At last, his lips pulled into a wispy smile. “A hot bath and some fine wine might do it.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
As Audric was shown to the apartments reserved for him, Ulfric looked on, concerned. To anyone else, he might have seemed puzzled or simply occupied, but he was plain as day to his old friend.
“You’re worried about him,” Galmar observed gruffly.
“He was not himself, this evening.”
“It’s a long ride from Riften. Though I’m sure he’s a delight.”
Ulfric snorted. “He can be quite disarming, when he feels up to it.”
“Disarming, eh?” Galmar ribbed him in the side. “I don’t suppose you mean that in the classical sense.”
Miffed, Ulfric’s jaw tightened. “The ‘classical sense?’ Galmar, I think your time with the Imperials has done things for you.” A pause ensued wherein Ulfric wondered if he'd gone too far.
But Galmar did not disappoint. “No more than your time with the Breton has done for you.”
All the rooms were dark, shrouded nests between slats of stone and wood. Audric sank in the great iron tub, hugging his knees to his chest. He dared tread the edge of sleep, even as the waterline tickled his chin. He retreated within himself, shrinking away from the world, not thinking about all that needed doing. He unfurled and breathed deeply. At last, he immersed himself, coming up for air only once his chest burned. Endeavoring to bathe after nine hours of being rocked and jostled, bumped and lacerated by his own worldly possessions, he gave himself a thorough scrub and soaked his hair not once, but twice. It was not his own soap, however, not his tonics, and he felt out of place.
It was only when the water turned cool and his skin began to rise that he finally got out, swathing himself in a warm, soft robe. And he realized, as he crept carefully into his room, that he was exhausted. He cocooned himself in bed and took to dreaming, safe and warm. His waking life fell, diminished, into the far corners of his mind, and where consciousness dropped off, imagination took up. He dreamed of strong shoulders, a pair of steadfast arms to hold him near; warm breath as it eddied between bodies, a low voice in his ear, like a summer storm.
Audric often dreamed of his lovers, past, present, and potential. He was born to it, after all, that most exquisite sign, more graceful than all others. He dreamed of wet kisses, and sweet touches; he dreamed of push-pull warfare waged in secret, and of covenants forged with skin in the meek light of morning.
Of all mundane pleasures, sex was Audric’s almost-favorite.