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ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

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Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 8a/?

[(Anonymous)]

Anyone who had witnessed the Dragonborn slay Mirmulnir at Whiterun’s western watchtower - her small, lithe body a blur of speed and grace and unerring precision – would likely not recognize her upon seeing her sitting so morosely at the table, her picked over breakfast at her elbow.

She was lost in her thoughts, having been, for the most part, left to her own devices for three days.

Left alone with nothing but condemning thoughts to keep her company.

Heated thoughts.

And some thoughts that made her wonder if indeed she had been driven mad.

Her last hazy memories of that night were of being cradled against a warm and solid chest, strong hands rubbing the soreness out of aching shoulders and abraded wrists, and finally – a thing that made her most certain these images were nothing more than a dream – lips fluttering tenderly against her temple and down her cheek as she was tucked back into the comforting warmth of the blankets.

Usually she went to bed with nightmares of blood and war and terror-filled eyes beseeching her sword not to fall. She never dreamed of sweeter things.

Her enemy must be getting to her head. She would have to make a greater effort to fight him.

And her next point of contention lie spread out on the bed, a most unholy offering, newly delivered that morn along with the food to break her fast.

Her wedding gown.

It was, she could admit, quite beautiful, with simple lines and rich, fine fabric that would no doubt accentuate every curve.

The fact that it was a blue in color, with detailed embroidery and white fur trimming, was not lost on her in meaning. But this was not her point of contention.

It was her breasts that concerned her the most. She had always flattened them with tightly wrapped bindings so that their ridiculous weight would not hamper her movements in travel and battle.

Yet the gown she was to don this day was accompanied by no undergarments at all.

Nor did she have any upon her person. She only wore the imperial-style robe, which was nothing to complain about in the loneliness of her prison room. But to stand in front of the hastily gathered masses of Solitude and pledge her troth to the enemy, this was shame enough even with a cover of propriety.

She gave a beleaguered sigh and stared into the flat metal bowl that doubled as mirror, imagining herself in the fine dress, breasts heaving for all to see, with this mess on her head, and it almost made her smile.

It would serve the beastly Nord right.

She was accustomed to bind her hair with a simple strip of leather at the base of her neck, and this was the full extent of her abilities. Her mother had occasionally styled it in an elaborate coil high upon her head for any social functions that their family attended. Once in Skyrim, Lydia had aided her in the habit of braiding in a Nordic fashion, which was to her liking. Plaits did not come undone, nor did curls of hair as easily gain freedom from their binds while fighting.

She was not sure why she had tried to braid it herself, perhaps out of boredom or some odd, fickle adherence to the traditions she had started to learn in her recent time here, but her hands, so well-tuned to the turn of a sword or throw of a dagger, became clumsy and disobedient the moment she tried anything with hair.

As far as she could tell in the dull reflection of the bowl, the top half of her head was now full of knots that clumped and spiked and reminded her of nothing other than the twining embraces of creep clusters.

She turned her head to find one particular braid bent out at an awkward angle from her head, ending in a tuft of hair that was doing a rather remarkable impression of a thistle flower.

It was almost impressive. She knew at least one Argonian who would be impressed, anyway.

She heard the door swing open and she dropped the bowl, embarrassed to be caught preening, and looked up to find her tormenter entering her lonely lair. He was wearing the robe that was a match to her own, as if he had not yet finished his morning ablutions.