#skyrimfic

"I’ve been promoted.”

He pulled away, with a glint of surprise on his face; a frown appeared on it, but he laughed it off. “So? It’s a single title; it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Be serious. It means to me.”

He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. A woman like you could be so much more.“ He said, nuzzling her face.

“I’m a soldier, Ulfric, and I know my place. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“You don’t have to tell me about what you are. I’ve seen it,” he replied with a smile. “But don’t lie to me about what you want,” he added, blatantly ignoring her latter words.

“Ulfric-”

“Leave the Legion, come with me. We’ll liberate Skyrim and help rebuild it. I know you would want that more than anything.” He took her hand and kissed it, keeping his eyes locked with hers, inhaling the raw scent of her skin.

“Your ego knows no bounds,” she dropped her hand. “It will be the end of you.”

“As will your blind sense of duty,” he spoke, any amusement disappearing off his face in an instant.

“Don’t talk to me about duty!” The aggression with which she snapped at him startled them both. A slight furrow appeared between his brows. “Not after you’ve abandoned your own for the sake of pride.”

“You stubborn woman,” he grasped her shoulders tightly, any sign of surprise disappearing off his face in an instant. “They took your oath, not your brain!” He pointed to his head with his finger as he finished the sentence. “Skyrim was plunged into despair, and surrendered to the enemy! Our homeland, Rikke! I took it as my duty to stand and protect it!” He shook her again, his grip not any less painful even through layers of fabric, and when she saw the fire in his gaze—a flash of warning—the urge to turn around and leave washed over her like a cold sea wave. They’d argued during the war, specifically nearing its end, and those arguments usually ended with him passionately telling her that they would bring Skyrim to glory, to a rule worthy of Her, but she used to dismiss him, having been concerned with the growing zeal with which he proclaimed it each time.

She released herself from his grip. They glared at each other in the dim light like two predators in an open field. “This, again? We ended the war. There weren’t many choices, even you’d agree.” She added, mockingly.

“Handing over our freedom on a silver plate to the enemy to do with it as they like should've never been a choice. That goes beyond your promotion, you’d agree.” He mocked her back, holding his hand up in the air to mimic a plate. She slapped it away.

Elsa prowled into the Palace of Kings with a smirk on her face, a couple of fresh scars, and plenty of new stories to tell. Which was exactly how she liked it. High King Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne, with no small number of folk gathered in the hall to seek some favour or another from him, and so she decided he could be forgiven for not noticing her arrival. Galmar, however, did – and his responding chuckle was loud enough to draw Ulfric’s attention, who looked to him, and then followed his gaze to Elsa as she approached.

“Dragonborn,” he greeted, low voice rumbling out above all other voices in the hall.

The merchant he’d interrupted seemed miffed at first, but then he registered what Ulfric had said and all heads whipped around to look at her. She liked that just fine – it made clearing a path to the throne easier. Sauntering forth, she dipped into a half-bow, hand pressed to her chest.

“My king.”

“It’s been some time. There were rumours that you’d been killed,” he considered her slowly.

“Did you believe them?”

He offered a low, reverberating chuckle. “Not a chance.”

Elsa glanced in the direction of the merchant, and then around the crowd gathered who seemed to watch the interaction with bated breath, not wanting to so much as cough lest they miss a word. When she looked back to Ulfric, she found his eyes had not strayed an inch from her.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

And she almost sounded apologetic for it.

“Business has run late,” he replied. “But I believe Wuunferth wishes to consult you on some artefact he found.”

A lovely, convenient excuse for her to walk through the war room and up into the living quarters of the palace, right before the eyes of all those here. Elsa smiled. How she’d missed him.

To her credit, she did go to Wuunferth once she’d jogged up the stony steps that led to the sleeping chambers of those chosen enough to live within the palace itself. But only to sell him a few rare, enchanted artefacts she’d come across for a very steep price – and, as she’d suspected, he had nothing to consult her on. By the time she was done, and her pack was a good deal lighter, Jorleif had found her.

“The Jarl has ordered for a bath to be drawn for you, my lady,” he greeted, before adding quietly, “in his chambers.”

Well, she supposed he saw no use in being subtle when it came to servants of his own household.

The bath, kept scalding hot with a few artful fire spells, worked the cold out of her bones and the soreness from her muscles so well that she had only just climbed out of it by the time she heard Ulfric’s voice in the hallway outside. Wrapped in an abundant amount of soft linen, steam rose steadily from her skin as she sat before the fire, content to air-dry as she dragged a comb through her dripping hair.

Finally, the High King of Skyrim slipped into the room, closing and locking the door behind him for good measure. Elsa had just enough energy to feign an unconvincing look of surprise.

“Did I wander into your chambers instead of the guest wing? I do apologise, your majesty. That Jorleif – always up to mischief.”

He chuckled, casting aside his heavy fur-laden coat and then making quick work of the chestplate beneath with an efficiency that belied his haste. Finally, when he was done, he approached, extending one large hand towards her. Elsa grasped it and brought his knuckles to her lips – like a supplicant.

“Stop that,” Ulfric scoffed, wrapping his fingers around hers and hauling her up.

Elsa allowed it, and then she was in his arms – glad he’d disposed of his armour so that she could feel him pressed against her as she dropped the bullshit and wrapped her arms around him. One of his arms remained wrapped tightly about her waist as if fearing she’d run off again the moment he let go, but the other roamed up the curve of her spine, across her bare shoulders and up into her hair, caring not for the water still clinging to her.

All but purring, she melted into the touch, sighing her contentment. Out there, none touched her unless they intended to kill her. It was easy to forget what this was like. Often because she made sure to do so, by force of necessity. Ulfric felt the same, she knew he did, for few ever touched him without wanting something. A kiss on his hand that preceded a beg. Elsa, however, never asked him for anything. He gave her much, that was true, but she never asked for it. She never would.

He was so wrapped up in touching her – making sure she was here, real and warm and breathing, that it seemed to take him a moment to remember to kiss her. It was funny how, upon each reunion, it simultaneously felt like years since he’d last kissed her but also mere seconds, his lips pressing harshly against hers as he stole the air from her lungs.

When they parted, it was only so he could lead her to the bed, although he made no move to unwrap her from her linen, nor remove more of his clothing. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the enormous bed and he sat, pulling her so that she straddled him and then he buried his face in her hair, keeping her there as he held her tightly. Relief washed over her, the same way it would when she drank her first gulp of water after a battle, or had her first bite of food after being forced to go without without for days. Elsa returned the grip fiercely, thinking of little other than that he was here, as she’d pined for in every godforsaken ruin and cave across Skyrim. And that she’d run through any who tried to interrupt them now.

“I forgot what this was like,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“I must strive to make a more memorable bedfellow,” he remarked drily.

“Not that. This,” she squeezed, to illustrate her point.

“…If you didn’t stay away for so long, it might be easier to remember,” he murmured. “If you stayed, you’d have no chance to forget.”

“You want to install me as your mistress, is that it?”

“The Dragonborn would be a fitting High Queen of Skyrim,” he corrected. “And I could hope for no finer queen than you.”

“I’m not made for queening. For growing soft in a palace, eating that which I did not procure for myself, pretending to care for merchant squabbles.”

“There is more than one way to be a queen, Elsa. Particularly in Skyrim, and especially if you were to be my queen. Unless you think me soft and idle.”

The joke was right there, waiting to be said. A lack of hardness was never one of your problems, or some such nonsense. But to retreat into that would be taken as an insult…and he’d be right to do so. Instead, she sighed quietly and said nothing.

“Am I making progress with my case, then?” he hedged.

“What makes you say that?”

“The first time I broached this matter, you left immediately thereafter and I did not see you for half a year.”

He did not know, and she didn’t tell him, that she’d returned expecting to find him wed off to some truly suitable candidate. Nor did she tell him that she had no idea whether she, at the time, desired or dreaded to find that such had been the case. And she certainly didn’t divulge that she now knew she’d have been sick if it had come to fruition.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, glad he could not see her face.

And Ulfric smiled – because no doubt he heard the temptation in her voice.