Chapter Text
Zofia stumbled through the dark and dangerous forest. Wounded, her armor bloodstained and ragged, her boots worn through, Zofia's severe lack of rest caused shadows to jump out at her from under every leaf. She tried to continue, she couldn't rest now, but her legs protested. Unaware of the surrounding area, she tripped over an exposed root in the ground and fell near a road toward Windhelm. Coughing and wheezing her limbs too pathetic to move, Zofia’s weary senses diminished with every breath, until she heard something. Horse hooves rhythmically trotted on the cobblestone road, at least ten horses, beat the ground, and they were drawing nearer. If they were friends, she could get help, if they were foes... at least her death would be swift.
“Help…” she hoarsely whispered and reached forward with scarred hands. “Please… Help…me.”
A voice, deep and commanding spoke up, “Halt!”
“Jarl, are you sure this is not a ruse? We cannot lose you again.”
“I’m sure.” The unassailable voice stated. “I recognize this one, she was with us in Helgen. She helped Ralof and I escape the dragon, and General Tullius' soldiers.”
He knelt down to the nearly unconscious woman; she could almost feel the imposing supremacy emanate from him; could it be Ulfric Stormcloak? She had to see.
Slowly, she raised her head; her violet eyes squinted to see the straight dark blond hair with a few locks braided. He looked exhausted, he's been on the road for a long time. Regardless, there was a fierce fire in his hazel eyes and something about them made Zofia feel... safe.
A weather-beaten hand held her as his other hand touched the small of her back. She could see the pity in his eyes as he took in the scene; her torn clothes, the bleeding scars and bruised limbs. Zofia teared up, she couldn't understand why but her cheeks flushed as she leant into the warm, caring touch.
“It’s alright,” Ulfric cooed gently as he caressed her cheek and felt her hot tears, “It’s alright, we’ll get you some help. You’re safe, Dovah.” He whispered the last word.
The corners of Zofia’s lips curved slightly; she breathed a word of thanks, taking one last look at the man before her, before she collapsed like a limp ragdoll, unconscious of what happened next.
“Sire, are you sure-”
“Galmar,” Ulfric cut him off, “Help me with her, I’ll carry her into the city.”
Unable to refuse an order, Galmar, Ulfric’s captain and bodyguard, carefully picked up the strange woman and followed Ulfric to his strong horse. He mounted, then held out his arms to relieve Galmar of the light, feminine burden.
Placing her, so she was between his arms, Ulfric felt her beating heart against his chest; her head rested on his shoulder. He could see the frozen touch on her gentle features. How long had she been traveling like this? What creatures did she face to receive such scars, and how was she not yet dead? Not wanting her to catch that ultimate fate, Ulfric wrapped the large pelted blanket around them, using his body heat to keep her warm.
He ordered the caravan to move on.
Moments rolled on like the snow falling around them. Galmar, who did not miss a thing, watched as his Jarl, his brother-in-arms, held the strange woman as if she was his. He had never seen Ulfric care about someone so dearly.
The captain of the guards knew that even before he killed the High King, Ulfric had trust issues; since he was just a whelp in fact. So, how could he trust someone like her so easily? Yes, she worked with the Stormcloaks to escape Helgen, but what if she was fibbing, biding her time to assassinate Ulfric? What if her plan was interrupted by the Imperials, or the ancient dragon itself?
As if he knew what Galmor was thinking, Ulfric spoke to him, and his troops. “This woman was wrongfully arrested for crossing the border. As she was approaching the block, a great dragon, attacked. She survived the firestorm and helped Ralof and me escape. She is trustworthy and has just as much reason to hate the Imperials as we do.”
“I just hope she does side with us.” Galmor spoke gruffly.
******
Zofia stirred groggily; she felt so comfortable in the warm bed that she did not want to get out, or even get up. A crackling fire rekindled her senses, but no birds were chirping, so she knew that she was not outside. Unlike the inns, with the smell of ale and sweat from the hard workers, her surrounding smelled clean, like sandalwood, even the bed was softer than High Hrothgar or Breezehome. As she moved to pull the covers over her face, she couldn't hear the ringmail armor Eorlund Graymane taught her to make.
Slowly, she fluttered her eyes open and looked over to see her torn clothes, folded neatly on the intricate dresser; they were cleaned, and there was new stitching in the pattern; someone had it mended. Confused, Zofia lifted the covers and looked down, inside the warm quilt, she was wearing a man’s nightgown. It was a heavy linen material and the scent was familiar, soothing. Where had she caught that scent before?
It hit her.
Zofia bolted up right to see that she was in a large bedroom. The king sized bed was set in the middle of the room, on a raised platform. The warm fire behind the headboard heated her slender, exposed neck and scarred backside. She felt the braids in her long hair pulled back away from her features; she had been washed, cleaned, and her hair was tangle-free.
Calmed, almost settled and out of danger, all Zofia wanted to do now was to go back to sleep and hide from the world. She faced her worst nightmare alone, she still needed to retrieve the horn for the Greybeards from whoever had stolen it, and she was caught in the heart of the coming war between the Stormcloaks and the Imperials. Rubbing her temples, Zofia was at a complete loss; the fate of Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel, rested on her defeating Alduin. She grabbed the back of her head, just the thought of everything made the room spin.
She was just one nord. A lone ranger forced into a position she had never intended to take.
“Feeling better?” a deep voice spoke gently from behind her.
Zofia turned to see none other than Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak sitting in a chair by the fire, a book in his lap. Unlike their first meeting at Helgen, when he was bound and gagged, Ulfric was more impressive, like his former self before he was branded a prisoner and traitor.
It was then, Zofia realized that she was in his bed. “Jarl Ulfric!” she jumped. The covers flew around and twisted her ankle causing her to fall to the ground. Panting, she pleaded as she tried to crawl away from him, “Forgive me; I did not realize this was your chamber. I will change immediately and leave.”
Before she could get up, which she had trouble since her legs shook with fright; Ulfric was on his knees, next to her. He held her soft shoulders, feeling the chill of excitement run through her veins. “Calm down, Dovah. I placed you here myself. I cleaned your wounds and changed you out of your torn clothes.”
“What?” she glanced at him, eyes wide with horror. “You set me in your bed? You dressed my wounds and…” her voice trailed off slightly, her eyes still lit with what he had done and seen, “you… you know who I am?”
The grin he revealed made Zofia’s heart melt, “Akatosh's first born just happens to interrupt our execution, word goes around that a strange nord who was not from these lands slew a dragon at the Western Watchtower in Whiterun and absorbed its power.” Ulfric explained as he untangled her slender legs from the sheets; in the process, he stroked her quivering flesh, drawing closer to her with each breath. “And, the Greybeards call the Dovahkiin from the Throat of the World?” He helped her stand up, “It was easy. However, I do not want to call you Dovah or Dragonborn. And of course, your name is not ‘prisoner’ as the Imperials called you. What is your name?”
Zofia’s lips quivered, cheeks flushed, breathless with fear or anticipation, she whispered her own name.
“Beautiful,” He broke into the first real smile and slid one arm around her lower back while his other held her cheek.
He drew her in so there was no space between them, “You were so serious and determined at Helgen it’s almost a relief to see you like this.” He must have felt Zofia shudder with excitement because his lips neared the woman, he asked with a sly smirk, “Are you alright, Zofia?”
She could not answer, her heart raced with thoughts and passes of him, her vision grew hazy, and she felt light headed. Back a Helgen?
When Zofia first noticed him on the wagon, she felt a strange, alluring sensation towards him; or maybe it was just because they were about to share the same, barbaric fate of death.
Ulfric pulled her out of her thoughts as he bent low, the tips of their nose’s touched, their hot breath mixed with the little space between them. Their hearts raced and pounded against each other’s chest. Breathless, their lips barely grazed against each other, ready to taste, to touch, to claim.