Chapter Text
Gerhild raced out of the war room, leaving behind Ulfric and the oddly acting Galmar. Her thoughts weren't so much on them, as they were on Vorstag. She realized now that when Galmar had left earlier that day, it was because Vorstag and Rolff had met up and were finishing their fight, and of course Galmar would want to see it. And after his return, the look on his face gave her cause to fear that Vorstag had faired the worse in the fight. Concern for him gave energy to her movements, speeding her steps into the main hall.
She needn't have bothered. The sight that greeted her was so shocking, it not only sent her eyebrow soaring to her hairline, but her jaw dropped to the flagstones. Even her feet stuttered to a stop, causing her to stumble into the shoulder of Jorleif. He glanced over long enough to see who had bumped into him and held out an arm to steady her before turning his attention back to the story.
"Then I stepped behind him and slammed my knee into his fucking balls!" Rolff exclaimed, with a lot less heat than his words implied, no doubt due to a copious amount of mead. The men in the room, mostly soldiers, roared with cheers and jeers for the two combatants, who now stood with their arms around each other's shoulders. Both men were battered with more than their fair share of bruises and cuts. Vorstag had one eye half-swollen, and a large gash just under the eyebrow—though no longer bleeding—left behind enough blood to coat nearly half of his non-tattooed cheek. He winced every time he took a step, and held his hand at the side of his ribs when standing still. Rolff had lost his cap and a dark bruise ran the full length of his jaw. He was hobbling, a hasty brace tied around one leg he refused to put weight on, but he threw his free arm extravagantly as he recited the fight.
Despite these injuries, both men wore the same, goofy smile on their faces.
"So who won?" an anonymous voice called out.
"Arctic Stones, here," Rolff proclaimed, without any embarrassment or resentment, slapping his back in congratulations. Vorstag's face flushed a little at the odd nickname, but since it was meant as a compliment and the crowd cheered, he inclined his head to accept the title. Rolff didn't notice his discomfort and swept onward, "Like I said, I kneed him in the balls, hard enough to take down a mammoth, but he's got a pair as hard as the frozen tundra. Kept his feet with only a grunt for the pain, whereas I fell to the ground with a broken kneecap, crying like a whiny little…"
"Lady Gerhild!" Ralof called out, drowning out whatever metaphor Rolff had been about to describe. He pressed through the throng to reach her side.
"Lady Gerhild?" Rolff asked bewilderedly, unable to see more than two feet in front of him, though his hearing was still working. He blinked at Vorstag, looking for help. "Lady Gerhild doesn't whine. Least she didn't yesterday. Dropped like a sack of potatoes." He mimicked the punch he had thrown at Vorstag that Gerhild had accidentally taken on the chin.
Vorstag shook his head indulgently. "No, Lady Gerhild ish here, in thish room," he explained carefully, his lisp intensified by his own overdose of alcohol.
Rolff's jaw dropped, immediately followed by a wince due to the bruise. "Gods, and my language hasn't been fit for polite company. I hope she didn't hear what I said about her. Where is she?" His head rotated around as he tried to focus on the faces in the hall. Vorstag rolled his eyes but, the two men in such a tight embrace, he limped around until he managed to aim Rolff in the right direction. "Lady Gerhild," Rolff bowed, almost causing both men to again topple to the floor, "You have a good man here. Strong as a bull! Aye, a good man. Good fighter." He paused to laugh, "And a fucking good drinker!"
The crowd roared with approval, even as Rolff's face suddenly flushed and he mumbled an apology for his cursing. Vorstag whispered something in his ear, which Gerhild couldn't hear due to the noise. Then Ralof was beside her, pressing a large purse into her hands. Astonished she looked from the purse to his face, noting he had a bit of a flush to his cheeks. She lifted the bag in an unspoken question. "Your winnings," he explained, leaning in to her to be heard.
"Are you sure?" she asked, weighing the purse. "This seems quite a lot. I only bet fifty septims." When he had leaned over to speak into her ear, she had gotten a strong whiff of the mead on his breath. It made her wonder just how much time had been spent fighting, and how much spent celebrating afterwards.
"Aye," he nodded, at least appearing more sober than the other two, "And another fifty that Rolff couldn't take him down with a blow to the testic… er, sweetmeats. That one drew more odds than who would win." No, he wasn't sober, but at least he could still stand unaided. The only thing holding Vorstag up was Rolff, and vice versa. She let the matter drop, thinking she'd be curing hangovers again tomorrow morning, and walked with him back to the two 'champions.'
"Lady Gerhild," Rolff bowed again as soon as her face was in view. Vorstag chuckled as he tipped, thrown off balance by Rolff's movement. He almost let go to keep his feet, but decided he didn't want to let him fall to the floor, so he hauled him upright once more. Unaware of his near miss and steady on his one good leg, Rolff smiled in what he thought was a charming manner. "I hope there's no hard feelings after yesterday," he continued, gesturing to her jaw.
She suppressed the urge to sigh and shook her head politely. "Of course not, Rolff. As your brother said, I shouldn't have tried to stick my nose into someone else's business."
"Ah, ah, a wise man, my brother." He tried to crane his neck and see where Galmar had gotten to, and took half a step to turn around. He quickly realized that was a mistake as pain shot through his leg, collapsing it from underneath him. Vorstag again barely managed to keep them both from falling to the floor. "Gods, my knee! Someone, get me another healing potion!"
"You've had enough of those," Ralof answered, "You just need sleep. You'll be better by morning."
"I could help," she offered, hesitantly. She didn't want to heal them so readily, as that might encourage them to fight again, thinking she could just erase any little—or large—injury away. But one look at their tattered and battered states caused her to change her mind.
"What do you mean?" Rolff blinked at her, his mind too sluggish to understand what she was implying.
"Gerhild shtudied Reshtorashun Magic," Vorstag explained, pressing his hand into his side again. At least, he appeared to be wincing more from talking than from lisping. "Sheesh offering to heal ush."
"Gods! No!" Rolff almost shouted, he was so aghast at the suggestion. "Where would the fun be in that? If you heal me, I'll have nothing to point to when I tell my grandchildren how I challenged and lost to Arctic Stones, Companion of the Dragonborn. No, I'm hoping this knee will at the very least ache in bad weather."
All the men in the hall applauded approvingly, and the lone woman at last gave in to a long suffering sigh and rolled her eyes. "Men!" This of course only caused another round of ovations.
Rolff was the first to recover his senses, "Well, I won't stay too long. I was only walking Vorstag home, making sure he got here alright." He leaned in close to Gerhild, talking in a loud whisper behind the back of his hand, "He might have gotten a little tipsy with all the celebrating we were drinking."
"And who'sh gonna shee you home shafely?" Vorstag slurred, again grimacing. She was beginning to suspect he did hear how strong his lisp had gotten.
"I'll get Rolff home," Ralof volunteered, stepping up to his other side, "If you think you can handle Vorstag on your own. Otherwise, just sit tight and I'll be right back to help."
Gerhild realized he had spoken to her, and took a moment to look Vorstag over from head to toe. He was inebriated—she could smell it from where she stood—but he wasn't so far gone as to be without pain. There were tiny lines around his eyes, and every so often his breathing hitched in time with the fingers twitching at his side. "I think I can manage, Ralof," she answered, encouraged by his level of responsiveness. As Ralof peeled Rolff away, she stepped up to Vorstag's other side, taking his arm from his ribs to her shoulders. Vorstag swayed, but after wrapping his other arm around his lower ribs, he seemed steady enough.
"Good night, Arctic Stones," Rolff called. "If you should ever need assistance, don't hesitate to look me up."
"I won't, Rolff, thank you," he beamed, rather proud that he had spoken a sentence without lisping.
"Come on, Arctic Stones," Gerhild muttered softly, turning him away as Ralof did the same with Rolff. The mass of bodies began breaking up, moving back to allow them to reach the hallway leading to the stairs. "Let's get you to bed."
Vorstag leaned in close to her ear, his breath sweet with mead as he hummed, "That shoundsh good." There was an undercurrent to his voice, something deep and soft, like the smooth baritone when he sang. He briefly touched his head to hers and his hand on her shoulder gave her a small caress. His actions were strange, and in reaction to them she felt a jolt of warmth puddle somewhere beneath her navel. She turned her head to look at him, wondering what he could mean. His eyes were still pained, his breath shallow between his slightly parted lips, and she decided whatever he meant wasn't what she first thought. He was merely hurt, drunk, and looking forward to a good night's sleep.
She gave a funny sort of scoff, "Stuhn's Shield, but you're drunk."
He nodded. "Aye, but I drank… oopsh!" he had to stop talking, having nearly missed the first step. He stumbled, and she pulled his weight into her to keep him from falling onto the stairs. The two of them lurched to the side, his one arm moving from his ribs to brace himself against the wall or he might have gotten a face-full of stonework. As it turned out, he ended up pressed loosely against her yielding curves.
Gerhild swallowed, her eyes flickering between his, their faces only inches apart. She began to doubt that she could get him to bed on her own, and wondered if she should go back and wait for Ralof, or call one of the patrolling guards to help her. She felt his arm twitch, pinned between her back and the wall, and knew she'd have to step forward to free him, but he was in her way. She licked her lips, put one hand on his chest, and gave a small push in suggestion.
"But I drank him under the table," Vorstag leaned back under the pressure of her slender fingers. His tone sounded far away, as if he was having a conversation while under a trance.
"I can imagine," she agreed, taking a deep breath once he was back to her side rather than looming over her. She looped his arm around her shoulders once more, eased her arm around his waist—mindful of his ribs—and started back up the stairs, slower this time.
He rambled a bit, still in the strangely distracted tone, summing up the fight for her benefit as she navigated the stairs. She half-listened, adding in the appropriate ooh's and ah's whenever he paused, just as distracted as Vorstag. They reached his room, thankfully near the top of the stairs, and she steered him inside.
"It ended when he tried to knee me in the crotch," he gave a small chuckle, followed by a small wince. The hand gripping his ribs dropped to his front. "Damn, but I hope thoshe potionsh shtart working shoon. Had to get them from the ashishtant apocathirsht."
"Apothecarist," she corrected, slipping out from under his arm and leaning him against the wall.
"Whatever," he shrugged good-naturedly. She turned away to close the door, and when she turned back around it was to find him with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Wanna know how I did it?"
"Did what?" she asked, "Drink him under the table?"
"No, the blow to my shweetmeatsh."
Now she did roll her eyes. "Vorstag, you're drunk, you're hurt, and you need to let the healing potions work. Get into bed. Now." She grabbed his arm and spun him, intending to dump him onto the mattress. Perhaps she moved a bit too ungentle-like, but she was a bit too fed up with his bragging about the fight. She knew he was limping, and unable to keep his balance, so she shouldn't have been surprised when he stumbled backwards into the bedpost.
"Gods!" he gasped, doubling over in pain. He missed the bed, falling to the rug, curling up tightly into a fetal position.
"Vorstag?" she asked, her irritation replaced with concern. She fell to her knees beside him, wanting to help but unable to until she knew what was wrong. She thought he may have hit himself in the balls again, the height of the bedpost nearly right for that. But after all the mead he drank, he shouldn't be in this much pain. She settled one hand lightly on his shoulder, not trying to roll him over, but just to let him know she was there for him.
"It…" he gasped, unable to unbend much less open his eyes, "It slipped… Fuck!"
Understanding swept over her face, though a little confusion still showed. "You wore your…" her eyes glanced at his crotch, "Codpiece under your leggings." It wasn't so much a question as a statement. She saw him nod, a fine film of sweat across his brow. She looked from his face to where both hands were now cupped around his cock and balls, completely at a loss on how to help him.
"Aye, been wearing it since this morning." He stopped to glance downwards, opening his hands slightly before clamping them protectively again, and finished it with a grimace. "That's why I didn't lose the fight and Rolff broke his kneecap. It was a little crooked after the fight, rubbing into one side, making me limp. But just now… the damn thing…" he paused to stifle a moan as one hand fumbled at the top of his pants. "Fuck! It's made to fit in my armor, ya know, with straps holding it in place. But there's nothing holding it in place beneath these fucking leggings, and…" he panted, opening his eyes to meet hers, the pain clearing the alcoholic fog from his brain, "The edge… pressing into… Gods… the end of my…"
His words cut off, but the last of the confusion had already left her. "Shit," she breathed, "And falling against your bed just now made it worse." He nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line so tightly they were almost white. "I'm sorry, Vorstag. I didn't realize."
"I know," he moaned, turning to bite at the rug, his other hand reaching further down between his legs. Obviously he was trying to pull the metal off the more sensitive areas, but the tight material of his borrowed leggings was getting in the way.
She squared her shoulders and mentally prepared herself, as if going into battle. She spread her arms wide, golden ribbons beginning to glow in one palm as the other reached for his crotch. "Alright. Let me help you. Just lie back and…"
"Don't touch it!" he snapped, his eyes blazing with warning. His current position, though easing the pressure, left him with no room to maneuver and fix the situation. The frustration was mounting, and he gave vent to it verbally, not caring who—even if it was Gerhild—was on the receiving end of his ire.
"I'm not going to," she reassured him, brushing a few sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes. She let go of the magic spell, deciding it might be better to wait until the codpiece was out of the way. "But we have to get it off, don't we?" She watched his face closely, praying the eyes would focus coherently on her. At his hesitant nod, she took a deep breath and tried again. "Alright then. First thing to do is get the leggings out of the way. We'll go slowly, only move as far as you feel comfortable with, and I'll ease the leggings down."
"I can manage," he groaned, his hands still protectively cupped over his loins. "Just… just turn away… for a moment… please…" he panted. She met his gaze, saw him blinking the tears from his eyes, and knew what it cost him to ask this of her.
Vorstag and his damnable pride, she thought to herself. She straightened up, disappointed he wouldn't let her help him, but understanding that what he needed most right then was for her to accede to his wishes. "I'll be just over here if you need help. Alright?" She saw him nod, and gave him a little smile before standing up. She took several steps away to give him some privacy, her fingers twisted with anxiety in front of her belly. She knew she couldn't help him, but it left her frustrated—she needed to do something.
With her back to the bed, she found herself facing a table with a pitcher of water on it. At last she thought of something he might accept from her, even though it involved magic. She walked up to the pitcher and poured a glass. Then quietly reciting a spell, she set her hands around the cup until the water froze to ice. Another moment, and she managed to get the chunk of ice out of the glass and onto the tray.
All the while, Vorstag made noises behind her. Mostly grunts and soft curses, and one quick inhale followed by a brief moment of silence that almost made her turn around. At last there was the gentle thud of the codpiece hitting the rug, a staggering creak as something heavy landed on the bed, and a relieved moan fading away into the darkened room.
She turned back around, half expecting him to shout at her again, but he didn't notice. He was lying on his side with his back to her, curled up on top of the blanket with one hand between his legs, looking like he had barely managed to pull himself onto the bed. She craned her neck and saw that his eyes were closed, though his expression was still pained. Telling herself it was only out of concern for his welfare, she approached the bed and took a good look around the area of concern. His leggings had been pushed down to mid-thigh, just far enough out of the way to allow for the removal of the codpiece, and his loincloth had been loosened to hang halfway off his hips. Carefully, without touching anything, she loomed over him to look even closer. What she saw made her heart tighten into a knot. "You're bleeding."
"Aye," he sighed, his free hand moving from his stomach to touch lightly at his eye. "But it's stopped. The healing potions will take care of it by morning."
"No," she shook her head, wondering how she could make him understand without letting on that she peeked. She decided it was more important that he know of his injury, than protect her pride. "I mean… down… there…" she gestured vaguely, even though he couldn't see.
Immediately his eyes sprang open to find her staring at his groin. The look of concern on her face worried him, and though he could tell everything was still attached, he hadn't noticed any blood. He lifted his head, grunting as his abused ribs protested the movement, and saw what she meant. "Damn," he moaned, both hands returning to their protective cupping. "Just… just let me… look at it…" he ended in a hiss, his head falling back onto the bed. "Ah, fuck!"
"Are you…" she stopped, reconsidering what she was about to say.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he tried to reassure her, and himself. "Everything's fine. Just stay back… over there again."
"Vorstag, you're not fine. There's blood on your loincloth."
He heard the tremble in her voice, and felt an overwhelming impulse to laugh. By the Nine, he must be drunk. Otherwise why in Oblivion would he be fighting so hard to keep her from seeing his cock? Especially when she was—for once—so eager to see it. "Don't worry, Gerhild," he said, lifting his head to look at her over his shoulder. "It's all there, still attached. The edge of my armor's been rubbing into the crease of my leg ever since the fight. That's what's bleeding. I'll be fine by morning. Just let the potions do their job." He let his head fall back onto the pillow, closing his eyes and concentrating on breathing.
He thought a half-hearted curse to himself, wishing she would leave him alone, his pride damaged enough this evening, but that wasn't to be his fate. He could hear her in the room, and though he tried his damnedest to feign sleep, she didn't take the hint to leave. He laid still and listened to the soft rustling of her dress as she moved, the gentle drone of a tune hummed beneath her breath, and a repetitive chipping/shushing sound that he couldn't quite place. He was far too gone from the fight and the drink to work up enough energy to look, simply relaxing into the feeling of no longer being pinched.
Gerhild had returned to the table and her earlier idea of making an ice pack for him. She used her dagger to chip away at the block of ice, breaking it into smaller chunks, and wrapped them in a towel. She set the ice pack on the tray, and poured more water into a small bowl that she also set on the tray. She rummaged in the nearby wardrobe until she found what she was looking for, a small jar of medicinal salve. Then with another towel draped over her arm, she picked up all her items and brought them to his bedside.
She stopped humming when she reached the bed, seeing him breathing peacefully and wondering if he was asleep. Cautiously she set herself and the tray on the mattress beside him, not wishing to disturb him if he was resting. "Still here?" her cool voice was gentle, like a spring breeze, but he cracked his swollen eye to blink at her.
"Nope. Left ten minutes ago, right after the codpiece." He closed his eye again, wishing he could think of some reason to get her to leave.
She hummed noncommittally before putting her hands on his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you situated so I can see to your wounds." She gently rolled him onto his back.
He groaned a little, still trying to keep his knees bent, but was too exhausted to put up much of a fight. Both eyes were open now, but still glazed and blinking slowly at her as if she was out of focus. "By the Nine, woman, can't you let me be?"
"No," she replied calmly, picking up the ice pack. "Not when you're twisted up like a long taffy treat. Here," she pressed the towel against the back of his cupped hands, "Try this." When he didn't make a move to take it, she sighed and took matters in her own hands. She grabbed one wrist and lifted his hand out of the way, dropping it lifelessly at his side. Then she shoved the other hand away and held the pack in place herself. He gave a small convulsion and hiss at the touch, but the coolness felt so good on his bruises that he quickly relaxed, unbending his knees and resting his head on the pillow.
"Thank you," he sighed, moving his hand back to hold the towel-wrapped chunk of ice in place. His hand clasped over hers, and though any other time he might have tried something, right then he was too pained to consider it. He did feel her remove her own hand, slowly, and after a moment those cool fingers were in his hair, brushing it off his face.
"I don't suppose, now that we're alone, that you'd reconsider my offer to heal you?"
He gave his head a little shake, his glazed eyes following her movements as she reached down to pull off his boots. He wanted to help her, but that would require moving which might upset the wonderful ice pack. "Can't. Went through all this to earn their respect, Ralof and Galmar and Rolff and all them. If I let you heal me, it would be cheating, and I'd lose that respect."
She nodded resignedly, having already guessed the answer, though the reasoning behind it continued to escape her. She did remember Ralof saying a similar thing to her after his whipping. And though she could understand why some scars could be carried with pride, like the ones the Thalmor gave her, she didn't understand why injuries from a pointless fight required scarring to increase their worth. Giving up, she carefully eased his trousers the rest of the way down his legs. "I figured something like that."
"Though, one thing," he said hesitantly, his voice almost cracking with embarrassment, "If you think you can, that is."
"What?" she asked, looking up at him. She saw the flush in his cheeks, heard the hitch in his voice, and had to wonder what was causing him embarrassment now. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him before; just a few weeks ago he had calmly stripped down further than this to repair his armor. Tonight, however, he was keeping the ice pack firmly in place, even while she tried to shift his tunic off his torso.
"Could you… maybe…" he paused to duck his head out of the tunic, "I don't know… just heal that one area? Leave the rest?"
One delicate eyebrow floated upwards as she tilted her head, considering his request while folding the tunic. "You mean, just heal…" she gestured at the ice-packed towel, "And leave your eyebrow to scar?" When he nodded, she gave half a shrug. "I don't know. I've never tried such a thing."
"Oh, well, never mind, then," he brushed it aside, "I've taken enough potions; I'll be fine by morning."
"Aye," she sighed in agreement, sitting back down at his side. Humming again she picked up the extra towel and dipped a corner of it in the bowl of water. She brought it around to his face, and he closed his eyes while she gently began to wipe away the blood. He kept his eyes closed after she had finished, trying again to feign sleep so she would leave. Unfortunately she was determined to remain and minister to his cuts and bruises. The salve was as cool as her fingertips as she dabbed it over the cut between his eyebrow and eyelid. It smelled of something akin to those blue flowers found in the mountains, pleasant and light, and he quickly found himself at the mercy of her tender care.
She continued on from there, working her way downwards, cleaning up the blood and dirt, applying the salve to every cut and bruise she found. When she saw the large mark against his ribs she paused in her humming to hiss in sympathy, but he didn't respond, her touch too soothing to allow him to care. Even as she neared his waist, and he felt the tug of the last knot in his loincloth being undone, he couldn't rouse himself to decline her nursing.
In fact, he couldn't arouse himself at all. Whether from exhaustion due to the fight, or from the drinking, or from the injury, or from the ice pack, the whole area remained numb and passive. He should move, should tell her to leave it alone, but that would mean revealing that he was awake, awake and unable to lift his cock, to even twitch. Gods, that would be even more embarrassing than suffering through her treatment of his wounds. He decided right then and there that he would be 'asleep' for the rest of the night, even if she stayed to watch over him for hours.
Gerhild's fingers gently spread the salve on the crease of his groin, the delicate skin rubbed into an angry red by the displaced codpiece. She didn't notice anything amiss, her attention on each and every injury rather than his twitching hand or pained expression. Not until she finished, that is, and looked up to check if he was awake or asleep. Finding his eyes closed with tiny creases in the corners, like he was in pain even while asleep, she let out an empathetic sigh. Carefully, afraid of waking him and bringing more pain, she lifted his hand off the ice pack and set it on the bed. Then she lifted away the towel.
She heard his breathing change, growing hoarse and labored, and thought it was due to the numbing ice being taken away. Her hands shook as she took hold of his cock to lift it out of the way. "He's not Braig," she muttered to herself, "Or any of those other men, and there's nothing sexual about this. I'm just making sure he's alright." She continued to reassure herself, unaware that he heard every word. Still she finished her examination quickly, relieved to find nothing more than a bruise off to the side and the cut she had already treated, and replaced the towel.
Her hand continued to shake as she wiped the back of it across her forehead, still trying to reassure herself everything was fine. Vorstag wasn't injured too severely for the healing potions to fix. And she had been able to care for him without too much of her own discomfort. "There," she squared her shoulders, nodding to herself, "That should make up in some part for his taking care of me during my fever."
She pushed herself to her feet, picking up the dirtied towel and tray to remove it from the bed. Then she walked over to the chest and pulled out another blanket, as he was still lying on top of the one already on the bed. Softly she draped it over his battered form, tucking it in around his shoulders. Looking up at his face, she confirmed that he was still asleep, his eyes closed and his breathing deeper and more even than before. She sat back down for a moment, humming again as her cool fingers stroked his matted hair back from his face. After a few minutes she saw his face relax a little more, and decided it was time to leave. She bent forward to plant a soft kiss against his cheek.
Vorstag definitely noticed the kiss, could feel the imprint of her bow-shaped lips against his skin. It was all he could do to lie impassive and inert beneath the touch. Gods he wanted to take her in his arms right then and there, to kiss away every memory of pain and humiliation, to show her what love could be like—should be like. But he knew he wouldn't be able to perform. More importantly, he had heard her mumble to herself, trying to keep her anxieties at bay while she tended to his hurts. He knew she wouldn't welcome his touch, not yet, not until she could set aside those ghosts that haunted her and want it for herself. Until then, he had to be patient, he had to simply love her and allow her to find out for herself that she could love him.
A drop of something fell against his cheek, but he was controlling himself so tightly he didn't even flinch.
Gerhild pulled back, staring at the tear that had escaped her eyes to fall on his face, shocked into sudden stillness by the sight. Her eyes followed it as it slid down the side towards his ear, leaving behind a trail that glistened wetly in the firelight. Slightly panicky, she flicked her fingers over his skin, wiping it away, praying not to wake him. Seeing his eyes had remained closed, she gave a little sigh of relief and stood up from the bed.
What the fuck? she thought to herself, unable to understand where the tear had come from. She knew it came from her eyes, and could feel more pressing towards freedom, but her mind refused to comprehend the reason behind them. She wasn't hurt. She wasn't scared. She wasn't sad. There was no fucking reason for the damn tears. Finding her anger, turning it against the unreasonable weepiness, she scrubbed her hands over her face until the skin felt warm and the tears were gone. She didn't cry, she told herself she didn't cry, she was merely rubbing at her face until she was back in control. Then she quietly left his room, trying hard not to think about anything.
Gerhild was so deeply wrapped within her cocoon of numbness, she didn't notice that she had been noticed. Ulfric was standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on the corner of the stones as he watched her walk down the hall. Vorstag's room was near the stairs, the room she had just left, and her room closer to his own, right across the hall from Galmar, so her back was to him and he knew she hadn't seen him. But he had seen her. Leaving Vorstag's room. Long after she had helped him up the stairs.
He watched her, his sabre cat gaze cold and hungry, willing her to perform a certain action, but she didn't even try the door to his room. She went directly to her own, and as she turned to enter he caught her in profile. Her lower lip was wormed between her teeth, and though he couldn't see it, he could well imagine the furrow between her brows. There also seemed to be a slight flush to her cheeks, and he wondered just what had happened in Vorstag's room.
A fingernail chipped against the stones as his knuckles turned white, but Ulfric was oblivious to the fact. He turned back to look at Vorstag's door, and cursed softly under his breath. He knew the sellsword had feelings for Gerhild, and though she somehow convinced herself he preferred the dagger to the sheath, the longer they were together, the more likely Vorstag would eventually show her the error in her reasoning. Then he'd lose her. Again.
No, he'd have to get rid of Vorstag. But in a way that wouldn't alarm Gerhild. She liked him—as a friend—and Ulfric couldn't do anything to damage that or he'd look like a monster. Vorstag would have to be the one to make the decision, to want to leave her side, and he thought he knew of a way to do it. He pushed away from the wall, leaving behind the broken fingernail, and headed for his room. He had a lot of planning to do, and the night held only so many hours.