“Loyalty is what makes us trust,
Trust is what makes us stay,
Staying is what makes us love,
And love is what gives us hope.”
-Glenn Van Dekken

The wound burned like a hot coal lodged in his skin. He’d been shot with arrows before...iron arrows, Imperial steel arrows...but this one was different. Ulfric Stormcloak leaned against a great pine rendered black in the cloak of night, trying to collect his thoughts and a bit of strength. The camp was scattered to the four winds due to the surprise attack. A snarling chuckle escaped his mouth as the thought of the deadly efficiency the Imperials had wielded against the skeleton crew of the Falkreath camp. The rest of the regiment had accompanied Galmar on a two day’s ride north to establish another camp...a decision he’d made that brought a bitter taste to his mouth, a sad accompaniment to the iron taste of blood already present.

“Ulfric Stormcloak.” There was laughter underneath the Imperial accent, and he growled in response as the officer stalked forward, gladius drawn, the point of it reflecting pure white moonlight. “Fancy meeting you here...right where our sources said you’d be.”

His right hand leveled his war axe at the face of the young officer while the other pushed him from the comforting strength of the tree. Unwilling to look weak even in the face of what could very well be his death, he squared his shoulders. “And why are you so happy to find me, pup? Are you that fond of death that you’d seek it out?” Brave words, he knew, but they’d make for a great song when he was gone. And with that phrase, his last fight began.

Even wounded, Ulfric was a formidable opponent, spinning out of reach of the gladius with a speed unnatural for someone so large of frame. But now he knew that the arrow lodged in the left side of his chest, dangerously close to his lung, was soaked in poison, and each step he took ate up precious amounts of energy, consciousness, and strength. Metal struck metal, and each blow jarred his body racked with wounds making him exponentially slower, dizzier, and more sluggish. It was a battle of attrition, the smaller Imperial not losing his very energy in a building flood, and Ulfric bleeding out both blood and spirit. The fight ended where it had begun, with Ulfric’s back against a tree and the Imperial officer forcing his metal gauntlet underneath the Nord’s chin, the very beat of his heart struggling against the metal.

“What did you say about me dying, Mighty Bear?” The Imperial’s bronze face sneered in arrogance, and Ulfric managed enough stubbornness and saliva to spit on him indignantly. Wiping his face and the smirk from it with his forearm, the Imperial snarled, “we’ll see if that Nord pride of yours will get you into Sovngarde.” Ulfric refused to close his eyes as the Imperial raised his sword and began to bring it down…

...the look of utter surprise on the officer’s face was horrifying. Mouth stretched to an unnatural shape, silver blade sticking out of it...the point nearly touching Ulfric’s nose. Guttural garbling and coughing was all the previously snide mouth could utter now. Smoothly, the blade withdrew through the back of the dying man’s head, and his body fell to the ground at Ulfric’s feet revealing an unexpected interloper.

“My Jarl,” the silver cat rushed forward as she saw her leader sinking into the ground. Her hand against his diaphragm was surprisingly strong, and her voice was steady, not fearful. “I saw the last of their troops while I was hunting for the camp. They’ll be here soon, we have to go.”

He reached up with his right hand and casually broke off the shaft of the arrow, grunting at the momentary jolt of pain. “Did you see any survivors?”

“Just two, and I gave them my horse and told them to take news of this to Galmar,” Iona whispered. “I heard the Imperials in the camp talking about you and figured there was a good chance your stubborn ass would still be alive...no offense my Jarl.”

He laughed. “None taken.” He glanced with tired eyes at what remained of the arrow and grimaced back at her. “I’m grateful for you returning, but I’m going to be nothing but a burden without a horse to carry me. Save yourself...live to fight another day, kitten.” It was almost...kind.

Her large black ears twisted atop her head. Voices. At least five. They’d found the practical trail of corpses Ulfric had left, and they were far from happy about it. “Look, I’m not leaving you!” She hissed, large blue eyes looking into him with a fire even he had to respect. “We survived Helgen, and we’ll survive this. You’re coming with me.” The lithe cat positioned herself underneath his right arm and began to tug him in the direction of a brush covered incline. When Ulfric’s weight was off of the tree and fully on her, she nearly sank to her knees.

“You’ve done what you can, Iona,” Stormcloak offered, his voice a comforting rumble. “You’re a capable warrior for what you are, but you’re far too small…”

“With all due respect, Jarl, fuck you.”

With her left hand, she rifled through the small satchel attached to her belt, turning to look in the direction of the voices. Still far off. Still a chance. Her ears shot up at the recognition her fingertips felt when she touched the right vial. With one hand, she lifted the small glass tube to the moonlight. Bright yellow. Glowing with the strength of a summer sun. A clawed thumb popped the cork off of the tube, and without thinking, she downed the Philter of Strength with one swallow.

He was still heavy, but not burdensome, and her body shook with what might end up being an overdose. Ulfric watched her, astounded, as she pulled him over tree roots, brambles, and stumps, scaling the incline quickly, her feline feet silent and sure. Her Khajiit eyes saw everything that his human eyes could not...blue moonlight reflecting off of dangerously loose stones, thorns that could tangle them up and slow them down, the outline of enemy soldiers in the thicket below. Her ears could make out the bubbling of the creek she’d found while hunting and the quiet rustle of a caribou in the bushes, its very presence meaning that no soldiers were there.

“And where exactly are you taking me?” Ulfric asked, sounding almost happy as the poison made him more and more lethargic and giddy. “By Shor’s beard, leave me and live!”

“You might be the mighty Ulfric Stormcloak, but you don’t get to tell me what I live or die for. There’s a hunter’s cabin not far from here,” Iona argued, a blue eye shining towards him for a second before she focused on her surroundings once more. “About half a mile away from camp...just keep walking...we’ll make it.” There was urgency in her voice.

He looked at her face, the fur saturated with sweat, eyebrows set with grim determination. Godsdammit...she really cares. Mustering what was left of his strength, he waded with her through the creek, doing his level best not to trip on the smooth, algae covered stones, and practically crawled up the bank. Though she was nearly militant in her stubbornness to not leave him behind, her hands were gentle when she helped him up, when she pulled his arm over her shoulders, when she secured him over her with a hand on his wrist. Truly he’d underestimated her.

“There!” The small cat pointed towards a barely distinguishable shape on a slight hill in the trees. Squinting, he could just barely make out the lines of a roof. Her step quickened, and he could feel the telltale shaking of the strength potion running its course. Poor thing would be exhausted when the concoction was finally out of her system.

He was so spent by the time they reached the doorway that Iona had to practically drag him over the threshold and onto the small single bed. Finally, she had a moment to take stock of Stormcloak’s wounds and see exactly what she had to work with. Carefully, she removed the iconic wolf’s pelt cape he always wore and hissed when she saw the arrow jutting out of the carved Nordic armor. The cat sat back on her haunches beside him, taking in a deep breath before carefully unbuckling the belt at his waist and the latches on the sides of his armor. Her eyes flashed upwards to his face, feeling guilty at practically undressing him, but found them to be closed. Gingerly, she lifted the metal off of his chest, feeling immediately horrible when he winced in his sleep as the remainder of the arrow was jostled in the process. She didn’t bother being so careful with the undertunic, using a dagger to cut it off of him, leaving only what would have been a plain white undershirt and a blossom of crimson around the offending wound. A lot of blood...not truly life threatening though unless it had lodged in his lung. She leaned forward and laid an ear to his chest...no gurgling, no sucking...so it was in the muscle...then why was he so depleted?

Rising up, her delicate nose caught a whiff of it...a sickeningly sweet scent rising from the wound. Like decay...like death…

She snarled and hissed, “poison...lingering. Dammit all.” Quickly, she pulled a red vial from her pouch and leaned over him, softly rubbing the side of his cheek. “Ulfric...you have to wake up...you have to STAY awake.”

The Nord roused easily for someone who could easily be on death’s door. “Iona...what…?”

She lifted his head and placed a pillow underneath it and brought the Draught of Health to his lips. “Look, this is all I have left...and it’s not going to stop the poison...just going to buy you some time. The shit they dipped that arrow in is bad...you’ve got to stay with me...if you sleep right now, you might never wake up.”

His voice was weak and sleepy. “Iona...I doubt that staying awake is going to make the difference.”

“Stupid Nord,” the cat hissed and shook her head. Part of her hated seeing him free of his armor...wounded...very human and not so legendary before her. The other part of her was feeling something she didn’t quite understand. “You’re no healer, so why don’t you leave this to me and just do as I say? I won’t tell the others how wonderfully obedient you’ve been, I promise.”

Rising up slightly, he nodded and placed a hand over his wound, clinching it in pain. Iona trotted outside and looked around the eaves of the small cottage. “Aha!” Taking a running leap, she rebounded off of a tree and somersaulted onto the roof, claws curling into the thatch. Bending down, she picked up a tiny egg out of a wren’s nest, and slid down to the ground.

There was a spring in the cat’s step as she walked back in. “Good hunting?” Ulfric asked, wincing. “Find any miracles up on the roof?”

“Just one,” she quipped back, stepping over him on the bed and wedging herself between the large man and the wall. Carefully, she helped him lean up and moved her legs under him so that he was resting atop her. “We have to get that arrowhead out first...do you need something to bite down on?”

“Hells no,” he growled defiantly, stormy eyes looking at her in disbelief. “Just get it over with.”

Her left hand began to glow a warm, bisque light, and he tensed at the sight of it being lowered onto his bare skin.

“Shhhh.” Her voice was kind...almost melodic. “I know you don’t like magic, but it’s the only thing that can save you now. Trust me. I wouldn’t have dragged you all this way just to hurt you.”

Hurt him. This tiny thing? Normally, he’d have laughed at the idea, but for now, he was just transfixed at the lapping waves of warmth that rolled from her fingertips. Then he clenched his jaw as the familiar feeling of a dagger digging into his flesh ripped through the strange sense of comfort.

Strong son of a bitch, she thought. Ulfric made not a sound, not a cry. Her deft hands focused on their task, one pouring healing energy into him, the other gradually loosening the Elven metal’s hold on his body.

“Finally!” she exhaled, pulling the offending metal from his wound. “You still with me?”

His face was blanched, and it scared her, but his voice was still strong. “You haven’t killed me yet, if that’s what you mean.”

She turned to look out the window for a moment, looking into the full circle that was Masser. When she turned back to him, there was a smile on her face. “We’re lucky, the Moons have decided to be kind to you, my Jarl.” A white furred hand reached into the folds of her cuirass and pulled out a tiny egg that she placed just against the opening of his wound.

He very nearly said something sarcastic, but found his words were stolen from him as she began to sing in a gently rolling rhythm: “I think of you, Mother Moon, heal this traveler’s wound, let Nirn retain what’s ill, let health remain there still.” The egg vibrated slightly with her words as she chanted them over and over again.

Ulfric felt the poison leave his body gradually...the force of Iona’s will pulling it out of his very blood. He watched silently as the strange magic worked, the faint glow of her hand, the darkening of the egg as it became filled with the very thing that had brought him so close to death. His grey eyes flicked to her face which was painted in strict determination and focus, sweat beading on her muzzle, ears pinned backwards, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Her body noticeably relaxed when she uttered the last repeated verse, and she slumped back against the wall, exhausted, but still holding the egg.

“What kind of sorcery was that?” Ulfric asked, reaching for the egg in her hand, his fingers tickling over her palm as he found it and lifted it up...the weight of it now completely unearthly and unnatural.

A fanged smile crossed her face as she looked down at him, eyes heavily lidded, tired. “Think all us Caravaners do is brew skooma and think up ways to sneak into your cities and do some thievery, Jarl? We have our own kind of magic. Be careful with that...you have to bury it in the morning.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” she answered, flexing the fingers of her left hand before she called the restoration spell back into them, placing the long digits on his chest, “that blasted thing has to be buried in the earth in the morning. That’s part of the spell.”

“Damn Cats,” he laughed, but it was joking, playful. The Nord observed how she was leaning against the wall, how her hand was shaking on him. All night she’d fought for him, pulled him to safety, poured her very lifeforce into him…

...her eyes widened when she felt his large hand on top of hers, squeezing her gently. “Iona, stop.”

“No...you’re still bleeding…” Her voice was fragile with fatigue.

“I’m no mage, but I know magic isn’t infinite,” Ulfric sighed, his voice low and husky. “You need rest.”

“You’re my Jarl...!”

“No...I’m not your Jarl right now...I’m your Shield-Brother, and I’m not going to have you kill yourself to save me. Enough of my men have died tonight. I’ve bled more than this before and survived...I’ll be alright, you have my word.”

His hand was still firm on top of hers, and she found it oddly comforting. His words left her speechless for a moment. The wind rustled the pine needles of the surrounding trees as the two warriors gazed into one another’s eyes, something growing between the two of them that neither could put words to.

“Fine, Ulfric,” she chuckled, dropping all titles for the night, “but you need to try to stave off sleep as long as possible...let your body recover a little strength before you sleep.”

That would be easier said than done, he thought to himself. Normally, he’d have balked at the idea of practically lying in her lap, but it was...relaxing. Her slight form was soft and warm underneath his back, and her fingers on his chest were still tingling with the remnants of magic. Feeling the satin-soft touch of sleep as his eyes began to close, he spoke up, “alright...let’s play a game then.”

She thought she’d been teleported to The Shivering Isles for sure. “A game? What kind of game?”

“A truth for a truth,” he uttered, grey eyes opening on her face. “There’s much we don’t know about each other...much you won’t tell me without a price. Let’s make a bit of sport out of it.”

“I’m not telling you my personal reasons for joining your rebellion,” Iona cautioned, her voice a low and warning growl.

“Fine. That’s off limits.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And since I am a gentleman, you can ask the first question.”

She rolled her eyes. “How old are you?”

“Really? That’s your question? Why do you want to know…”

“If you must know, so that I can tell the cute little blacksmith’s apprentice back in Windhelm,” Iona laughed. “She’ll give me a discount for every little thing I learn about you, I’m sure.”

“Pfffft, too old for her,” Ulfric chuckled, closing his eyes in genuine laughter before looking back at her once more. “Forty-five.”

“Who says you’re too old for her?” Iona asked, her right hand suddenly losing its fingers in his blonde hair. “Some women like older men.”

A devilish smirk crossed his face, and she felt her cheeks warm slightly. “Is this the voice of experience talking?”

“Is that your question?”

“Yes, yes I believe it is.” This bastard was enjoying this game way too much.

Iona took in a deep breath and flattened her ears out to the sides of her head. “Yes, yes it is. Now is it my turn once more?”

He laughed triumphantly. “Yes, I yield my time to the cat who lost her prey. I think she’s going to need it.”

It was a question that she’d mulled over in her head a couple of times during her stint in Windhelm. She’d met a few of the Jarls of Skyrim during her travels as a Companion...and they all had families. He was the only one who didn’t. Gingerly, knowing the answer might be hard, she asked, “why aren’t you married? Most Nords your age are wed with five or six little blonde-headed ankle biters running around...why are you unwed?”

She felt his chest rise and fall, a deep breath, and his eyes acquired a far-off look. “Because I’m still in love with someone.”

Her blue eyes blinked rapidly. “So marry her then!”

He readjusted his shoulders against her right leg. “I can’t...she’s on the other side of this war.”

She thought about it then...about the debacle of a peace summit she’d gone with him on. About the damned female Imperial Officer who had unlawfully demanded her very execution in Helgen. “Rikke…” Iona leaned down into his face. “You mean Legate Rikke?” Her tone was one of utter disbelief.

“That obvious, was it?”

She thought back to their interaction...how passionately Ulfric had argued with Rikke, how she’d argued back with him in the same pleading tones. Every word a note of love tinged with sadness. Her large ears drooped backwards in apology. “...women have a way of knowing these things…” She continued to pull her fingers through his hair, glad when he closed his eyes in approval of the comforting touch.

“I trust this stays between us, Iona.” His eyes opened and locked on hers, hawklike and fixed. “We fought together in the Great War...started out as shieldsiblings...then, well, became much more.”

“Of course...I won’t tell anybody.”

It was getting easier to be so close to her, and it was obviously getting easier for her too. Though he hadn’t called attention to her absentmindedly playing with his hair, he’d certainly noticed it. “My turn then. Who’s the older man?”

Her hand stopped for a moment. “What?”

Ulfric smirked, watching the tail that had been curled atop his thighs grow bottle-brushy. “The older man that gave you the “voice of experience”?”

“Oh Gods, really?!”

“Really. You only made one thing off limits. My question is fair.”

Her lips vibrated as she sighed out of the side of her mouth. “When I lived in Cyrodiil...after losing my father...I had to get by doing pretty much anything to survive...begging, stealing...anything.” She looked out of the window, her face rendered in her natural silvers and warm grays, and blacks with the added hues of indigo and blue kissed moon-silver. “Then...I stole from the wrong person...or the right person I guess. He was a ranger employed by a caravan. He took pity on me, took me in, taught me how to use a bow, finished up my training with a sword...and, as I got older, well, things just sometimes go that way, I guess.”

Ulfric nodded. “What happened to him?” He’d heard the unspoken answer in her words...the avoidance of any present tense.

“Killed while defending the caravan.” It was a whisper, barely audible. “Many, years ago.”

His eyes squinted. “How old are you?”

“That was three questions in a row…”

“Damn the game,” he spat, determined to get the answers he sought. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” she answered, looking down at him with a blank expression, but he could see the threat of tears shining in her eyes.

“And you’ve given your heart to no one since then?” Ulfric questioned gently, his hand reaching up to once more run his fingers over hers.

She shifted slightly, setting her jaw and willing the tears to dry. “No. Love is something I simply can’t spare. Not in this life.” The cat turned once more to observe the night sky, losing herself in the stars and the northern lights above.

His hand on her cheek was warm...soft...like she’d never felt. While training with him, she’d learned that his hands were strong...nearly like a blacksmith’s tongs. But now, she couldn’t help but lean into his touch and look down into his smiling face.

Gods, his eyes could be kind when he wanted them to be. “You know, you’re actually quite beautiful.” It sounded almost like a prayer, admiration in each syllable.

She tried to hide her bashfulness quickly. “Great, now I know you’re dying…” Trying to keep her hands busy, she renewed the restoration magic in her fingers and started to brush them over the wound in his chest. DAMMIT, she thought, whatever this damn feeling is, this certainly is not helping it.

“Has it been that long since someone actually gave you a real compliment?” Ulfric’s fingers grazed her high cheekbone, testing the silken softness of her fur and skin. “You’re too young to be so jaded.”

“And you’re still young enough to get married,” she was surprised when she heard the husky growl behind her voice. “You don’t get to tell me I’m jaded when you’ve pretty much given up on the prospect of being happily married. Shit, I didn’t think nobles married for love anyway…”

“Most don’t.” Gods, she’d hoped that asking another question would derail him from this infernal caress that she was doing her best to not enjoy. His thumb ran a curious path underneath her chin, tilting her head up slightly.

“But the great Bear of Markarth would rather marry for love than lands, alliances, heirs…”

“All very stupid reasons to join one’s life to another,” Ulfric uttered bluntly, finally withdrawing his hand from her face. “Heirs that come from such unions learn firsthand what it means to be the product of a loveless marriage. Loveless children become loveless rulers all too often. Skyrim has seen enough of that.”

“Is this coming from the voice of experience?” she asked, looking down into his face, wide blue eyes curious.

“Yes,” he answered flatly. “I learned what it was to love in the clumsiest fashion, and yet I’m lucky to have learned it at all. When war with the elves came to the Empire, when I heard the cries of my people, I knew I could not stay atop High Hrothgar. I knew then what love was. I was fifteen by that time...a terrible age to learn such a lesson.”

She had no idea why she said what she did...why she let it slip out. She understood even less why she reached up and brushed the back of her fingers against his cheek. “It’s a lesson you learned well.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes drawing up slightly. “Ah, so finally I have earned your approval as a leader, Companion?” Memories of nights spent with Rikke, of similar embraces came through to his mind and he fought the urge to turn towards her touch and brush his lips against her hand.

“You’ve had it for a while now,” Iona’s words had the lilt of things said through a smile. “I don’t risk my fur for nobles I don’t respect...I certainly don’t drag them through brambles and creeks for half a mile either.” Her fingers traced his rugged face and the dignified line of his brow. “As much as I’ve...enjoyed...our talk...this game...you need to rest now. The spell will continue to work, but you need sleep.”

“You just don’t want me to ask any more questions,” he yawned at the end of the sentence. The cat was humming some strange lullaby he’d never heard, and she was softly running her hands over his forehead and through his hair. “More magic?”

A laugh, elfin in nature. “Has it been that long since you last let a woman touch you? No, no magic. Sleep, Bear of the North. I’ll keep watch, you have my word.”

“I...trust...you.”

She let her eyes soften once she was sure he was asleep. Her hands lingered over his features more, and she remembered a time when she wasn’t afraid to reach out and touch a kind, familiar face. Two completely different lives and yet they’d found some strange common ground. Neither willing to love...to risk a broken heart. The cat shook the sleepy, warm feeling out of herself and pushed the strange emotions away into a dark corner. Still, as the Bear of Markarth slumbered in her lap, she’d look down at him from time to time and feel the heat of blush rise in her silver cheeks.

---

Lol, I don't blame anyone for not reading all that shit. TL/DR explanation is that he's wounded, poisoned, and just woozy enough to be nice and say some cute fucking shit. I AM A MASTER OF ROMANCE, GODDAMNIT pffffft! Iona the Strangest of Stormcloaks and Ulfric Stormcloak because I only live in the real world part time...like during the summer...and spend the rest of my days in Tamriel. Don't judge me.

Fun fact: The spell Iona casts is a combination of a few real magic rituals, mainly from Gypsy roots since the Khajiit are based primarily on the Roma/Romany/Romani. Also, many thanks to for pointing out the gypsy influence of the Khajiit.

Done with copic markers and colored pencils on SHITTY FUCKING PAPER I WILL NOT BE USING AGAIN BECAUSE IT EATS INK BUT DOESN'T LET YOU DO A DAMN DECENT THING WITH IT SO IT CAN GO RIGHT TO HELL.