I want to start off my saying, it's been a long time since I wrote something. And this is in fact my first fanfic. P: The title is a line from a James Blunt song called Love Love Love.
I suppose for all intensive purposes this is a Dragonborn/Ulfric story. A quick warning that the way it's written may annoy you because my intention was for this little oneshot to feel very jerky and a little distant in the emotional department. :c
I wish I owned Skyrim but I don't. /singletear

She was often told for a Nord woman she neither drank nor talked excessively. But tonight was the exception. She sat precariously on her fellow Stormcloak's shoulders with a tankard of mead in her hand. "Everyone!" Her voice echoes through the Palace of the Kings and all eyes situate themselves on the woman. "We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone…" she begins and quickly the rabble find themselves singly along. "For the age of oppression is now nearly done!" The Jarl sits on his thrown staring at the Dragonborn leading a song in his praise. Lovise of Windhelm. He remembers her announcing that name proudly and the Imperial soldiers believed she was a Stormcloak they had simply missed. He hadn't recognized the woman as a citizen of city. It wasn't until he returned to Windhelm after the dragon attacked Helgen did he realize who's child she was.

The least he could do for those who fought so valiantly for him was to visit the wounded. The pained screams were everywhere. Ulfric stopped by every bed, unable to say anything other than, "I wish this wasn't necessary." One man in particular caught his eye. He was much older than most that fought under the cause, even older than Stormcloak himself. The Jarl recognized the man as he gotten closer. This was a man he fought alongside during the Great War. "Kaiser Iron-Eater," Ulfric greeted placing his hand on the man's shoulder. Kaiser acknowledged his old comrade with a simple nod. He was blind in his right eye and that is what undoubtedly landed him in the temple; his sword swinging arm, his blacksmithing arm… was gone.

"Old men with old wounds have no place in this new war," Kaiser muttered. His brows furrowed tightly as he damned his daughter. "Spoiled child. She should be here fighting for you, my Jarl. But no, she gallivants across Cyrodiil with a bastard Imperial… She left me, she left her own father. And for what? Love? The girl had just reached her sixteenth winter, what did she know of love?" the man ranted, "Ten years and not a damned word!"

"What is her name?"Ulfric asked, eying the familiar features of his fellow Nord. He was a Nord among Nords, blonde hair the color of ground wheat (though the color has faded and began to gray from his old age), eyes as blue as the sky on the clearest of days, and skin white like the snow that covers Skyrim. Kaiser was what the other races stereotyped theirs to be. A growing rarity in this age.

"Lovise,"Kaiser answers.

He had suspected as much.

It seems odd to compare a woman to her father, but the resemblance is clear. They shared the same hair, the same eyes, and the same skin. But the physical aspect is where their similarities ended. Lovise was a reserved woman, undoubtedly attributed to her adolescence spent playing an Imperial merchant's prize wife (this day is freest he has seen her.) And Kaiser was what you would expect of an old Nord: overzealous, foolhardy, and a storyteller. The grizzled old men in the Palace of the Kings opted to huddle around an old map in the war room and retell their fantastic tales, reliving their youth. Kaiser would occasionally peer out to see if his daughter was still in the homeland.

She staggers off the soldier's shoulders and takes the final swig in her tankard. Like a snake she weaves skillfully garden of people. "We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own. With our blood and our steel we will take back our home," the crowd sings in a drunken unison.

"All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King!" He can hear only her voice for a split moment, the moment their eyes meet and she smiles as the song flow from her mouth. It was because of that smile did he allow the festivity to occur in such a sacred place. He ran a ragged hand through his hair and wondered what would be the death of him. A sword? Poison? Disease? Old age? "My Jarl." He held back his surprise to find the Dragonborn standing on the steps to his throne when only moments before she was enjoying herself in the horde. She held out a full tankard and he is still astonished her thin arms can support it. The only definition in those arms is the bones that protrude from under her skin.

He waves away the offering and leans back into the hard stone of his throne. "Instead of filling yourself with honeyed mead perhaps you should consider a hardy meal."

A small laugh escapes her lips. "Nords are not naturally agile small creatures. The… excess hinders my ability."
"You could have men at your feet."
"But not a nation at yours."

The words rang true. It was debatable whether Lovise's influence was what tipped the scale in favor of the Stormcloaks but she was a valuable asset. "Who would have known the Imperial-lover would march an army into Whiterun, into Solitude." The name Imperial-lover was one spread amongst Windhelm not long after the girl had left to parts unknown with the wandering merchant. The falling out of her relationship was what eventually caused her return.

"I wasn't aware I was still known as the Imperial-lover," she mutters, handing the tankard to a passing soldier. The low bellowing, some would call laughter, escaped his lips. The rebellion leader shook his head and simply continued to laugh, "Of course, where is my head, I should be calling you Dovahkiin—Dragonborn, like the rest do."

"The title precedes me," she insists. She was trained in modesty like every successful merchant's wife. But mead is starting to flow through her veins. Her gestures are clumsy and her face is flushed. The Nordic defiance is beginning to surface.

Ulfric shifts in his seat once again, favoring an armrest like all Jarls seemed to do. He stayed silent, taking in the final lines of the drunken song. He could hear amongst the intoxicated masses. As the song finishes and Lovise is no longer belting out in a horrid tune, he carries on the conversation, "I find it oddly fitting. A beautiful young Nord with the power of the Thu'um. The songs that will be sung in your honor will be grand."

The young blonde turns away to steal a sip from a man carrying an armful of alcohol. Lecher. His mind tells him as watches her lips meet the metal mug, her throat down the beverage. She pats the man on the back and pushes him on his way. "You men with your songs and your glory," she grumbled.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward and a smirk begins to form. "Were you not leading the song in my honor?" he asks.

"It was cause for celebration," Lovise replies.

"As there will be when tavern bards sing your name. I sure there will be embellishments. No one will wish to sing of that meek frame of yours," he grabs hold of her wrist and he meets the palm of his own hand before he can fully grip the feeble thing. She jerks away, rubbing her wrists as if he had hurt her. He meets her glare with a nonchalant gaze. She looks… hurt and embarrassed. There is a fire in those sky blue eyes that have finally come forth. "My Jarl, if I may speak out of turn… You have no business lecturing me of my meek frame. I am no child."

"Are you not? I am old enough to be your father, child." As the words flowed the sudden realization of his old age began to sink in. His hair had not dulled or grayed. His face had aged well, the only deep wrinkles be across his forehead. He had led a rebellion group to war and came out victorious. Time was a mystifying thing.

"And you couldn't fathom how thankful I am that you aren't."

"Is this the serpent's tongue I have heard so much about? Be careful of the words you speak. Dragonborn or not your lack of experience will be the death of you." The truth had been spoken. In server occasions he had seen her stumble during battle. Lovise was no warrior. She was barely even the Dragonborn, hiding away in ratways and camps instead of meeting the Greybeards to discuss whatever they need of her. Her shouts are weak. He would neither need sword nor shout to crush the girl, without the shadows she played in she was nothing.

She backs down, playing the lapdog once again."My apologies, my Jarl."

"Go, child, sing your songs and drink your mead. Tomorrow another day of the new era will dawn." The Jarl stands and descends the steps of his throne, pushing Lovise out of the way. He treks through the war room with Lovise at his heels. They greet the older men and leave them to discuss their glory days. After she shuts the door to the upper floor, he stares at her with a disapproving face. "And why have you chosen to follow me?"

"What will my next task be?" she inquires.
"I have no new tasks for you. You are free to do as you wish. Whatever Dragonborns are destined to do."
"My Jarl, the only thing I feel destined to do is serve you."
"Honeyed words mean nothing to me. You have been a great ally, but I no longer have use for you."
"But—"

They go back and forth for what seems like an eternity; when in reality it was only the walk to his private chambers. As if on cue every three steps they would stop to argue about her purpose. "You were meant for more than assuring Skyrim was left in capable hands." He tries his best to put on a sad, genuine smile. One that wishes you the best and bids you farewell, not because it wants to but because it must.

She does not buy into his lie, so she continues to pester the Stormcloak man. "I have sworn myself to you."

Ulfric thinks to himself how tiring her voice has become. His hand begins to rise to strike but he stops himself quickly and regains his composure. "Enough. If you want a task, then so be it. Your task will to be ready. Ready if the Empire tries to reclaim what they have lost. Ready when the Thalmor undoubtedly make their stand against Skyrim. When those days come be prepared answer the call of war once again."
"Of course, my Jarl." The speed at which she agrees to his orders is at times unsettling. But most of the time there is a thrill. There is a power in having someone so eager to follow him into the depths of Oblivion. But that is not why I fight wars.

At last they reach his chamber door. He bids her farewell as he enters, "Once again, go enjoy the night with your brothers and sisters in arms. I wish to retire now."

He is forced to stare her down once again as she takes the liberty to follow him in. "Shall I join you?" it wasn't a question. The door closed quietly and she stood there in her inebriated glory. He is taken back by her offer and its implications. It's not entirely unexpected.

He doesn't act and simply opens the door once again. He'll play the villain for her sake. "Those are dangerous words for a young girl," he speaks like a father to his daughter but that is the farthest thing from his mind.

She shuts the door again and leans against it, as if saying she will not move until the right answer is given. "I'm not a young girl. I'm approaching my twenty-seventh winter."
"And as the years pass I grow closer my fiftieth. You will always be a young girl to me."
"I'm not a child."He sits on his bed impatiently waiting for the woman to leave. His elbows rest on his thighs and his chin on his hands. Never again would he allow her to drink in his company. "Then do not protest like one."

She steps forward, throwing her hands back like a child having a tantrum. She pounds a fist against her chest as she yelled, "You surely are not so old that you can't understand my feelings!" Ulfric understood them well enough.

He stands and walks toward her. The way his shoulders swayed was like a beast. He meets her in front of the chamber door. "So the Imperial-lover makes claim to frivolous feelings once again," his tone is sharp and cold, his words meant to be calculating and malicious.
"It's unfair to use that against me," she pouts. She still refuses to leave.
"You of all people should be at terms with unfair tactics, snake."
"This is no battlefield. No war."

He sighs. Any amusement from the sight of this drunken Nord had long since gone. "Is this what you're like when you're intoxicated? I prefer when you still play the good little merchant's wife."

"Ulfric—"she began.
He cuts her off immediately, "Do not address me so casually." Informality led to familiarity… which only opened the door to distractions. Something neither party could afford.

"My Jarl," Lovise corrects herself. She brushes the loose strands of flaxen hair from her face. The flush of her cheeks only intensifies. "Allow me to at least tell you how I feel."

He turns away, rubbing his temples. "Then speak."

"I… I love you," she confesses.

Like a predator he begins to stalk, backing her into the door. He eyes her again. She shakes like a frightened doe. He could spot the goose bumps forming along her arms and legs for his officers' armor covered little. Ulfric runs his fingers through her wheat colored hair, following it as it flows to her neck. A common gold chain peaks out from under her armor. He traces the line before tugging the amulet out. "I am grateful. But do not flaunt that necklace to me, expecting the answer you wish to receive."

She bites her lip in order to stop the mixture of joy and disappointment from spreading across her face. "You noticed."

"How many women strut around with gold wrapped around their necks? How could I not."
"And you have said nothing."
"I have no interest in marriage." He steps away and motions toward the exit.

There is a small clank. The Amulet of Mara lay on the floor. "Then we don't have to get married." She shed the bear skin and undid the straps that held her leather cuirass. She gingerly strides to the bed the Jarl's bed and sits where Ulfric had previously taken. The desire was there for both sides. And any lesser man would have faltered. The High King can't be a lesser man. "You are surprisingly persistent. My heart breaks for your father. Having a daughter so rambunctious and eager to please a man." He tosses the pelt onto the bed, a rather feeble attempt to have her clothe herself.

"You speak as if I am some whore," she whines.

It was a quick motion, forcing her down was easy. She did not object or cry out simply stared through satisfied blue eyes. A coarse hand pinned her arms above her head as the other held her mouth shut. He couldn't remember the last time he had a woman beneath him, there were always more important matters then tending to physical cravings. He lowered himself, forcing more weight onto the slender Nord. He can feel her aching for any sort of affection, anxiously arching her back. Her breath is slow and hot against the palm of his hand. It's intoxicating. He releases her wrists to feel her breast. The muffled whimper brings him back to reality. She's so fragile looking. Only when as she lays on her back can he see the faint outline of her ribs, the pronounced collar bone, the way her stomach caved inward, how small her chest was in comparison to any Nord you could find walking along the streets. "You are clearly no whore," he mutters under his breath as he lets go. "You're barely even a woman."

She rubs her wrists once again. She has the façade of determination, but in her cold blue eyes there is only sadness. "I'll eat the hardiest of meals if it makes you see me as a woman," her voice is almost inaudible and it wavers and cracks.

"I will never see you as a woman."

The silence is suffocating. And he can't bear to be in her presence. It's too painful. He picks up the articles of clothing and armor she had so boldly shed. "Get dressed and go," he commands, placing the equipment on her lap. Ulfric fastens the amulet around her neck, his eyes focused on the fireplace behind his bed. "Find yourself a better man than I."

Her eyes begin to water but not a single tear falls. She's too well trained for that.

Hope you enjoyed this. :