Snowman

Chapter 1: Cure For Me

Chapter Text

Snow fell steadily over the camp, muffling the sounds of soldiers sharpening blades and murmuring prayers to gods both distant and near. The air was biting, their breath visible in soft puffs as they worked. The camp was a stark contrast to the serene beauty of the snow-covered landscape, a testament to the harsh reality of the war. Tove Sky-Watcher knelt beside a wounded man sprawled across a frost-covered cot, her delicate hands steady as they worked to bandage the gash on his thigh. Her curls framed her face like a soft halo, though her sharp green eyes betrayed no trace of saintly patience. His groans cut through the air, barely masking the sound of the steady sewing of flesh.

“You’re lucky the blade didn’t go deeper,” she told the soldier, tying the last knot. “Another inch, and you’d be sitting out the rest of this war from Sovngarde.” His blood had congealed under her fingernails, and her fingers ached from the press of the needle she’d been using, but Loric was her last patient, and the ninth one she’d been able to save. Tove sometimes wondered how the soldiers obtained such impressive injuries, Loric had been stabbed by some sort of dagger

“Thank you, healer,” the man rasped.

Tove gave a brisk nod and stood, brushing her hands on her leather apron. Her gaze swept the camp, taking in the flickering torchlight and the distant mountain peaks rising like jagged teeth around them. The war was a shadow in her mind, growing heavier with each passing day. It wasn’t just the bloodshed—it was the way it crept into everything, stealing even the moments of quiet she used to savor. The toll of the war was etched on her face, in the weariness of her eyes and the lines of tension around her mouth.

“Stormcloak!”

The booming voice cut through the cold, drawing her attention. Across the clearing, a tall figure strode toward the command tent. Ulfric Stormcloak, son of a jarl, and the most infuriating man she had ever met.

She paused, watching him as he exchanged words with the battalion leader. He stood like he owned the ground beneath his boots, his thick cloak billowing around him like a banner. Everything about him was larger than life—his voice, his presence, the way people seemed to part for him without a word. It grated on her nerves. When he came limping to her with an arrow through the arm, he was the same as any other soldier. It pissed her off no one else could see that.

And yet, as much as she hated to admit it, she saw why there was so much magnetism surrounding him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the way his piercing blue eyes could make even the most seasoned soldier falter. Whatever it was, Tove didn’t trust it.

Ulfric’s gaze suddenly swept the camp, landing squarely on her. For a moment, neither moved. Then, to her irritation, his lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath. “Just what I need.” Tove turned her head, hoping that he’d move on to irritating someone else, but no. Here he came.

Ulfric strode across the camp toward her, his limp barely noticeable as he closed the distance. Tove busied herself tying off the strap of her satchel, muttering under her breath about the absurdity of grown men refusing to walk around a healer’s workspace. Her fingers fumbled when she heard the scrape of boots stop right beside her, the scent of leather and sweat mingling unpleasantly with the coppery tang of blood that clung to the air.

“Tove,” Ulfric greeted, his deep voice carrying that maddening blend of command and charm. He leaned one elbow on the barrel of bloody rags she’d been scrubbing earlier, casual as though he didn’t care that they’d been soaked in gore. “Have you seen Rikke around? I’m to be promoted to Kyne’s divison.” He grinned, the expression lighting up his sharp features in a way that made her want to throw her satchel at him.

She didn’t look up, tightening the straps with unnecessary vigor. “Haven’t seen her. Been a little busy mopping up the mess left after Chorrol.”

Ulfric winced, not outwardly, but enough that she caught the slight flicker in his confident mask. He straightened, shifting his weight off the barrel as though reconsidering its suitability as a resting post. “I didn’t think the archers would be overwhelmed so quickly. It wasn’t the right call for that terrain.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tove muttered, finally looking up at him. His gaze softened, not quite guilt, but something close to it. She sighed, rubbing her temples. “It wasn’t your fault, Ulfric. No one could’ve predicted how quickly they’d move.”

Ulfric blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected kindness in her tone. He studied her for a moment, as though searching for some ulterior motive, but all he found was exhaustion etched into her delicate features.

“I should’ve been there earlier,” he said, quieter this time, the weight of his responsibility heavy in his words.

Tove shook her head, brushing her curls out of her face with the back of her hand. “Even you can’t be everywhere at once. And for the record, the archers did well considering the circumstances. They just… got unlucky.”

He exhaled, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Unlucky, huh? I’ll keep that in mind when I’m writing the report.”

She rolled her eyes, finally letting a small smirk creep onto her lips. “Maybe Rikke will have something to say about that. Assuming you can find her without bothering every soldier in this camp.”

Ulfric chuckled, the sound deep and rich. He straightened fully, brushing a hand across his jaw. “Fair enough. I’ll leave you to your work, then. But don’t think this promotion means I’ll be going easy on Kyne’s division. I expect you to keep your soldiers in line, healer.”

“ My soldiers?” Tove crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at him. “If you’re in charge, they’re your problem now, Stormcloak. Good luck.”

With that, she returned to her satchel, ignoring how his laugh lingered in the air behind him as he walked away. She let out a long breath, shaking her head. Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of her division. This was going to be a long campaign. Tove set down her satchel and flexed her aching fingers, shaking out the tension that had settled in her shoulders. The firelight flickered against the snow, casting long, wavering shadows over the camp. The sharp scent of pine and blood mixed in the cold air, a stark reminder of what they were all steeped in. War wasn’t just fought on the battlefield, it clung to the soldiers in ways that couldn’t always be seen.

She turned back to her tent, tugging the flap open just as a gust of wind sent a flurry of snow into the space. A small brazier glowed in the corner, barely keeping the cold at bay, but Tove had learned long ago not to be particular about comfort. She had just enough time to peel off her stiff leather apron when the tent flap rustled again.

"You're still awake?" The voice was familiar, gruff but not unkind.

Tove sighed, not turning around. "That depends, Skjor. If you're here because you've been stabbed, yes, I'm awake. If you're here to complain about Ulfric, I’m asleep. Very asleep."

Skjor chuckled, stepping inside and dusting the snow from his shoulders. His broad frame all but filled the entrance, blocking what little moonlight managed to pierce through the storm. "Heard he was in rare form tonight," he said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Promotion’s got him feeling important."

Tove snorted, sitting down on her cot and tugging off her boots. "As if he needed the excuse."

Skjor shrugged out of his cloak and sank onto a crate near the brazier, stretching his legs out with a groan. "I saw the way he looked at you earlier," he mused, a lopsided grin creeping onto his face.

Tove narrowed her eyes. "Don’t start."

"What? I'm just saying-"

"I know what you're saying, and I'm telling you to shut it."

Skjor raised his hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eye told her he wasn’t about to let it drop so easily. "Fine, fine. But you can't tell me you don't see it. He watches you like a wolf sizing up a challenge."

Tove huffed, dragging a hand down her face. "Ulfric looks at everything like that. Battle plans, soldiers, dinner. I am not special."

Skjor grinned. "If you say so."

Silence settled between them for a moment, save for the crackle of burning wood. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the distant sounds of the camp, boots crunching in the snow, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of metal being sharpened. It was a fragile kind of peace, the kind that could be shattered at any moment.

Tove leaned back, resting on her elbows. "How bad is it looking for the next few days?"

Skjor sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Scouts say the Dominion are camped two miles south. If they push forward by morning, we'll have another fight on our hands before we’ve even finished licking our wounds from Chorrol."

Tove exhaled through her nose. "Wonderful."

He studied her for a moment, the humour from earlier replaced with something quieter. "You holding up?"

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. "As well as anyone."

Skjor didn’t push further. That was one thing she liked about him, he knew when to press and when to let things lie.

After a moment, he rose to his feet with a stretch. "Get some rest, Tove. You’ll need it."

"Tell that to the men who keep getting themselves stabbed," she muttered.

Skjor chuckled. "I’ll pass it along."

As he stepped out, the cold rushed in again, but Tove barely felt it. She let her head drop back against the cot, staring up at the canvas above her.

Tove had just closed her eyes when the tent flap rustled again.

"Gods damn you!" she snapped, bolting upright. "Can a woman not get a wink of sleep?"

Ulfric stepped inside anyway, unfazed by her outburst. He ducked beneath the entrance, straightening to his full height as the wind howled outside. Snowflakes clung to the fur of his cloak, melting into damp spots that darkened the fabric. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp gaze swept over her, assessing.

Tove scowled. "Oh, it's you," she muttered, flopping back onto her cot. "I thought I was done being badgered for the night."

"Clearly not," Ulfric said, pulling the flap closed behind him. The brazier’s glow flickered in his storm-grey eyes as he strode deeper into the tent. "I need a word."

Tove let out an exaggerated groan. "Of course you do." She turned her head, staring at him upside down from her reclined position. "This couldn't wait until morning?"

Ulfric arched a brow. "Would I be here if it could?"

"Yes," she grumbled. "You seem the type to enjoy making my life difficult."

He let out a quiet huff of amusement before his face hardened. "The Dominion will be on us by sunrise. When the fighting starts, I need you ready."

Tove pushed herself up onto her elbows, eyeing him warily. "I’m always ready."

"You were swaying earlier."

She scoffed. "From standing all day, not from some fatal wound, if that’s what you’re implying."

Ulfric didn't look convinced. He took a step closer, casting a long shadow over her cot. "I can't afford to lose you on the field."

The words sat between them, heavy. The tent suddenly felt smaller, the air warmer despite the cold seeping through the seams. Tove studied him, searching for something in his expression, concern, strategy, or maybe just the weight of command pressing on him.

"You're not going to," she said finally. "I know my place in this war, Ulfric. I’m not reckless."

His mouth tightened, as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he gave a curt nod. "Good," he said, turning toward the exit.

Tove smirked. "Was that all? No grand speech about our destiny?"

Ulfric paused, glancing back. "Not tonight."

"How merciful."

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he pulled open the flap. The cold bit into the tent once more.

"Get some rest, Tove."

And then he was gone.

Tove stared after him for a long moment before flopping back onto the cot with a sigh. Talos willing, no one else would disturb her tonight.

Chapter 2: Honor To Us All

Chapter Text

The war horn tore through the stillness of the pre-dawn camp like a beast roused from slumber. Its deep, mournful wail jolted Tove awake, her body protesting as she lurched upright on her cot. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, her limbs heavy as if the snow itself had settled into her bones. She hadn’t even managed an hour of sleep, Talos damn Ulfric Stormcloak and his impeccable timing.

“Gods-cursed fool,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand across her face. “Couldn’t let me have one night.” Her voice was swallowed by the chaos erupting outside: the clatter of steel, the barked orders, the frantic crunch of boots against snow. The camp was a hive kicked into motion, soldiers scrambling to arm themselves as the Dominion’s threat loomed closer than anyone had hoped.

Tove stumbled to her feet, yanking her leather apron over her tunic and snatching her satchel of supplies. Fear didn’t touch her, not anymore. War had beaten that out of her long ago, leaving only a grim familiarity with its rhythm. The horn blared again, insistent, and she cursed Ulfric a second time for good measure as she shoved through the tent flap into the frigid air.

The camp was a whirlwind of movement under the dim, flickering torchlight. Soldiers darted past, their breath puffing in panicked clouds, swords half-drawn and shields banging against their thighs. The snow, so serene hours ago, was now churned into a muddy slush beneath their boots. Tove’s sharp green eyes scanned the melee, picking out the wounded already staggering back from the frontlines. Too soon. Far too soon.

She knelt beside the first man she reached, a young soldier clutching a gash across his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers. “Hold still,” she snapped, her hands moving with practiced precision as she tore a strip of cloth from her satchel and pressed it hard against the wound. He hissed through gritted teeth, but she barely heard him over the din. Her focus darted outward, catching glimpses of the battle unfolding beyond the camp’s edge.

And there he was, Ulfric Stormcloak, already knee-deep in the fray. His towering figure cut through the chaos, axe swinging in brutal arcs as Dominion soldiers in their gleaming golden armor pressed forward. The firelight danced off their pauldrons, casting sharp reflections that stung her tired eyes. For a fleeting moment, his storm-grey gaze locked with hers across the tumult. Neither flinched, neither wavered, just a heartbeat of recognition before he vanished into the swirl of steel and snow.

Tove shook her head, muttering, “Show-off,” as she tied off the bandage and hauled the soldier toward the healer’s tent. The Stormcloaks were holding, but barely. The Dominion’s advance was relentless, their lines disciplined and swift, pushing the rebels back step by bloody step. She could feel the tide turning, the weight of it pressing against her chest as she moved to the next wounded man, then the next.

The healer’s tent loomed ahead, a fragile bastion of canvas and flickering light. She’d just shoved a limping archer inside when a scream split the air, too close. Her head whipped around as a trio of Dominion scouts burst through the Stormcloak line, their golden armour streaked with blood and filth. They moved like wolves, blades drawn and eyes fixed on the medical post.

“Shor’s bones,” Tove spat, shoving the archer behind her. The tent was no longer safe. Nowhere was. Her pulse thrummed, steady and cold, as she scanned the ground for anything useful. Her fingers closed around the hilt of a fallen dagger, its blade chipped but sharp enough. She didn’t have time to think, only to act.

The first scout lunged, his sword slashing downward. Tove ducked, the blade whistling past her ear, and drove the dagger up into the gap beneath his arm. He grunted, staggering, and she yanked the weapon free as he crumpled into the snow. Her breath came in sharp bursts, but there was no pause, the second was already on her.

She pivoted, barely dodging the thrust aimed at her chest. Her foot slipped in the slush, and she cursed as she went down on one knee. The scout’s blade gleamed as it swung toward her neck, a killing blow she couldn’t outrun. Time slowed, her heartbeat deafening in her ears.

Then a roar, raw, primal, cut through the din. Ulfric’s axe cleaved through the scout’s spine, the force of it sending a spray of blood across the snow. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, and Ulfric loomed over her, chest heaving, his cloak soaked with crimson and meltwater.

“You’re supposed to be back there ,” he snapped, breathless, jerking his head toward the tent.

Tove scrambled to her feet, gripping the dagger so hard her knuckles whitened. “And you’re supposed to be leading, not playing bodyguard,” she shot back, her voice sharp enough to cut through the clamour.

Ulfric’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with something between fury and exasperation. “Stay back, Tove. That’s an order.”

She bared her teeth in a mirthless grin. “Not your soldier, Stormcloak. Try again.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but a fresh wave of Dominion shouts drowned him out. The battle surged closer, swallowing their standoff. Ulfric spun, axe raised, and charged back into the fray, his silhouette swallowed by the chaos. Tove lingered a moment, her breath ragged, the weight of his intervention sinking in despite her defiance.

The fight raged on, a brutal dance of steel and screams. Tove darted between the wounded, dragging them to whatever cover she could find, her hands slick with blood and snow. But her gaze kept flicking to the frontline, searching for that familiar broad-shouldered figure amidst the carnage. She told herself it was practicality, he was their leader, after all. If he fell, they were done.

And yet, out there in the thick of it, Ulfric’s own eyes scanned the chaos too. He wouldn’t admit it, not to her, not to himself, but he was looking for her just the same. The healer who wouldn’t stay put, who defied him at every turn, who somehow kept stitching this broken war together. The thought gnawed at him as he drove his axe into another Dominion soldier, the battle roaring on around them both.

The clash of steel dulled to a sporadic clang as the Dominion’s relentless push faltered. Tove barely noticed the shift, her world narrowed to the soldier groaning beneath her hands. His leg was a mangled ruin, the bone jutting through torn flesh, and she worked fast, binding it with what little clean cloth she had left. Her breath fogged the air, her curls plastered to her sweat-slicked forehead.

A sudden, searing pain ripped across her left arm. She hissed, jerking back as a Dominion blade grazed her, the scout’s wild swing catching her mid-motion. Blood welled instantly, hot and sticky, soaking through her tunic sleeve. The scout lunged again, but a Stormcloak spearman tackled him into the snow before he could finish the job. Tove didn’t spare a glance, she pressed her good hand to the next wounded man, her voice steady as she muttered, “Hold on, you’re not dying here.”

Her tunic grew heavy, the blood, hers and theirs, drenched the fabric, clinging to her skin. The slash on her arm throbbed, a sharp counterpoint to the ache in her shoulders, but she couldn’t stop. Not yet. She murmured a quick healing spell under her breath, the faint glow of magicka flaring around her fingers. The bleeding slowed, the edges of the wound knitting just enough to keep her moving, but she didn’t waste the energy to mend it fully. There were too many others.

The battle’s roar softened, the Dominion’s golden line wavering as their scouts fell back, then retreated entirely, melting into the snowy haze beyond the camp. The Stormcloaks cheered, ragged and hoarse, but Tove didn’t join them. She straightened, wiping her bloodied hands on her apron, and trudged toward the front line. The dead lay scattered like broken dolls, their eyes staring blankly at the sky. She knelt beside the first, a boy, barely old enough to shave, and began the rites of Arkay, her voice low and steady as she commended his soul to the gods.

One by one, she moved through them, her arm screaming with every motion, her tunic now a sodden mess of crimson. The snow around her was stained red, a grim tapestry of the morning’s toll. She didn’t hear the crunch of boots until they were nearly upon her.

“Tove!” Ulfric’s voice boomed, sharp with something she couldn’t place. She turned, mid-prayer, and found him striding toward her, his axe still dripping in his hand. His eyes widened as they raked over her, her arm soaked, her tunic drenched, blood streaking her face where she’d wiped it with a careless hand. Panic flashed across his features, raw and unguarded.

Before she could react, he closed the distance and seized her by the sides, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Her feet dangled, her satchel swinging against her hip as he held her in front of him, his grip firm but trembling. “What in Oblivion happened?” he demanded, twisting her slightly to inspect the gash on her arm. His breath came fast, his storm-grey eyes wild as they darted over her, searching for worse.

Tove squirmed, indignation flaring through the haze of exhaustion. “Put me down, you oaf!” she snapped, shoving at his chest with her good hand. “I’m fine! Let me work!”

Ulfric’s jaw tightened, his hands lingering a moment longer as if he didn’t trust her words. But her glare, fierce despite the blood and weariness, finally broke through. He set her down, none too gently, his boots crunching the snow as he stepped back. “You’re a damn fool,” he growled, his voice thick with frustration. “You’ll bleed out before you admit you’re hurt.”

“And you’ll talk yourself hoarse before you admit I can handle it,” she shot back, flexing her injured arm defiantly despite the stab of pain it sent through her. “Go yell at someone else, I’ve got rites to finish.”

Ulfric stared at her, his chest heaving, something unspoken flickering in his gaze. Then he spun on his heel, storming off toward the cluster of commanders barking orders near the camp’s center. His cloak snapped behind him, a dark banner against the paling sky, and Tove watched him go, her lips pressing into a thin line.

She shook her head, muttering, “Stubborn ass,” before turning back to the dead. The rites continued, her voice a quiet thread weaving through the aftermath. The slash on her arm pulsed with every word, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the faint ache in her chest, something that had nothing to do with the wound. Ulfric’s panic lingered in her mind, unbidden, and she shoved it down deep, focusing on the task at hand. There’d be time to deal with him later. For now, the war demanded her hands, not her thoughts.

Chapter 3: Clarity