“Thank you, Serana.” Ingjard disclosed that I assuredly would have died had Serana not fed me with her own blood during the long trip back from Solstheim. The vampiress did so again ere we set off to find me the cure, this time enow so that I at last regained consciousness, whilst leading me to believe that Florentius Baenius had ‘healed’ me; of course, he could not. How had I been so willing to overlook that simple fact?
Serana shrugged, said nothing.
I told her about my upcoming marriage.
“I congratulate ye both,” she responded. Though her expression told me nothing, my own reaction satisfied me more than her answer; I now felt content with her decision not to take the cure and thus be ‘available’ for me.
Interested to know how she was tolerated, I asked, “How are you… getting along here?” Did not the Dawnguard fear that she would snack on one of them at virtually any moment?
“I am fine. Thou needs not concern thyself with me.”
“Even so, I wonder… what will you do? You will not go home, to Volkihar? Or to your mother?”
“Mayhap. There is no one… at Volkihar.” I sensed she was about to add ‘for me’. “I no longer know whence I belong.” She may have seen the concern deepen in my eyes, and thus repeated, “Yet, be not troubled. I slept and dreamed a few thousand years; I have a few thousand more to consider my place in this new world. Mayhap I have none; it matters not.”
“What about dragons?” I proposed.
“What about them?”
“Perhaps you wish to fight them?”
I had piqued her curiosity about joining the Blades, but she reaffirmed her intent to stay to contemplate life – or at least un-death – a while longer. Which may be some time indeed.
I left, thanking her again, feeling guilt and more regret – that I could not help her? I was unsure. Ingjard and I returned home, Ingjard as my wedding guest, after which she would join the Blades.
Anon, my nuptial day arrived and I made my way by myself toward the Temple of Mara in Riften. As was Solstheim – or local, I knew not which – custom, rather than everyone awaiting the bride, the bridal party, as well as the rest of my friends, plus some local guests and dignitaries, waited thence. I had agonised briefly regarding what to wear, deciding upon my daedric armour, although I eschewed the helm. Briefly, I considered wearing an Amulet of Mara as a joke – knowing how Vilja disdained the traditional token of availability for most Skyrim inhabitants – finally opting instead for her mother’s gift to me, an Amulet of Infinite Patience. I had left all my weapons behind in Honeyside, my Riften home, aside from my daedric battleaxe – for ceremony, I told myself. Yet, no longer a werewolf or vampire, I felt helpless without some sort of weapon.
Which was just as well, since none other than Halvdan and a comrade confronted me in the courtyard just outside the temple. I warned them away, but they would not yield.
“You think you can steal my girl?” Halvdan threatened.
“She is not yours – never was.” I stood loosely, gauntleted hands by my sides, though they itched to reach for the greataxe strapped to my back. “Yield, or this time you die. Both of you.”
He snorted as they drew steel, Halvdan a greatsword, his companion a handaxe and shield. Almost immediately, I realised that Halvdan’s skills had improved since I had humiliated him – twice – but then, mine had as well. Even so, it may not be an easy fight, two against one.
Halvdan circled to my left, his compatriot the right; they had apparently rehearsed this encounter, as they both, bellowing, attacked at once. I sprang back, plucking my weapon from the ready hooks built into the back of my armour. Halvdan’s slash twisted him as it met aught but air; his friend nearly took him in the shoulder, as I was suddenly not there. Yet they avoided collision as I leapt forward, swinging horizontally at them both, wicked curve of my axe clipping shrubs in the courtyard; they evaded me. I parried his cohort’s blow, returned it; jolted as he took it upon his shield, I was unable to take advantage, having to counter Halvdan’s swing at my bare head. Ducking, I spun round; but he was quick, dodging as I caught air once more. Both came at me again, and perforce I had to back up. Anon, I sensed the high stone walls of the courtyard behind me as they pushed me into an outdoor alcove. I managed a crashing blow against Halvdan’s friend’s shield, gouging away a chunk of it, driving the man to a knee. Turning toward Halvdan, I was surprised and irritated to be on the defensive once again, parrying his powerful swings one after another. From the corner of my eye I caught movement, was not quite in time to evade the handaxe chopping against shoulder and arm; though it barely penetrated, I was suddenly hurt. Sweating and bleeding, more than a little concerned; this was not going well.
A stroke from Halvdan battered against a leg; buckling, I barely fought off a series of hacks from the second ambusher. Another slice of the greatsword chinked along the side of my breastplate, the underpadding absorbing little of the blow as I grunted in pain. Again, it did not pierce, but it dented and hurt some more. I became angry. I shouted a battle cry, my axe whirling in a blur, driving both attackers backward as they parried. Once more, however, I was distressed, this time to find myself tiring; would that I had my vampire or werewolf stamina now.
Halvdan swung backhanded; sluggish, I took another blow, this time to hip and thigh. I was further weakening, almost falling to my knees. His friend dived in, yelling something like, “Ha! I have you now!” He almost did. A blow that would have split my pale locks abruptly stopped before my eyes, a virtually identical axe intercepting it; the clash accompanied by a shout assailed my ears.
“No you don’t!” Iona, my Riften housecarl.
As though asleep, like watching myself in a dream from above, the drama’s conclusion unfolded. The odds now even, we took the fight to my foes. I drove the second attacker back; a smash upon his shield staggered him; I swung my battleaxe up, under it into his groin. He made a strangled sound, eyes rolling, head falling forward; I powered from above, sending the fool’s head tumbling away in the grass. Gouts of blood from his severed neck washed across my wedding outfit and further besmirched the courtyard as I spun. I heard Iona battling Halvdan, her grunts of pain as she took more blows meant for me.
Iona fought him off, backed against the far wall. I plunged in just as, with another a cry of pain, she took another stroke against her shield, this one knocking her to a knee; another, barely countered, sent her axe spinning away against the wall. Seizing my turn to save her, I swung as though at a tree; axe hewed through the upper back of Halvdan’s steel-reinforced leathers, cleaving spine, lungs, heart. A strangled gurgle burst from his mouth amidst a geyser of blood as he bent almost double backwards. I thrust my boot against his lower back, yanked my weapon out amongst another fount of crimson. Kicking the body free, I stood, gasping for air. Vilja’s would-be suitor lay half supine, legs folded awkwardly beneath him; I watched him twitch, light fade from pale eyes as blood gurgled from his mouth, adding to that further saturating the ground.
I felt nothing but relief and fatigue. Sweat poured from me to soak my underpadding, no doubt mingled with not a little blood of my own. I looked toward Iona; she was rising, trying to retrieve her weapon with an arm that appeared not to work. A true housecarl, her first concern was for her thane.
“M-My… th-thane. Are… are you… all r-right?”
“Yes,” I lied. “But you are not.” She bore several wounds, the worst a rent in her side that had split her steel armour, through which blood seeped; I knew that as bad as the surface might look, inside was usually much worse. Her arm may be broken, too.
“T’is n-nothing… m-my thane,” she denied, the pain in her voice obvious withal.
“What… happened?” Ingjard, eyes and mouth both wide, stood on the lower steps of the temple in her colourful wedding finery. “We… were waiting… and I… Are you… all right?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that? Help me with Iona.”
We half-carried my seriously wounded housecarl to Honeyside. Yet, a healer would not be necessary, since I had modest skill and we had plenty of potions. Withal, it still hurt, and we would carry more scars even after our lameness mended and the pain receded. As I tended to us both, Ingjard disappeared, murmuring something about returning to the temple to reassure the wedding party. When she came back, Iona and I had washed, changed, and so – although Iona’s arm was in a sling and I struggled to hide a limp – we departed once more for my wedding.
Though splotches of blood remained discernible here and there in the courtyard, Ingjard – or persons unknown – had cleaned up the gruesome scene. Had it been left to me I would have nailed both scoundrels naked to a tree – just as I had served a number of bandits and bounty hunters. Yet, a poor sight that would have made for my wedding party as they emerged from the temple following the service; thus, perhaps it was well that I had not been in any condition to do so, notwithstanding my concern for Iona.
Inside the temple, the gathering waited expectantly, thus I endeavoured to push all other thoughts aside as I gazed upon my bride, awaiting me at the altar. Though at first evincing something like curiosity – doubtless at my tardiness – at my reassuring smile Vilja otherwise appeared the epitome of Mara, all modesty and chastity, blue eyes slightly downcast yet following me, a tiny smile curling her sweet red lips. A wedding wreath of white roses and greenery adorned her shining blonde hair, a similar bouquet held against the bodice of her floor-length gown, it the colour of un-melting snow at the Throat of the World. A pendant – an Amulet of Mara, I wryly observed – hung round her ivory neck.
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