The Doors of Sovngarde

Mari has pretty blond hair. It was soft. And ever so slightly, it curled. Mari liked her hair. Every morning, she took care to bind it up into a tight coil, making sure every strand was protected from the grim of the day, from the tug of the guard's helmet, from the blood which occasionally came her way. It was the one luxury she allowed herself: her hair. During those few hours which were her own, she would take it down, and brush it until is shone like little strands of sunlight. Most of her guard comrades laughed at her. Yet she often caught them gazing at the strands as if it were a precious treasure – out of reach yet visible.

Mari spent her days hiding her hair, and guarding a gate. The occasional wild beast and outlaw livened up the days somewhat, and together with her bow and trusted sword she dispatched those easily enough. Then he came, and with him the fire and brimstone of Oblivion. The heat rolling over blackened earth reminded her of her father's smithy, but unlike that place of memory, this place of nightmare offered no escape.

A scamp swiped its claws at her exposed side as she brought her blade down onto a fallen but still living Dremora. The bite of its claws dug into the looping chains of her cuirass, and refused to budge. Reaching for a dagger, she ducked a massive claymore, and reached back toward the scamp. Since the first gate had appeared outside of her city, she had learned her lesson well: scamps, while small, could still mean the difference between living dying.

The long field outside of Bruma was slowly running with small streams of blood. Not just human blood either. Mari ignored what it meant. If the hero did not soon close the gate, then her home would burn. Determination welling up inside of her, she redoubled her efforts. Strands of her long hair were slowly coming loose; her helmet had deserted her during a particularly vicious swipe of a blade. Now the strands were slowly unraveling around her, the golden glory of her hair – inherited from her Nordic mother – was turning crimson from the fine droplets of blood permeating the air around her.

Then he was at her back. His clear blue eyes seemed untarnished by the horror of the moment. Concentration focused his attention on the battle around her. A priest, they said. A warrior, she said. A lightening spell arched over her head, taking out the clanfear making a run for her. Emperor, they said. He had the calm of a rock on a stormy beach; she could well believe it. Perhaps, if he lived, then this horror would end. Perhaps, if he lived, she could go back to spending her evenings sitting in front of the fire in the guards' barracks, the light reflecting off her hair, weaving sunlight into the windowless room. Perhaps, if he survived, she would take Soros' offer of marriage.

Half turning to scan the remains of the battle field, she caught sight of the biggest Dremora to date, and it was barreling towards the little rise where she and her Emperor stood. The man hadn't noticed him yet, still busy with another assailant. Her shout hummed with the power of her race. Yet it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough.

Her sword raised, Mari slipped around her Emperor, and lunged at the oncoming Dremora. A prince he must be. His armor shimmered in blood red and golden yellow, unlike the black and red of the normal ones. It would make sense, to send a prince to fight an Emperor. Her blade skidded along the near impenetrable armor, searching for a chink where it may sink into the flesh it protected. Futile. It was futile to fight a Dremora heads on with the wan strength of a mortal's arm.

"Ysmir, help me." Did Mari say this outloud? She doubted she had the time to utter a word as the Dremora Prince's claymore sunk into her flesh. Her armor was as nothing against it. In the sudden silence following her body's clash with the Dremora's, she could hear a shout, a cheer. Had they won? Then why could she see the gates of Sovngarde? Why the battlefield slowly fading from her sight?

Blue eyes. Regretful blue eyes. The eyes of a ruler. The eyes of the man she fought to protect. So they had won. Faintly, in the deafening silence of her mind, she tried to smile for him. In Sovngarde she would have plenty of time to brush her golden locks. It would be alright.

*M*

Martin knelt before the guardswoman who had stood beside him during the latter half of the battle. Her green eyes still stared up at him with blank forgiveness. Guilt gnawed at him as he reached down and gently closed to forever unseeing eyes. How could he accept her sacrifice? He knew that he must live if Tamriel was to have a chance. Knowing and feeling were never quite the same.

He didn't even know her name, and she died for him.

"Mari. Her name was Mari." A soft voice spoke not far from him. A Nord from the town community who had joined to help fight had dropped to his knees not far, his gaze on the still features of the woman. The long strands of what must have once been a lovely golden color lay tangled around her in a mess of blood and mud. Martin nodded at the man, and spoke a hushed prayer for her soul before he stood to face the battle field. How many had died? Too many. How many more would die in his name? Too many.

And there, walking through the mud of their recent battle, came his champion. Her elven armor shimmered with enchantments, the russet strands of her hair, normally bound in a tight braid, floated around her like a halo of fire. She too would eventually die for him.

Did any of them ever have a choice?

Did he?

Mari pulled her coiled hair down from its sheath, and settled on the bench nearest the fire. The light played over the golden strands like little drops of sunlight. A mug of mead was within arm's reach as she slowly began combing it all out.

"Let me tell you," she began, as several warriors settled on the bench near her, "about the emperor I died for. His eyes shone clearer than a cold, sunlit winter's day, with the dazzling brilliance of the snow. What better man to die for, than such an Emperor? It was on the eve of the last days of the Third Age…"

With rapt attention, her audience listened. A good story was worth its weight in gold, in the Halls of Sovngarde.

Author's Note: Sovngarde is the Nord's idea of heaven, similar to the Norse Valhalla. Warriors who die in battle are granted the right to sit within the gabled halls and drink, sing, and fight to their heart's content.

I hope you liked it. It was just a little something which tormented my mind as I decided how to spend my Sunday afternoon. ;)