AN: A good "feels" song for this chapter is "Weight of Your World" by Roo Panes. Hopefully this chapter will make you cry and smile at the same time. Let me know….
Chapter 4 – The Brighter Side
The families of the fallen Dark Elves collected the bodies, carrying them on makeshift stretchers, and walked away with them to proceed with their own funeral. They were going to perform the ceremony outside the city walls where they could safely set up three funeral pyres. Yrsarald related this information to me as we walked back to the palace, but he didn't know why the Dark Elves preferred to burn their dead.
As we approached the palace, Yrsarald lowered his voice, but continued talking. "I want to be burned, when I die."
I turned to him, for whatever reason almost pleased. "Me too," I said.
"You do? Is that what people in your world do?"
"No. Well, yes. No…." I shook my head. "Not like you do, here, not on a pile of wood. They used to…. Well, I suppose in some lands they still do, but in my land, most people are buried, and some are burned in special buildings that have very, very hot fires inside them only for this purpose."
Yrsarald didn't have a response to my description of a crematorium. Instead, his hand found mine, and my gloved fingers intertwined with his. We walked hand-in-hand the rest of the way to the palace.
Jorleif and Galmar were already in the main hall when we entered. "There you are," Galmar said to me, reaching out a hand and motioning for me to come forward.
"Here I am," I said.
"Galmar needs to speak with you," Jorleif elaborated.
"I…," I turned back to Galmar. "Oh. Alright." So much for having a quiet, private talk with Yrsa.
"Listen," Galmar began, "if what happened yesterday means what we think it means—"
"It does, Galmar," Yrsarald interrupted.
The bear-helmed veteran soldier turned to give Yrsarald a stern look, and then returned his gaze to me. "You're Dragonborn. Or, at least, you took into you the soul of that dragon. We all saw it, the guards saw it, likely some citizens, too. As far as we know, that means you're Dragonborn. It also means that," Galmar's shoulders sank, "you, you are what we need right now." The old man looked like he had sucked on a rotten egg.
"What," I looked at the three men around me, "what do you mean, I am what you need?" I paused a moment, a tiny smirk attempting to sneak onto my face. "You need a mage?"
"No, not a mage," Galmar nearly spat the word. He pressed his lips together in thought. "Something to give the troops hope. Something to help them see Ulfric's death is not the end of the Rebellion."
Oh. "You want to… show me to your soldiers…."
Galmar nodded.
I looked at Yrsarald. "I thought you, Ulfric's soldier-brother, would be the one to bring hope."
My partner shook his head. "No, I'm needed here. You're needed… well, wherever you're needed. If you are indeed Dragonborn," his voice quieted, "then you're needed by the people. Very much needed."
"I leave tomorrow, or the day after," Galmar said, "as soon as I can to visit the camps. I want you with me."
"Oengul is going to try and find some armor that fits you," Jorleif added.
"Armor!?" The word was nearly foreign to my tongue. "No, wait." I took a step back. "I cannot go now! I cannot leave Flavia." I turned to Yrsarald. "You know this."
"I tried to tell him," Yrsarald explained, nodding toward Galmar.
The bear-helmed veteran Stormcloak grumbled something about women. "When can you leave the infant?"
I thought a brief moment. "Months more, at least. It depends on these." I unceremoniously grabbed my breasts. "I may be feeding Flavia for a year or two."
"A year!?" Galmar growled.
I sighed, and sat down at the banquet table. I was hungry. Not sleeping much had caused me to have a severe appetite. Eating was also a distraction from the dragon voice in my head. While I poured myself some honey-water, I addressed Galmar. "Just put the skull of the dragon in a big cart and show it to the soldiers. Tell them I am… doing important Dragonborn things." I took a bite out of a pastry and turned to look at the three men who simply stood there, watching me, expectant. "What?" I hated their staring. "Fine, then tell them I am busy breastfeeding." I spread some soft cheese on a slice of bread. "It is important, and I may be Dragonborn, so… it is an important Dragonborn thing."
"The Stormcloaks need you out there with them!" Galmar shouted, moving to stand in my line of sight. "They need to see the Dragonborn!"
"I am not a Stormcloak!" I rebutted with a mouth full of cheesy bread. I finished chewing, and swallowed. "You did not want me, so I am not a Stormcloak!" I turned to Yrsarald, who looked shocked at my declaration. I wasn't sure what he had expected. I turned back to my food. "I am sorry Ulfric is dead, but I am not yours to do things with. I have my own life. For now I am needed here, and then we will see what I am to do about this dragon thing."
"'Dragon thing'!?" Galmar slammed his fists down onto the banquet table in front of me before he leaned forward and shoved his face in front of mine. "That orc killed your Jarl. The orc was Dragonborn; you are Dragonborn. What do you think will happen when word reaches my men that 'the Dragonborn' killed Ulfric Stormcloak!?"
"Are your soldiers so slow that they cannot understand the difference between orc and not orc!?" I shouted back at him.
"Stop it, you two!" Yrsarald yelled. He did not look happy. "Obviously Deborah cannot leave Flavia, and she cannot take the infant with her. You don't need her, Galmar. She's right – take the dragon skull, take guards with you who saw everything. The soldiers trust you; they will believe what you tell them."
Galmar glared at me, stood up straight, and puffed his chest. His massive arm muscles rippled with rage. Before turning to leave, he muttered what sounded to me like "fucking women".
Yrsarald gave me a weak, sympathetic smile and turned to leave the main hall. I grabbed a plate of food and followed him, and we walked to our bedroom in silence. When we were inside and the door was closed, Yrsarald grabbed a ceramic jug and, with an inhuman roar, hurled it across the room. I recoiled as the thing shattered into innumerable sherds, its contents splashing over a considerable expanse of the room.
I stood back, cautious, wondering if Yrsarald's violent venting was over or not. After a few silent moments of panting in an attempt to dissipate his pain and anger, he finally spoke. "I need to change."
I asked, very delicately, "Did you get wet?"
"No, no." His fists clenched. "I need to change."
"Oh." Change. Skiftar. I supposed what he meant by that word, in the current context, was "shift". He needed to shift.
"You can leave, if you want." He began to remove his funeral clothes.
Hell, no, I thought to myself. No way. This time, I will not run. I will not leave you. Never again. Never. I approached my partner with tentative steps. Though he still looked like he wanted to kill something or someone, he looked somewhat surprised to see me still there, with him; he was surprised even more when I began to help him remove his tunic. The thing was ornate, much more so than anything else I'd seen of his. His bear-paw uniform had been thrown away, the fur and leather having been irreparably stained with Ulfric's blood, a relic of a tragedy for which my partner did not want a memento. I wondered if Yrsarald would get a new one.
As I unfastened the toggles of Yrsarald's tunic, the man watched, letting his arms fall to his sides. Once loose, I locked eyes with my partner and lifted the tunic off of his shoulders, catching it before it hit the floor. I folded it against my chest, turned, and placed it on his dresser. I felt fingers gently graze my forearm. I turned back to face Yrsarald. His face was expressionless, perhaps neutralized between sadness, anger, or withdrawal from them both. I began to undo his belt, and he let me. His heavy cloth trousers fell to his feet, and he stepped out of them as well as his boots. I collected them from the floor and set them aside. I noticed his fists continuing to stay clenched as I began to untuck his loincloth. When I turned to face Yrsarald again, I saw the yellow light in his eyes begin to brighten. He was ready. I leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. I then walked away, letting my hand caress his form as I passed. I walked over to my dresser and picked up the ugly, stuffed toy bear he had given me months ago. I crawled onto the bed, hugged the bear to my chest, and waited for Yrsarald to shift into his werebear form.
The process happened faster than last time, likely due to the rage that had been building inside him. As I did before, I watched the entire phenomenon. When Yrsarald was gone and a man-bear behemoth stood in his place, a roar, similar to that of a lion, bellowed from deep within the beast's chest. The guttural sound vibrated my insides and gave me a chill. Yrsarald's werebear shift had previously been peaceful, and despite being terrified the entire time I later admitted to myself that I almost found Bear-Yrsa cute. It was the fur; I liked furry things. This time, however… I was again terrified, but realized just how un-cute Bear-Yrsa truly was. Bear-Yrsa, I mused. Yrsa-Bear. Ursa, bear. The revelation temporarily amused me, despite knowing that "Yrsa" did not mean "bear" in Norren.
The fact that Yrsarald, in his werebear form or not, was lethal did not escape me. Yrsarald was large, powerful, and smart. Bear-Yrsa was brutal, enraged, and dangerous. His mouth was open in a constant snarl and this time I got a good look at his vicious teeth. I watched as the man I loved stomped around the room, panting and grunting, part of the time on all fours and other times on just his legs. He roared again. I heard the glass windows rattle. Others in the palace – guards, the cook and other staff who might not have known about Yrsarald – had to be hearing this. I hoped that they would ignore it.
The man had a right to be angry. His best friend had been murdered. His war was compromised. His lover was no longer simply his. I wondered, as I watched the bear-man, if our relationship would weather whatever was to come. That is, if both of us survived. I had a feeling that the Imperials would be swarming Windhelm in no time. I wondered if we were all going to die.
Several more long and generally horrifying moments of intermittent grunting, stomping, and roaring later, Yrsarald stilled, and shifted back into his Norse god-like human form. I crawled to the edge of the bed, ready to comfort him. I was taken aback, however, by the audible sobs that escaped the hunched-over man. His shoulders were shaking. He was breaking down.
I ran over to Yrsarald, dropped to my knees, and wrapped my arms around him.
. . . . . .
The nap we both took was practically obligatory. Upon waking, Yrsarald and I lay together in silence for a long time. Plenty was said with our eyes, delicate kisses, and gentle caresses. Yes, I am here for you, said my kisses. Yes, I am doing alright, said my smiles.
Yrsarald was grateful – still utterly distraught and angry, but grateful. Both of us were sad, for ourselves and for one another. Yrsarald was worried, and defeated. I too was worried, but oddly hopeful.
As if nothing had happened between the present and the funeral hours ago, Yrsarald continued our previous conversation. "Why do you want to be burned when you die?" he asked, his voice so quiet I barely understood him. I realized he didn't exactly want to talk about the subject of death, but I supposed he understood that last wishes were important for couples to discuss.
"I…," I stalled, not sure how to explain my feelings toward the decision I made years ago. "I didn't like my life very much in my world. There were many good things, but also some very bad things. In my world, we are not sure what happens after death, but, I didn't want to risk becoming stuck to my life there. Like a ghost, you understand? I didn't want to… remain. I just wanted to be gone. So, I wanted to be burned."
Yrsarald wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to mine. He then moved back, letting his hand drift down my arm to end with his fingers intertwining with mine. "What very bad things?" he asked.
I frowned. "I was… never very happy. I was alright. I was… what is your word for… not happy but, not sad either?"
"Vunra," he answered. "Vunra," he repeated, staring at my shoulder. "I was vunra, too. Not happy, not sad. Vunra with what I had, being alone with the gods and my friends, my job…." He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and gazed at me again. "Why were you not happy?"
I thought about what I would say, what I should say, feeling my frown lines deepen and anxiety threatening to overcome me. I opted for complete honesty, despite how crazy Yrsarald might think me. "I… ehh… I did not like my world. I think that is why I did the job that I did. I studied ancient people because… I wanted to live, in a small way, another life." I gave a tiny, stress-filled laugh. "Be careful what you hope for."
"You think the gods were listening?"
I shook my head. "No, no. No one was listening to me." I tapped the side of my head. "It was all up here. I stayed quiet. I told no one what I truly wanted."
"The gods can hear your thoughts."
I laughed a little louder that time. "Yrsa, no gods are listening in my world. Were the gods from your world listening to me?" I shook my head again. "I don't know. There were portals, yes, but… no. I was alone. No one was listening. There was nowhere to go. I was stuck being vunra with what I had." I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, willing myself to calm down. "So, I did the one thing that made me almost-happy, the one thing I enjoyed doing for a job. I married a man that made me almost-happy. I never loved him, not like I thought I should have loved…."
"Why did you marry a man you did not love?"
"I…, no, Yrsa, I loved my… how do you say… no-longer-husband?"
"Fyra husband."
"Fyra husband…. I loved him, but not the way I love you. Nothing like us. Perhaps that is why it did not…. Why he…."
Yrsarald lifted my chin so that I would look at him. "What did he do? I remember you said that you were not unhappy that your marriage ended."
I was not terribly fond of talking about my ex-husband. I closed my eyes and breathed in Yrsarald's calming scent, preparing myself to revisit one of the more painful chapters of my life.
. . . . . .
"You… what!?"
Greg turned his back to me. I could see him rubbing his forehead.
"Greg!" I shouted at my husband.
"You were gone for a year!" he turned and shouted back at me.
"You think that's an excuse!? Blaming my fieldwork?" I couldn't believe my ears. "One year. You couldn't keep it in your fucking pants for a year!?"
He walked up to me, nostrils flaring. "She's pregnant," he said.
My breath caught. This is not happening, I said to myself, repeatedly.
Greg started laughing nervously. "One time," he continued. "It only took one time. Unlike you, who must be… broken or something."
I coughed, choking on the little oxygen I could inhale. I slumped onto the sofa. "My god…." I turned my head side to side, over and over again. "Since when is that so… so FUCKING important that you…." I looked up at Greg in utter disbelief. "Were you drunk?"
He shook his head. "No, Deb. No. We'd been… close… for a while. It just happened one night. But," he walked closer to the sofa and stood before me, his arms folded across his chest. "I'm going to stay with her." His arms dropped to his sides and he stared down at me. I couldn't look at him anymore and had to turn away. I buried my face in my hands. "I love her."
"Oh my god…."
"I'm sorry. Really, I am. But," he sighed, pausing before the likely horrible thing that would follow. "I need a divorce."
"Fuck…."
"I'm going to move in with her, soon. I'll stay there tonight." I heard him walk around the coffee table and sit down next to me on the sofa. "Look, I just wanted to be honest with you. You deserve that much, at least. I am sorry. I'm truly, truly sorry. But I… I just can't do this with you anymore."
I couldn't stop the tears from falling. At least I was covering my face with my hands. No, I told myself. Fuck him. Let him see you cry. I lowered my hands and turned to Greg. He was horribly, awfully calm, no longer angry or upset, not anything. His rich brown eyes were clear of any signs of sadness, guilt, or regret.
I wanted to bite his throat out. I wanted to slam his face against the wall and rip out his carotid with my teeth. Instead, I opted for the non-self-damning high road. Though I was trembling, I stood from the sofa. Glaring down at Greg, I clenched my fists. Don't punch him. Don't.
"Get out," I ordered him.
He nodded, and then stood from the sofa.
It took every ounce of willpower within me to refrain from attacking the man as he walked toward the apartment door. He picked up the overnight bag that he had already prepared, turned, gave me an emotionless look, and left.
The apartment was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. A void. I stared at my suitcase that was still standing by the door, filled with unwashed clothes and field gear and gifts I'd brought back from Romania. I walked over to the large bag, unzipped it, and found the gift I had bought for Greg. With a scream, I threw it against the wall.
. . . . . .
We then lay in silence. Yrsarald had held me tight as I told him about my ex-husband. When I paused, he gave me a squeeze. I continued with my tale. "We ended our marriage maybe… two years before I came here. I was happy to do it."
Yrsarald backed away again somewhat; he looked distraught. "He left you for another woman because you were gone often? And could not make children?"
I nodded. "Something like that. He could not be alone, I suppose. And, yes. I tried to get pregnant, and it did not happen, but I don't know why."
"But it happens now…."
It did. It did happen, now. I gazed at Yrsarald. "Perhaps the gods fixed me… or all the healing spells I cast did. It fixed me."
Yrsarald leaned forward and kissed my forehead. "Were you more happy, after he left?"
I nodded slowly. "I was angry and sad, in the beginning, but became more happy with time. But… still not very happy." I kissed Yrsarald, muffling a sob that managed to escape my lungs. I then wrapped my arm around his bare chest and held him tighter than ever. "I thank your gods for bringing me to you. I love you. I love you…."
"Deborah, I love you too, but…," his strong hands caressed my back, "do you truly think you need a man to be happy?"
"I didn't say that." I slid back and peered up at him. "I just felt… I felt not complete before. All my life, I did." I frowned, and reached up to entangle my fingers in his hair. "Maybe it truly was fate… fate for me to be here. Not just with you but… here. I am scared, very, very scared, but…," I smiled at my partner, "I am now happy. Very, very happy." Yrsarald wrapped his arms around me again. "Very happy," I repeated.
"You make me very happy, too." We kissed again, and we did not stop kissing for many long, loving, bittersweet moments.
After my chin began to chafe from Yrsarald's beard, I had to put an end to our embrace. I then remembered I could probably heal the chafed skin, and I did. We both laughed, and kissed some more. I realized though that we had likely lost track of time, and pushed Yrsarald away. "Is there not something now?" I asked. "A feast, or… something, in honor of the dead?"
"Not until tonight."
"Oh," I said, turning to check the amount of light coming in from the window. Satisfied that we still had some time to kill, I continued our previous conversation about last wishes. "Why do you want to be burned when you die?"
"It was tradition with my family. But, I just like the idea. It is the old way, to be burned. The Nords' ancestors in Atmora could not bury their dead. The ground was frozen, like it is here a lot of the time. So, they just burned them. I suppose I also like the idea of my soul being sent up to the sky in smoke, and my ashes being returned to the earth. But, yes, I understand what you said – not wanting to remain. I sometimes hope that my soul will just… go away after I die. But," he sighed, "I may not have a choice."
"No choice?"
Yrsarald didn't look at me. "When I die, my soul will likely go to Hafirstek's realm in Oblivion."
I blinked. I blinked again. "What?"
"All werebeasts go to him when they die." He finally looked at me, the frown lines around his mouth creased deeply.
"To who? In Oblivion?" I bit my lip. "A Daedra?"
Yrsarald nodded. "Hafirstek. His realm is a hunting ground."
"A hunting ground?"
"Yes," he answered plainly as he stood from the bed. He then walked over to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a box. "It isn't my choice," he continued. "It isn't anyone's choice. Anyone who is like me, who can change into an animal or a man-beast, is… owned by Hafirstek." He then walked with the box over to the bed and sat down, resting his back against his pillow and headboard.
I was bewildered. "Why does he own you? Does that mean Meridia owns me!?"
"I don't know. Perhaps." Yrsarald's frown remained. "But, you are also Dragonborn, so… you will probably go to Sovngarde."
Sovngarde. Otherwise known as heaven, but from what I'd learned about it, Sovngarde sounded a lot like Folkvangr, the Norse version of the Summerland; it even boasted its own Valhalla, called Vurmund. I wasn't quite sure if I understood the belief correctly, but from what I'd been told by friends and by Yrsarald, everyone dreamt of living their afterlife in Sovngarde, but only the truly valiant ended up there, or at least stayed there permanently. The souls of the ordinary were reincarnated, or spent their afterlife in Oblivion, which was not always like my world's concept of hell.
"Yrsa," I whispered as I sat up, facing him, trying not to cry, "does this mean that we… we won't…." I couldn't finish the sentence. It wasn't possible. I refused to believe his words as truth. When I died I would either cease to exist or would be with Yrsarald forever whenever he died. Those were the only two acceptable options.
I felt warm, large hands cup my face and I was urged to look Yrsarald in his eyes. "Do not think about that, honeybee." He gave me a quick, soft kiss before placing the box on my lap.
I whimpered, but tried my best to put the future out of my mind. "What is this?" I asked, indicating the box.
"This… was going to be your birthday gift. I thought, though, after yesterday…." Yrsarald's words trailed off and I felt his fingers play with tresses of my hair. "I just couldn't wait, and I thought we could both use something nice, you know?"
I fought off my impending tears and turned to the wooden box. The top slid open, held by grooves on the inside walls. The box contained a book and something wrapped in cloth. I set aside the cloth-wrapped object and examined the book first, because I had a feeling Yrsarald would have written an inscription inside. The binding was simple red leather with no gold inlay or embossing of any kind. I opened the cover to find a blank first page but, as expected, a note was written on the inside cover.
I read the note aloud. "'To the woman from another world: write down your story.'" I looked up to find Yrsarald blushing. "My story?" I asked him.
"Yes. How you came here, and why. I made this note months ago. I hid it from you." He smiled, but the smile quickly vanished. "Now it seems you will have a longer story." He ran his fingers down the blank first page. "I should have bought two."
I took Yrsarald's hand in mine and squeezed, and then leaned forward to give him a big kiss. "Thank you," I whispered.
Yrsarald smiled, and nodded to my side. I had forgotten about the cloth-wrapped object. I set the book aside and unveiled the second gift.
It was a ring.
I choked on my own breath when I saw it. The simple, gold circle held enough power to temporarily stop my heart. When I looked closer, I saw that it was shimmering a pale blue.
"It… it's enchanted?" I asked Yrsarald.
"It is. With magic, like the necklace that Wuunferth gave you. I had him enchant this with the same spell. I think it is supposed to act like a potion, and help restore your magic when you wear it."
"Yes, that is exactly what the spell does." I picked up the ring and watched as the infused magic danced across the soft yellow surface. The ring was large, too large for my ring finger.
Yrsarald took the ring from me and proceeded to slip it onto my left thumb. "Wuunferth said that the left hand is the most receptive to magic, and that is why mages cast spells with their right."
"Yes, that is correct." I gazed at the object on my thumb and appreciated the rich glow as it reflected the light of the oil sconces as well as the natural light coming in from the windows. "Why my thumb?"
"Hmm? Oh, I supposed that is what this ring would fit on you. It's meant to fit my finger, after all." He smiled.
"Your finger? This is your ring?"
"Was my ring, yes; a gift from my sister, long ago." He slipped the ring back off my thumb and tilted it so I could see the inside of the band. There was a faint, crude inscription, likely carved into the metal before the ring had been finished.
"It says 'Yrsa'," I said, turning to see the rest. "'Yrsa… bear'?" I turned to look at my partner. "It says 'Yrsa-bear'?"
The man chuckled. "It does." Yrsarald replaced the ring onto my thumb.
Yrsa-Bear. Ursa, bear. I stared, slack-jawed for a moment. "Then this is yours. Yrsa, I—"
"Yours, now," he cut me off with a smile, folding his fingers into mine. His other hand swept over my hair and brushed an unruly tress away from my face. "I thought, Champion of Meridia or simply a mage studying at the College, the ring would help you, and…." He cleared his throat and looked away from me; I could tell that he was attempting not to cry. Eventually he steeled himself enough look at me again. "And I thought that even in a small way, I could be with you, when you were not here with me."
I suddenly felt like my stomach had crawled up into my chest and was compressing my lungs. Tears were unavoidable as I made a sort of crying, choking sob and kissed Yrsarald with such force that we fell back onto the bed.
