Chapter 9 – A Crown for their King
The morning was peaceful. Fjornir and Eirin skipped breakfast downstairs and opted for a more intimate setting, feeding each other snowberries and jazbay grapes from an ornate bowl. They shared honeywater from a silver goblet, stealing sweet, soft kisses between sips. They made love again, slowly, each of them tasting of fruit and honey. At mid-morning, they needed more to eat, and shared a loaf of bread and some goat cheese, then washed it down with more honeywater.
They lost track of how long they'd lay their, holding one another.
Eirin learned more about Fjornir's past. About his life after the orphanage, his befriending of warriors known as the Companions, details about the Greybeards and the trials they posed, and his many missions and quests before arriving in Windhelm. About the monsters and evil things he'd seen, and some of the more terrible things he'd done.
He told her about Silda. He had to.
Eirin sat up. "So that's why she disappeared..." she realized. The news hurt her a little, but she understood. He was lustful, and Silda was there...
Fjornir nodded. "I asked Galmar to send her elsewhere. I had to. She was... She'd treated me like the object of a quest, in the end."
Suddenly, Eirin realized how others must see him.
The Dragonborn. Superhuman, super handsome, super needed, and super used.
"I'm so sorry, Fjornir." She caressed his rough cheek.
"What for?"
"For who you are. You're known by everyone in Skyrim. Even in Markarth I'd heard of you, tales of your deeds, your looks. Everything from your gigantic height to your gigantic-"
"-'Sword'. Yes, I've heard that one, myself." They laughed.
Eirin kissed him. "Well, I like the size of your sword. Any bigger and I'd think you really were half-dragon."
Fjornir let out a guttural laugh and held her tight against him.
His smile faded to somewhat of a pained look. "I had a dream about you," he said quietly, "That morning Silda came to me." His face flushed at the memory. "I couldn't help myself with her, but I wanted you. Only you." He looked into Eirin's eyes.
Eirin shook her head. "But, we barely knew one another then. How could you know such a thing?"
Fjornir smiled. He ran his hand down her tousled braid. "Since becoming 'The Dragonborn', you're the first woman I've met that has treated me like a normal, ordinary man."
She looked at him, wide-eyed, unsure how to respond. Surely not every woman fawned over him so blatantly?
"Not 'Healer', not 'Eirin the Healer', just... Eirin," Fjornir repeated what she so brazenly said to him days before.
Her eyebrow raised. "You liked me because I was brash?"
He laughed. "Yes, I suppose I did." He smiled at her. "You got my attention."
Fjornir kissed her, and felt his loins tighten again.
A knock at the door ended the moment.
Fjornir sighed, draped a bed sheet around his waist and left the room.
Eirin supposed it was to protect her privacy.
A moment later, Fjornir returned. He looked grim.
Eirin sat up. "What's happened?"
Fjornir whipped the bed sheet from his body and let it fly. He marched up to the bed and kissed her lips so hard she thought her lips might bleed.
Fjornir looked into her eyes. Finally, he said, "Word's come in. We march to Korvanjund."
The small troop left immediately to the ruins in the west. Once there, they were to meet up with another two troops at a small camp just out of sight of the ruin. Scouts had spotted Imperials already there, so Fjornir's troop had to skirt the ruins to reach the camp unnoticed.
Galmar made Iver, her assigned bodyguard, promise to not let Eirin into the ruin itself. Too much danger inside, he'd said. Enough Stormcloaks would be inside to defend the Dragonborn if necessary. Eirin despised being so overprotected, but she obeyed.
As she and Iver waited just east of the ruin in seclusion, Eirin felt the charm at her neck. She wondered if her old friend would be here, since he wasn't at Windhelm.
"Did they tell you why we're here, Iver?" Eirin asked.
"Yes," he replied. "An old artifact, I heard someone say. An ancient crown. Ulfric wanted it."
"Oh," Eirin said. She wondered why an artifact was so important that Ulfric would risk his soldiers' lives.
The sun lay uncomfortably low in the western sky. Eirin suggested they carefully make way toward the small camp just west of the ruin, and Iver agreed.
No one was outside the ruin, nor in the camp. They lit a fire and watched the sky grow pink, dark blue, and then black. Eirin and Iver sat with their backs opposite one another for added protection.
Finally, shouts emerged from the ruin. Men and women were celebrating. There he was, Fjornir, holding a torch and waving the others forward. Relief flooded over Eirin and Iver.
Eirin fetched her knapsack of supplies, ready to heal any injuries. Fjornir approached the small camp first and kissed the Healer. She smelled blood and pushed him back. "Are you bleeding?"
"No," he said, "Not mine. There are a few injured, though. Others are helping them out now."
A woman arrived with an arrow piercing through her thigh, just missing the bone. Since the wound was on the outer part of the thigh it was not fatal, but Eirin thought it best to Heal her once the arrow was broken and pulled out, just in case. The partially-open hole in the soldier's leg would still require stitches.
A young man received a bad gash to his face. Eirin cleaned the wound, stitched him up, and Healed him enough so that the scar would not be too rough.
"One more wounded coming, Eirin," a soldier told her.
This one was badly injured; he had to be carried on a makeshift stretcher made out of pieces of wood and cloth. The porters laid the man down before her by the campfire, walked away, and the injured soldier looked up at the Healer.
Eirin dropped her roll of fresh bandages.
"Ralof?" she asked quietly, unsure if it was really him or if the campfire was playing tricks with her vision.
The man squinted. Eirin kneeled down in front of him. His blue eyes widened in recognition. "Eirin," he said. His brow furrowed. "What in Tamriel are you doing here?" His voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Ralof's tone shocked her. She momentarily forgot what she had come here to do. "I'm here to Heal you, apparently. Where are you injured?"
The soldier took a moment to respond. "Dislocated shoulder. Gash on my leg." He looked away from her, into the campfire. Eirin searched for a gash, but it was on the other leg. She moved. "I'll need to patch this up before fixing your shoulder."
"Fine," Ralof said. Wherever she was, he looked the other way.
Eirin cleaned his leg and stitched it up. She wondered why Ralof didn't express the pain she was surely causing him. She Healed the wound as much as she could. At the very least, she could prevent infection and speed the closing of the wound.
"I'll need to get help to fix your shoulder," she said to him.
Ralof said nothing.
His attitude confused and worried her, but she grabbed two soldiers nearby to help hold Ralof down.
"This will hurt," she said to Ralof.
Eirin didn't wait for him to acknowledge her warning. She expected he wouldn't. In a quick motion, a pop was heard and his shoulder was reset. Ralof's scream betrayed his aloofness. She Healed the shoulder, just in case tendons were torn. Otherwise, the use of the arm may be forever inhibited.
She thanked the other soldiers and kneeled again in front of Ralof. "I think you'll live. Sorry about the pain."
Her words hit Ralof unexpectedly hard. Tears were in his eyes when he glared back at Eirin.
"We need to get the wounded into the carts," Fjornir said as he approached. He was flashing a horned, tarnished crown in front of her. Eirin stood, but held Ralof's searing and pained gaze.
Soldiers lifted Ralof's stretcher and took him away. Fjornir watched the Healer. "Do you know Ralof, Eirin?"
She stood silent a moment. "Yes, I know him."
She clutched the charm at her neck.
