Chapter Fourteen: A Nordic Proposal
Brand
"You're sure that's how this works?" I stare at the amulet Jon Battle-Born (the only Battle-Born I've ever gotten along with) just handed me. We're sitting in the Bannered Mare late one night. Borgakh and Lydia went out earlier to hunt trolls (of all the things to do for a girl's night) and they won't be back for a day or two. With nothing better to do, I decided to grill Jon on the finer points of Nordic marriage.
And I don't get it.
"Who's the Nord here, Dragonborn?" Jon chuckles. "Of course I'm sure that's how it works."
"I mean, you're not married yet -"
"Hey, I intend to be!" Jon looks indignant. He lowers his voice a little. "When the time is right."
I glance down at the amulet again. "So, I just...that's it? You're sure?"
Jon gives me a bemused glance over his tankard. "That's it. As far as the Nords are concerned anyway."
"That's just...really straightforward, isn't it?"
"Is there any other way you want a marriage proposal to be?"
I turn the amulet of Mara into the light and watch the firelight flicker on the large blue stone in the center. "I guess not."
I suppose when you get down to it, most cultures' courtship rituals end in a straightforward proposal, Skyrim just sort of skips the courting and goes straight to the marriage. Then again, in a land as harsh as Skyrim, populated mostly by humans, who have the shortest lifespan of the inhabitants of Mundus, a straightforward approach to marriage makes sense. The Nords don't have time to waste words on dates or guessing whether their love interest returns their affections. For a culture largely concerned with swords, violence, and warfare, it makes sense that they'd make love like they make war. To the point.
I lay the amulet on the bar between us. "So, you have to have one of these to get married, then?"
Jon pauses. "I think so. Not that it's a law anywhere or anything, but...well, think of it like an engagement ring. You'll present it to the priest of Mara to show your intentions when you request a marriage ceremony."
"And all you have to do is wear it?"
"Well, normally, a Nord will wear an amulet for a few months showing their availability as a marriage partner and wait for someone to express interest in making a match."
"Does the other person have to wear an amulet too?"
"No."
"Ok. So you Nords just put these on and bumble around and hope you find someone who's interested?"
Jon looks a little stumped. "When you put it that way, it sounds much less romantic, but yeah. Essentially that's it."
"So, if someone expresses interest, you get married? Just like that?"
"I mean, both parties have to agree to the marriage. You aren't bound to the first person who says you're attractive or anything. And then you have to find a priest of Mara to perform the wedding - they're mostly in Riften. But yeah, that's all it takes."
"You don't even try to get to know each other first? Divines, this is almost as bad as the orcs' arranged marriages."
"You disapprove of orcish marriage tradition?" Jon asks with a sly grin.
"It's stuffy. And outdated."
"Oh? And what makes you say that?"
"I uh, ah." I take a long draught of my Honningbrew Mead to come up with an answer. I put my tankard down and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. "Well, that's where Borgakh was headed, you know, before I paid her dowry."
"You paid her dowry?" Jon raises an eyebrow.
"Sure. It was the only way to let her leave the stronghold. She's the chief's daughter, after all."
Jon snickers into his tankard.
"What's so funny?"
"You."
I frown.
"I'm just imagining you walking into a stronghold and suggesting that you abscond with the chief's daughter. He must've been livid!"
I shrug, thinking back to my first meeting with Borgakh. There might have been a second where I thought I was about to get crushed by an angry orc chieftain.
"How did you get into the stronghold?" Jon continues. "Aren't orcs really secretive about their communities?"
I rub the back of my neck and take another sip from my own tankard. "It helped that I saved the stronghold from a dragon attack. They took me in and healed me."
"Healed you?"
"Yes. You know, that thing you do when someone gets injured and you stop all of their blood from vacating their body from the various holes punched in them?"
Jon blinks and looks like he can't decide if he should be amused by my description or disgusted.
"Dragons punch big holes." I waggle my eyebrows.
Jon rolls his eyes. "Now I know you're just pulling my leg."
"Only a little. Point is, I got injured in the fight, and the orcs took me in. As a sort of honor thing, I think. They felt obligated to return my favor. Borgakh played nurse for me while I was recovering and then she insulted my armor and we struck up a conversation."
"She insulted your...armor?"
I sniffed. "She didn't think that leather would stand up against her steel plate."
"Well, she's not entirely wrong."
"Jon...you too?" I make an exaggerated sigh.
"I get the merits of leather. In certain situations. But there's nothing like steel to stop a sword thrust to the heart."
"Says the man wearing iron," I grumble.
"This is just my everyday plate, Dragonborn."
"Everyday plate?" It's my turn to roll my eyes. "You Nords and your obsession with armor. Doesn't anyone on this continent wear cloth?" I hold up my arm to indicate the sleeve of my tunic. It's one that Borgakh gave me, actually. It's dark blue, outlined in gold, with sleeves that widen out a little at the bottom, stopping a few inches short of my wrists. A black vest completes the look and I even coordinated it with a pair of black trousers tucked into knee-high boots that lace up the backs.
Jon gives me a knowing look. "Nords are warriors, Brand."
"So am I! But look at me! Not a stitch of armor in sight. Because I'm not fighting. I'm drinking in a tavern."
"Never know when you'll meet a rival." Jon shrugs.
"Now I think that's the Battle-Born in you talking, not the Nord."
"Perhaps both."
"Do you Nords really run around thinking everyone you meet might be a rival? C'mon, you've all got muscles on your muscles. You look impressive. You're warriors. You don't have to prove it to everyone who walks by."
Jon laughs. "You know, sometimes, I don't get you Dragonborn."
"You don't get me? I don't get the Nordic obsession with posturing and waving a pointy stick at every stranger!"
"By pointy stick, you wouldn't happen to mean sword, would you?"
"Maybe," I grumble.
"Don't let Adrienne hear you call them that."
"Oh, Divines, I'm not insulting the blacksmith. She does a fine job. Swords have a use. I just think that it should be more for protection than posturing."
"Well, that's very altruistic of you."
"I have been told that I'm supposed to save the world, you know."
We're quiet for a moment, both taking another drink. My duty to Skyrim is something I try not to think too hard about, though I've been reminded often enough by priests, Jarls, and the Greybeards that my powers exist for the good of the people (or for their own individual goals, depending on their scruples). I keep trying to tell them all that a chance meeting with a dragon doesn't make me the savior of the world and, honestly, it seems counterintuitive to trust a former thief with the salvation of an entire continent. But no one seems to listen to me when I bring that up, so I quit telling people I wasn't a hero early on. It's a strange burden and I feel it more strongly some days than others.
The Nords live a harsh enough life as it is, in a land torn by divided loyalties, civil war, fear and hardship. If I can bring a little hope just by being the Dragonborn, then I guess that's what I'll do. Borgakh seems to think I can live up to the name, anyway. And there's something comforting in knowing that when I do finally stop the end of the world, or the destruction of humanity, or Alduin, or all of the above, I won't be doing it alone. It's almost natural the way Borgakh has stepped up beside me and helped me shoulder the load of being Skyrim's most celebrated and only Dragonborn. In fact, if not for her help in the past several months I don't think I'd be sitting here quite as sane and whole as I am.
"You got quiet," Jon says beside me.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
He gestures in a 'go on' sort of motion.
I shake my head and drain my tankard.
He looks like he desperately wants to spread my thoughts out for his inspection, but instead, he clears his throat and changes subjects. "So. You managed to pay Borgakh's dowry without getting chewed up and spit out by an orc chieftain."
For a moment, I'm stymied by the change in conversation, but then I realize that I didn't actually finish this story earlier. "He couldn't exactly go back on his word in front of his whole clan. He granted me a favor for saving the stronghold, after all."
"And you asked for his daughter, you sly dog."
"Hey, don't get the wrong idea! I paid her dowry to set her free. Not to set her up with me."
Jon holds up his hands. "Of course, of course. I just didn't realize you could pay a dowry for purposes other than marriage."
"Me either, actually." It had been a gamble. One that paid off in a way that no one was expecting. Borgakh and I had been back to visit the stronghold a few times since Borgakh came with me and all the orcs there were friendly to us. The younger ones would gather around Borgakh wide-eyed whenever she returned and ask her for tales of her adventures in Skyrim. They wanted to see me breathe fire and ice and show off the newest shout I'd picked up. The chief hadn't been too thrilled when I summoned lightning and nearly set the longhouse on fire. Borgakh had forbidden me from using the "dangerous" shouts after that.
But come on, it wasn't like I was going to use Marked for Death inside the stronghold or anything.
"Seems to be working out well for you two," Jon remarks. "Borgakh likes being with you."
"She does?" I splutter and nearly spit some of my drink.
Jon laughs. "Don't play coy with me. I know you're not blind, Brand. You should hear the stories she tells about you when you're not here." Jon winks.
"What? She tells stories?"
"Of course she does. She's been keeping us entertained up here at the Bannered Mare when you're out of town. You've had a crazy year, it seems."
I stop. Has it been a year already? It seems like just yesterday I was showing Borgakh around Breezehome and the town. And yet it also feels like we've known each other our whole lives. I simply include Borgakh in my plans now, a steady and reliable part of my life and I'm struck with the realization that I'm not sure what I'd do without her. "I guess it has been a while now," I say.
Jon surreptitiously motions for Hulda to refill my tankard. She does with a smile. Jon tosses her a coin. "You're allowed to compliment her you know."
I take a sip of my newly-refreshed mead. "I wouldn't even know where to start, Jon," I mutter into my tankard.
"How about with putting that amulet on?" Jon gestures at the Amulet of Mara still winking on the bar in the firelight.
I stare at it. "Yeah, but what if the wrong person notices?"
"The wrong person?" Jon raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on, Jon, I know you have your eye on a pretty lass -"
He glances around furtively when I mention his trist with Olfina Gray-Mane, looking a little relieved when he doesn't find a Gray-Mane or Battle-Born within earshot.
"You wouldn't want to put an amulet on and let just any woman walk up and express interest in you, would you?"
Jon gives me a knowing look. "Of course not. So, if I were you, I'd be strategic about when and where I put it on, yeah? After all, I assume you want a certain orc to see it." Jon winks.
I pretend I don't feel heat rush to my face. "For the sake of this scenario, let's say I do."
"And, for the sake of this scenario, let's say her name is Borgakh, shall we?" Jon nudges me in the ribs with an elbow.
The tips of my ears grow hot. I down a too-large gulp of mead. The room starts to feel pleasantly fuzzy.
"C'mon, Dragonborn, you can't tell me you think we're all oblivious. Least of all a poet. I see the way you look at Borgakh. You two are quite the match." Jon winks and downs his own tankard.
I sigh and rub my face. "I knew I shouldn't've discussed marriage with a poet."
"No, no, I'm exactly the man you want to discuss it with!" Jon slings an arm around my shoulders. "You want help writing your vows? Or a love poem?"
"A love poem for Borgakh?"
"That's the ticket!" Jon thumps me on the back.
I barely manage not to cough up my next sip of mead. I set the tankard down before I risk choking and looking like a fool. "Borgakh isn't exactly a love poem kind of girl," I dissemble.
Jon grins. "Why not?"
I wave a hand around in the air, looking for a reason. "She's more a blood and guts kind of girl. For the love of the Eight, she's out hunting trolls with Lydia right now!"
"We can put guts in the poem. And trolls. C'mon."
I sigh and stare down into my half-empty tankard. "If you're serious about this, I'm gonna need more mead."
"That's the spirit!" Jon claps me on the back. "And to show you just how serious I am...Hulda!" he waves over the innkeeper. "Another round! On me!"
