21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Whiterun
At first, Ivar planned to sneak back into Whiterun for what remained of the night.
Can't pretend I wasn't there. Can't pretend there wasn't a dragon. I can still say Irileth and her men did all the fighting and killed the beast. That should work until morning. Long enough for me to take to the road again, and find some place very far away from this Dragonborn nonsense.
Bound to be some village in Skyrim, well off the beaten track, where they need a smith.
Then, just as he was about to turn up the road to the Whiterun gates, it happened.
Thunder cracked out of a clear sky. The earth trembled beneath his feet. Birds rose, startled, in a clatter of wings. The horses in a nearby stable shifted and neighed in fear.
Voices spoke a single word in unison, loud as the battle-cry of a god.
"Dovahkiin!"
Ivar stopped cold in his tracks, a deep chill running and down his spine. His head snapped around, looking up into the night, to the pinnacle of the Throat of the World on the distant horizon.
Divines! Something up there just called me.
He felt a rising anger, an urge to respond, as if an enemy had shouted his name with contempt.
No. No, damn it. I am not Dragonborn. Whoever you are, you will not pull my strings.
He continued to trudge up the road, like any weary soldier looking forward to a mug of ale and his bunk at the end of the day.
"You there!"
Ivar looked up. The jarl's guards clustered around the city gates, an unusual number of them posted for this late in the evening.
Above them, standing on the walls, Ivar saw a swarm of people. Half of Whiterun seemed to be there, pale faces staring down at him, eager for news.
"What can you tell us?" demanded the guard-captain who had hailed him. "Was it a dragon?"
Ivar shambled forward, suddenly feeling bone-weary. "It was a dragon. It's dead now."
He heard a ripple of voices from the town-folk on the walls.
The guard-captain turned to shout up at them. "Right, then! Dragon's dead, nothing more to see, and you lot are all breaking curfew! Down off the walls, get back to your homes, there'll be more news in the morning!"
The gates opened. For a few moments the town-folk surrounded Ivar, all of them staring at him, full of questions. Somehow he managed to avoid giving answers, pushing his way through the throng and winning free to the street beyond.
I should report to the jarl.
No, to Oblivion with that. Irileth will be back soon, she can report to her master.
I need . . .
Ivar wasn't sure what he needed. He had changed.
Most of him wanted nothing more than to slide into some dark hole and hide.
Part of him wanted something else. Wanted the awe of the guards who had watched him eat that dragon's soul. Wanted the admiration of the crowd of town-folk. Wanted to step into a role he sensed stood ready for him: warrior, hero, conqueror.
No. I'm just a smith. Never wanted more than that. Never deserved more than that.
Ivar glanced up. His wandering feet had taken him to the market square, now almost deserted. Lights shone out from the windows of the inn just ahead, and he could hear voices.
He climbed the steps and passed through the door, into warm firelight and the smell of food.
Even as he sat down at a table, he could feel something relax deep inside his soul. He ordered buttered bread, a bowl of beef stew, and a tankard of mead. The food arrived promptly and tasted very fine. Ivar listened to a bard, who turned out much better than the one in Riverwood.
Then the bard began singing a new song.
"Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart. I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes . . ."
Ivar found his right hand bunching into a fist.
Abruptly, he stood and dropped a few coins on the table. Then he found the proprietor, an elderly Nord who supervised her little domain from a stool behind the bar.
"Is everything to your liking?" she quavered.
"The food was fine, thank you." Ivar heard tension in his voice, and forced himself to be calm. "I'll need a room for the night. With a warm bed."
The crone nodded, her eyes glittering in the firelight. "Room is ten septims. The bed is another ten."
Ivar counted his coins out onto the counter. When the old woman reached for them, he seized her wrist, gently but very firmly. "How much does the girl get?" he asked quietly.
"My cut's two septims," said the old woman calmly. "She gets the rest, and anything else you might decide to give her."
"Good. Give me half a glass to get out of my gear."
In his room, Ivar couldn't hear the bard anymore. He still found his hands shaking as he unbuckled his armor, set aside his weapons, and washed in a basin of clean water.
The door opened and closed again, very quietly.
Ivar usually prided himself on seeing to his lover's pleasure before his own. That night an urgent demand welled up in him. He stripped her out of her clothes, lost himself in the perfect line of her neck and jaw, the sweetness of her lips, the warm mass of her breasts, the rich curve of her hips, the soft skin of her thighs. At least she seemed willing if not eager, showing no sign of fear or resentment. No doubt she had seen worse.
Afterward they lay quietly in the bed, Ivar's arm now gentle around the tavern girl's body. She relaxed against him, the scent of her hair in his nostrils.
"Hmm," he murmured, already half asleep. "What's your name?"
She spoke for the first time, her voice like low music.
"Saadia."