15 Heartfire 4E201, Whiterun Plain
The sun stood low in the west when Ivar's horse finally gave up.
The smith himself had been riding automatically for some time, sunk in the misery of his surging illness. When the horse stumbled once, then again much harder, he shook himself fully awake and looked around.
The beast is wheezing, foam flying from its mouth and caking its flanks. About to founder.
Ivar came to a halt, climbing painfully down from the saddle. His horse stood still, head down, trembling with utter fatigue.
"So, so, boy." The man moved to unbuckle the harness, throw the saddle down on the ground, pulled bit and bridle away from the beast's mouth. "Wish I could do more for you, brave heart. You deserve better than to be left out here, alone and untended, with night coming on."
The horse nosed at him briefly, and then bent to tear at the hardy grass.
Ivar looked around, hissing at the effort of staring into the sun.
The walls of Whiterun there, gold in the evening light, certainly no more than three miles distant, perhaps less. The sun . . . not far above the horizon. Maybe half an hour before it sets.
It's still possible. If I can drive myself to it.
One more gentle pat to the exhausted horse's neck, and then Ivar turned toward the distant city.
He began to walk, stretching into it, testing just how far he could push muscles and bones that already groaned with pain. Then, after a few dozen strides, he began to run.
It wasn't a graceful run. There seemed to be a great deal of stumbling and staggering involved. But after a while he settled into a painful lope, slow but steady, that ate up the distance. The walls of Whiterun loomed ever closer before him, even as the sun sank ever lower behind him.
Ivar barely noticed the world around him anymore. The cool of evening, the decline of the burning light on his back, the shadows rising into the eastern sky, none of this provided relief. His attention narrowed down to a single point, the need to put one foot in front of the other. Until almost nothing remained of his mind but unalterable will.
Stony slope. Careful there, don't step on a loose stone and slip, you'll never get up again. Grass. A campsite up ahead, just outside the city walls, feline faces watching and accented voices exclaiming in alarm. Pass them by without a glance. A guardsman issues a challenge . . .
"Ivar Ragnarsson, Thane of Scarstone!" he rasped, holding Dawnbreaker in its sheath over his head as a token of recognition. "Make way and open the gate!"
"Yes, my lord!" and the man pelted away to see it done.
Through the city gates, up the long street, staggering now, gold painting the rooftops and shadows falling in the street. Faces appearing, staring, falling behind. Nausea suddenly gripping tight, making me want to throw up, except there's nothing in my gut to expel.
"Ivar!"
The smith peered through a veil of shadows. He saw a young, pretty face, felt a strong arm around his shoulders. "Who . . ."
"Ysolda, my lord. Divines, you're burning with fever!"
"Yes," he managed. "Got to get to the temple. Got to hurry."
"Lean on me," she said. "It's not far."
Strong lass.
Leaning on the girl, Ivar could move a little more easily. They moved up the stairs from the marketplace, into the Wind District, under the branches of the dead sacred tree. He glanced upward, and glimpsed the first stars shimmering in the sky overhead.
Bang. The doors of the temple slammed open.
Ivar slipped out of Ysolda's grasp, fell to the tile floor of the temple.
Darkness, and pain.
"There you are," said the woman dressed all in blue, her face marked with sorrow and wisdom. "Barely come to understanding of my Gift, and already in grave peril."
"Lady?" he whispered. "Can you heal me?"
"Of course." She smiled, the beauty of it striking Ivar to the heart. "After all, my adopted brother, you still have a great deal of work to do."
She reached out, her fingertips barely touching his forehead. She leaned close, and breathed into his face.
A sensation of coolness, starting at the touch but spreading like balm through his body. Fresh, clean air in his lungs, carrying the clean scent of rain, driving out the clotted mass of infection.
Ivar closed his eyes, and slept.
He awoke, not knowing for a moment where he was.
A feminine hand. A cloth, laden with cool water, on his brow. "Ssh. Don't try to move."
The surge of fear subsided, as his staring eyes took in the surroundings.
This is Breezehome. My house in the Plains District.
Last time I lay in this bed, it was with Saadia. Divines, what a memory to wake up to.
"My lady, he's awake."
Ivar peered upward, saw Ysolda sitting by his bedside, watching over him. A sound of movement at the door, and Lydia appeared in the doorway, blinking away sleep and staring at him with concern.
"What happened?" Ivar rasped.
"You collapsed, just after we reached the temple," said Ysolda. "I sent a runner to the jarl's hall to seek out your housecarl, while the priestess worked Kyne's blessings. Once she said you had been healed, we brought you here to rest."
"Thank you," he whispered. "There, in the table by my bed, the top drawer. A silver mirror. Give it to me."
Ysolda reached over and found the mirror, handed it to Ivar, held a lamp close so he could see his own face.
Color pale but not too bad. Eyes tired but not bloodshot, and certainly not glowing red or gold. Teeth normal enough. By the Divines, I think I may even be hungry, and for honest food at that.
"Are you well, my thane?" asked Lydia quietly.
"I think I will be," said Ivar. "I thank you both."