Warmth greeted them as soon as Vilkas pushed open the door of the Silver-Blood Inn in Markarth.
Falka sighed, glad to finally be out of the cold night. With a few strides, she crossed the space to the roaring fire in the centre of the main room. She removed the hood of her thick fur cloak – a present from Vilkas – and pulled off her gloves, tucking them behind her belt. A content sigh escaped her lips as she held her chilled hands close to the flames, trying to catch as much heat as possible.
"You're right, this is so much better than that freezing glacial cave of ours," she said to Vilkas, who had stepped up behind her. "I can only hope the fire will warm it."
Vilkas started rubbing Falka's upper arms in an attempt to get some warmth back into them. "The most important thing was to get you out of that cold and wet armour of yours. Now something warm to eat, and you'll see by the time we're back home, the fire will have bested the chill."
"Good thing it's built from stone, then."
Vilkas nodded. "Aye. Now let's get you something hot to eat." And with that, he left her standing by the fire to find the innkeeper.
A few patrons were present at the moment, most of them gathered around the bard who was playing his lute. Falka remained at the fire, hoping to absorb more of its heat. The warm clothes she had changed into after they had arrived at Vlindrel Hall were better than the armour she'd worn before, but they couldn't generate warmth where there was none. Falka was chilled to the bones, the light half-moons under her fingernails tinged blue. And hot though the fire was, her palms cooled as soon as she turned her hands over to warm their backs. Neither did her arms or feet respond to the warmth. While the roaring fire's heat reached the front of her face and body, goosebumps still shivered down her back at every move she made.
When Vilkas returned, he was carrying two steaming mugs. "Hot, spiced wine," he explained as he handed her one. "Maybe that'll put some warmth in you."
Falka sipped the hot liquid, enjoying the heat as it burned down her throat. The movement and warm drink, though, sent another shiver through her body. She shuddered, and goosebumps spread all over her, from her throat down to her calves.
"You can't possibly still be freezing!" Vilkas exclaimed, a baffled look on his face.
Instead of a reply, Falka only reached up and placed her hand on the bare skin of his neck.
For an instant, Vilkas recoiled from her touch. Then, the incredulous look on his face melted into a smile. "Aw, my icicle." He wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her close. "They'll have something hot ready in a moment. Maybe that will help." And he moved away from the fire, towing her with him towards one of the empty tables.
The bard struck another tune. He was a good musician, no doubt a pupil of the Solitude school. His audience grew as more people came in for supper or a drink or two. No-one had taken a second glance at the couple at the table in the corner. Dressed in simple garments instead of armour, both Falka and Vilkas were thankful for the anonymity.
"I really miss such evenings," Falka admitted, allowing Vilkas to peel her out of her warm cloak. "They'd already been staring and whispering in the Mare. 'Ooooh, look, the dragonborn!' " she mimicked in a squealing voice. Vilkas barked a laugh. In another voice, she said, " 'Then this must be her husband. How long have they been married now?' " even going so far as pointing somewhere in the distance. " 'No, that's the other one'," she continued in a much deeper tone. " 'That's her husband'," shifting her pointing finger to Vilkas. " 'I can never tell these two apart'," she mimicked in a fourth voice. And a fifth, " 'One of them shaves more often, that's how I do it'," a supposedly female voice. Vilkas, a bemused look on his face, raised an eyebrow at her. Falka carried on, changing the sound of her voice at every new sentence. " 'But weren't they expecting a child?' 'I don't see nothing.' 'Surely they won't raise it at Jorrvaskr?' 'Wasn't that last autumn?' 'Shouldn't she show by now?' 'She must have lost it, with all her running around and fighting and magicking and stuff.' " Falka shuddered, switching back to her own voice. "Gah! As nice as they all are, they sure love their gossip way too much."
"Aye, they do." Vilkas agreed as his gaze swept over the bard's audience. Then, returning his attention fully back to Falka, he told her, "You really could have warned me, you know?" At Falka's blank look, a faint, telling smile ghosted over his face. It made Falka hesitate in her reply. She narrowed her eyes at him. Vilkas drew out the meaningful pause by taking a deliberately slow and showy sip of his wine, never breaking eye contact with her. Then, finally, he added, "That you attract attention like a tame dragon." Mischief sparkled in his eyes. "You could have told me that – before the wedding..."
Falka cast him a languid look. "As if you could have resisted me even had I warned you," she drawled. Sobering, she added, "Besides, I didn't attract as much attention back then."
"I wouldn't say that." Faint traces of mirth ghosted over Vilkas' stoic face. "You were quite a sight in that glass armour of yours."
A smile lit on his wife's face. Vilkas put down his wine and pulled her into his arms, squeezing her tightly. In his embrace, Falka fought for air. "Too tight," she wheezed. "Vilkas!"
Vilkas laughed and squeezed even tighter before loosening his taut lock. Falka came up for air but was cut short by a hungry kiss.
She was still gasping when Vilkas released her moments later, cocking his head as if checking the vicinity of a camp, a clearing, or a roadblock, for signs of an ambush. "Yep, definitely not the Mare. No stares, no wolf-whistles, nothing." He laughed. "And you know… the dress might help a bit as well." His fingers brushed over her shoulder. "You simply don't look as intimidating when you're out of your dragonbone."
"Maybe I don't aim for intimidation at the moment," she suggested, shifting to sit on his lap. She placed her hands on his cheeks.
"Forget it, not while you're still cold as ice." But he nevertheless pulled her into his arms, trying to wrap himself around her still freezing form.
"Why must it be so cold?" Falka complained after a few moments, her voice muffled from where she had buried her face in his clothes.
"Cold?" Vilkas echoed. "Wait till midwinter has passed and the White has frozen solid, then you'll know what cold is."
The woman in his arms moaned in dissent. "I will have frozen to death by then."
"What? I don't want to look for a new wife next spring," he protested in mockery.
That drew a smile from Falka's face. "As if anybody would have you," she challenged him.
"Oi!" he rose to her provocation, thrusting out his chin and puffing his chest. "Of course they would."
"Aye. They were lining up when I came."
"Nah," he shrugged, non-committally. "Was too busy looking after the whelps in those days." Another intentional pause. "Especially that mage we had back then. Couldn't fight to save her life."
Falka's head jerked up so she could look at him. What had started out as mockery, though, had shifted into something else along the way. Falka let her retort die on her lips. A memory made her catch her breath, the same one that had put that look in Vilkas' eyes.
Vilkas deliberately deepened his voice, adding, "But I've got many hidden qualities the ladies like."
"That so?"
Vilkas' lips found her jaw.
"Such as?" She shifted her head.
Vilkas tilted his head to deny Falka her goal. "Ah… Keeping freezing Redguards from freezing, for example," he uttered. And made sure to sketch some of the possibilities.
The bard finished his song to the applause of his audience. He declared it time for a break, but the people talked him into one last encore the bard could not refuse.
"One last song, for the lovely lady here," he declared, making one of the young girls blush and her friends giggle. The bard struck the first chord on his instrument, and under the cheers of his audience launched into the opening of a well-known piece.
"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart."
In Vilkas' arms, Falka groaned exasperated. "I hate that bloody song!"
"I know," he grinned. "But there's truth in there, you know?"
She banged her head against his chest to show what exactly she thought of the lyrics. On the other side of the room, voices that had joined in the refrain before stilled again as the bard sang the second verse.
"With a Voice-wielding power of the Ancient Nord art."
"I'll show them my voice," she grumbled as the crowd joined in for the refrain again, and moved to get up. "What do you think? Fus Ro? Yol Toor? Wuld Nah?"
Vilkas laughed and held her tight. "Don't, Red. Sit it through. Get up, forbid him to play, and they'll all know who you are. Sit it through, and nobody will remember us." He kissed her.
"It worked with Mikael," Falka mumbled in protest, but allowed Vilkas to divert her from the song.
And then, the last verse was over and the crowd happily joined in for the final refrain of the song, drowning out the bard's voice.
"You'll know, you'll know, the Dragonborn comes."
In their corner, Falka broke the kiss to threaten her husband, "And don't you dare say it!"
Vilkas smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it, Red. Wouldn't dream of it."
And then, finally, one of the maids brought their food.