Turdas, 21st of Sun's Height, 4E202
In the months following Helgen's destruction, news of the dragon attack spread across Skyrim. Travelers passing through Riverwood told the villagers that Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius had made returns to Windhelm and Solitude, respectively, the former riding a wave of enthusiasm from his miraculous escape, the latter angry as a troll. For a time, neither commander made a move against the other. The entire country was keeping an eye on the skies to see if the great beast would return, and in whose favor it might strike. When the dragon made no reappearance, the war picked up where it had left off.
Though little Riverwood went all but ignored by this clash, its villagers spent plenty of time blaming the dragon attack on one side or the other.
"It's the rebellion's fault," the blacksmith, Alvor, had said. "This is our punishment for turning against the Empire. The emperors used to be favored by Akatosh, the Dragon God, and now he's sent one of his children to remind us. We'll be destroyed just like Helgen if we keep this up."
"Nonsense," the old crone, Hilde, had retorted. "The Empire lost the favor of the gods when the Septim dynasty died out, and now they've gone and rejected Talos, once Tiber Septim himself! Akatosh sent the dragon to tell us the Empire has lost his blessing!"
Gerdur would listen without outwardly championing one theory over another, always with a troubled crease in her brow. Then she would glare toward the sky as if daring anything other than a bird to soar through it.
"They say dragons are harbingers of the end times," she said just once, in a low voice to her husband and the girl they'd taken in. "I pray that's not the case."
As for Gerdur's ward, herself a survivor of Helgen, she found the dragon entered her thoughts whether she liked it or not. In dreaming, she saw him often. She dreamed of choking on smoke, of a Riverwood in flames, of the bodies of Gerdur and Hod lying charred and blackened before her. She dreamed that Frodnar was crying and she'd lost her voice again, unable to comfort him. Worse than the dreams was the knowledge that they could become real.
One particular morning, eleven months after the fact, she jerked awake from such a dream an hour before dawn. She lay in the dark and waited for her heart to settle, listening to the chirp of a lone bird outside. After some minutes, she rolled out of bed.
Hod had built a small loft above Frodnar's room for her, from which she now descended on a ladder. She crept to the boy's bedside to find him sprawled out and sleeping soundly, Stump curled beside him despite being forbidden from the house. She pet the dog's head and rubbed one floppy ear before laying a hand on Frodnar's shoulder, just to feel him take a breath. Then she tiptoed through the house to peek into Gerdur and Hod's room. Gerdur was shifting in an effort to get comfortable despite her large belly (and the restless child inside of it). Hod was snoring lightly as per usual. A wave of affection replaced some of the tension in her body.
Heading to the washroom, she rinsed herself with cold water, cleaned her teeth, combed and rebraided her hair, and then went back up to her loft to dress. She descended a second time to gather some soap and the linen basket, snatching a carrot to snack on before stepping out of the house into the blue morning.
She liked mornings. She liked it when the light was soft and the village was quiet, and she didn't have to pretend to be someone she wasn't.
Her strange inability to speak had dissolved many months prior, quite by accident, as the family was about to settle into supper. She'd stumbled into Gerdur and popped out an, "Excuse me," before even realizing it. All three members of the family had ground to a halt, gaping, and she'd frozen in turn. Hod had dropped the scone in his hand. Stump had swooped in to gobble it up.
From there it hadn't taken long to confess the truth of her memory loss to her caretakers, and they'd accepted her story surprisingly well—She'd half expected them not to believe her.
But Gerdur had pondered for a moment, taking her ward's hands and fixing her with a serious look.
"I don't think you should tell anyone else about this. Let the rest of the village think you're just an orphan. If the wrong sort of person finds out you can't remember your past—I just think it would be too easy to take advantage of you. Do you understand? Someone could lie about who you were and we wouldn't even know it. And I don't want to give you up to someone without knowing for sure we can trust them."
At Gerdur's insistence, and with Hod's concordance, she'd agreed to the secret.
But, she still kept her hair long. Someone bad could be looking for her, she acknowledged, and that someone might be the type to manipulate and lie. But someone good could be looking for her as well, and she wanted to hope for the best even while Gerdur protected her from the worst. That meant hoping someone would recognize her, and that meant staying as recognizable as possible.
As she approached the riverbank that morning, she pondered her situation into the same dead end conclusion she always did—that all she could do was wait in Riverwood. Wait and hope someone magically appeared with her life in tow.
Heaving a sigh, she plopped to her knees at the water's edge and dumped the linens on her left before setting the basket on her right. She steered her thoughts into less dreary topics as she dunked the first garment into the river. Like the small selection of books at the Riverwood Trader, and which book she might buy now that she'd saved the money. She thought of the foods Gerdur had stocked in the kitchen and what she might make with them (to spare Gerdur a few minutes on her feet). She thought of the grasshoppers in the garden that Hod detested so much, and the game Frodnar made out of catching as many of them as he could.
Halfway through her laundry pile, she thought about some of the ditties Frodnar had taught her. She started singing as she worked. Frodnar was an eager teacher, always amazed at how little she knew, and he'd had no reservations about sharing his entire repertoire with his pupil. She was always hungry to fill her head with just about anything, but had been pleasantly surprised to find she actually liked singing. A quiet song on the riverbank worked wonders for rinsing away the bitter taste of bad dreams and a missing past.
It was as she was wringing out her last linen, eyes closing to savor the note on her tongue, that she heard a sonorous screech of a bang.
She started. She dropped the undershirt and whirled to find a person standing behind her. At his feet buzzed a wooden lute, ringing from an accidental drop. Looking up from the lute, she saw the person who'd dropped it was Sven, a Nord a few years older than her who played songs at the inn. He also occasionally worked for Gerdur and Hod's mill.
"Deirdre?" he said, as if he didn't believe it was her.
She relaxed, releasing a scolding huff. "You scared me half to death. What are you doing out here?"
Rather than reply, Sven continued to gawk. He hadn't even bothered to retrieve his poor lute. She pressed a fist to her slowing heart and glanced left and right to try and locate what could have usurped his attention.
Finally, he dropped to one knee, reaching for his lute while staring at her. "You can sing."
She quirked a brow. Was that all? He was looking at her like she'd sprouted wings.
"Everyone can sing."
Sven shook his head vigorously. He settled on the ground, setting his lute across his lap. "Not like … that. Honest to the gods, I've never heard a voice like that before. You're amazing."
The earnestness of his tone and his expression said he meant it. Deirdre picked up her dropped undershirt, brushing the sand from it. She did like the sound of her own voice, but hearing Sven call it amazing was something new.
Before she had quite worked out what to say, Sven spoke again. "If I'd known you had this kind of talent, I would have asked you about it before! Have you ever had lessons? Before you came to Riverwood? You sound like you've had lessons."
She tensed. She made herself turn and drop the undershirt onto her pile of damp linens. "No, I haven't."
But maybe she had been taught at some point, and the lessons had stuck even through memory loss. Singing was a physical skill; maybe her body retained what her mind had lost? She would have to chew on the idea.
"Why have I never heard you before today?" Sven asked. "Camilla never mentioned you could sing, either."
Now this was familiar territory, and Deirdre smirked. "As if you would have taken note of anything other than Camilla when speaking to Camilla."
Sven stopped short. He raked a hand through the blond hair at his temple. "Oh. Yes. I suppose I have been … distracted around her."
Deirdre let out a laugh. "That's one way to put it."
It was a mild way to put it. Camilla Valerius was their one friend in common, and usually their only reason to interact. For Deirdre, Camilla was one of the few women around her age in the entire village, and she also happened to be the sister of the owner of the Riverwood Trader. For Sven, Camilla was a passion. Or at least, his love letters and ballads suggested as much.
Sven cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed. "All the same, why have I never heard you sing before?"
Deirdre shrugged, settling her hands in her lap. "I suppose I don't sing where other people can hear."
Sven gawked again. She wondered a second time why he was so astonished.
"Why ever not?"
She shrugged once more, unsure of the answer, and changed the subject. "I don't normally see you here in the mornings. What are you doing about so early?"
He observed her, cocking his head. "Just taking a morning stroll. You know, arousing the artistic spirit with the dawn." He flourished his hand to gesture at the scenery. "Drinking in the poetry of the light."
Deirdre resisted a powerful urge to roll her eyes. "I see." Glancing past him toward the village, she noticed a thin plume of smoke rising from the direction of the blacksmith's. Sven followed her gaze and started. He stood, the neck of his lute in one hand while he extended the other down to her. She accepted the hand and let him pull her to her feet.
"Well, the morning goes on, and I'm sure you have things you need to get to, but—" He fixed her with a keen look. "Do you know how to read music?"
She shook her head and stooped, heaving the laundry basket into her arms. "Not at all."
"Would you like to learn?"
She paused. She'd never even considered the idea. It was undeniably impractical, and unnecessary for a simple village life with Gerdur and Hod. And yet, why not? Maybe the Trader could get hold of written music now and again, and she could learn new songs. Maybe Sven could teach her new songs. Maybe learning to read music would spark a memory of doing the same in her past life.
But learning would surely take time.
"I don't know. Gerdur really needs my help around the house right now, and once the baby comes she'll probably need me even more. I only have a little time for myself every day."
Time which she'd already blocked off for a very different kind of lesson. One which also drew on a physical skill she'd miraculously possessed without any memories of having attained it, and which she didn't think she could afford to go without for the next two months. She tried mentally rearranging her schedule.
"Think about it," Sven insisted. He repositioned the lute in his arms and strummed once across the strings. "I'd like the chance to sing with you. A talent like yours ought not go to waste."
He plucked a little flurry of notes and flashed an encouraging grin. Deirdre started to smile back, warming to the idea.
"Fine. I will think about it."
He shifted his fingers on the strings, nodding. "See that you do." He plucked a different set of notes as he began backing away, and she had a fleeting thought that maybe she could learn to make music with such ease, some day, if she took the chance to learn now.
Sven said, "I suppose I'll see you around then, Miss Deirdre."
She managed to sort of lift her fingers from the basket to wave. "I suppose you will. And, have a nice morning!"
"And to you."
Sven loped into a circle and began walking back along the riverbank, the beginnings of a tune trailing after him. Pleasantly surprised at the whole interaction, Deirdre made her way to Gerdur and Hod's house.
She'd have to talk to Gerdur about the bard's offer. And certainly she'd tell Camilla, because learning music with Sven could also double as an opportunity to wheedle information out of one of Camilla's suitors—for purely helpful purposes, and not just so they had new material to gossip about. Obviously.
But now that she was thinking about Camilla's suitors, there was one other person she had to talk to.
"You're giving up archery for that sap?"
The sheer outrage in Faendal's voice distracted her; Deirdre's arrow did not join its fellows in the center of the target. She lowered her borrowed bow.
"Only for a little while. I'll have to come back to practice for the tournament in a couple of months."
When she faced him, Faendal's expression was both incredulous and disgusted. She tapped her bow against her shoulder and made her best wounded face.
"Don't be so mad. He's not half as stupid as you're always saying he is. And I really like singing."
Faendal made a dismissive noise and waved her out of the way, taking up her position and readying his bow. "Singing is one of the most useless skills a person can have. And besides, what do you need lessons for? You're not going to become a bard."
They went silent while he took aim. His arrow hit just left of hers—even further from the center than her shot, surprising them both.
"Dammit. You see what you've done? Betrayal, that's what this is."
Deirdre scoffed. "You're being dramatic. It's not like I'm going to give him secret love tips on winning Camilla over."
His head whipped around. The pointed tips of his ears turned red as he struggled for a proper response. "That's—neither here nor there."
Deirdre grinned. "Isn't it? That's why you hate him so much, right? Because Camilla likes his attention?"
Faendal's thin lips grew even thinner. He glared at the target, then turned and stalked to his wooden fence, setting the bow against it and leaning back on it himself. "As if ballads and sonnets are going to convince someone as intelligent as Camilla to choose someone as brainless as Sven. She's not going to fall for that nonsense."
Deirdre slung her bow over her shoulder and went to retrieve their arrows from the target. "I don't know. Camilla seems to think he's pretty genuine. There's something to be said about a man who's not afraid to express himself."
When she turned back around, Faendal's tanned face had pinched in doubt, and her heart went out to him. Faendal was a Wood Elf, shorter and slimmer in stature than the majority of the Nord villagers (which included Sven), though not without his own wholesome looks. He had the sort of sharply angled bone structure common to his people and always kept himself neat. Despite a tendency to brood, and despite not having a romantic bone in his body, he also had a good head on his shoulders. Camilla could certainly do worse.
"I could put in a good word for you," Deirdre announced, waving her collection of arrows as if to wave away his problems. "You know, wax on about the practicality of archery over singing. She's sure to swoon."
Faendal's mouth curved up in spite of himself. "No, thank you. Just so long as you're not giving Sven secret tips, I can win her over on my own merits."
"That's the spirit!"
"And just so long as you understand how useless singing is, I suppose he can't corrupt you with it."
She pressed her fist to its opposite shoulder, with arrows in hand. "Aye, sir."
Faendal shook his head and waved her over. She handed him the arrows so he could slip them into his quiver. Hopping up to sit on the fence beside him, she extended a foot and nudged him in the ribs.
"So, that archery competition. You think I have a chance?"
"A chance at second or third, absolutely. I'll warn you again they've had the same winner four years in a row. She's never missed. She told us all last year she wants to make it five."
"Hmm." She swung her feet and considered. "It's still worth a shot. As long as you're not planning on entering?"
"I'm not. You know … it's on her birthday this year."
He avoided her teasing look by feigning interest in the grass at his feet. She poked him with her shoe again.
"You could just plan to bring her back something nice, like I'm doing."
Faendal opened and closed his mouth, still intently observing the grass. He dug his foot into it and twisted. "I can't. I have a plan already."
Deirdre gasped in delight and grabbed his shoulder, shaking it excitedly. "Faendal! That's so sweet!" She took back what she'd thought about him not having a romantic bone in his body. "What are you going to do? Tell me!"
He shrugged her off and stepped out of range of both hands and feet, lifting his chin. "Absolutely not. You'd spoil it and tell her everything."
Well, maybe. Probably.
The pair turned at the sound of a woman's voice calling her name. Deirdre handed over the small bow he'd leant her.
"I still want to see you graduate to a grownup bow sometime," Faendal said.
Deirdre huffed and lowered herself gracelessly onto the opposite side of the fence. "I have skinny arms. I can't help it."
"You could if you kept practicing archery," he pressed, as she began to back away.
She stuck her tongue out at him. Her name was called a second time, and she spun into a run toward the house next door. Gerdur was waiting for her on the front porch, hands perched on her belly with her fingers drumming.
"I thought as much. Archery practice?"
"Yes, I'm sorry. Were you waiting very long?"
Gerdur shook her head. "Not very long, no. But let's get to peeling. Savory apple soup doesn't make itself."
Deirdre followed her inside the house and helped Gerdur lower herself into one of the kitchen chairs. She fetched a large pot and two paring knives, setting them on the table and then hauling a basket of sour apples up to join them. She took the bench seat adjacent to Gerdur and they each grabbed a knife.
"Faendal thinks I could enter the Whiterun Archery Tournament this year," Deirdre announced. "I'll have enough saved up for the fee. Do you think you could come?"
Gerdur reached for an apple and turned it thoughtfully, taking her knife to its skin as Deirdre followed suit. "Well, let's see … they hold that sometime in Hearthfire?"
"That's what Faendal said."
"Hmm." Gerdur pondered as her fingers worked. "With this baby coming any second now, I won't be waddling around like a horker. I'll bet Frodnar would be thrilled to see you shoot, and Hod could probably find some business to take care of in the city …"
"Is that a yes?"
"I see no reason we can't go."
"Yes!" Deirdre exulted. "Faendal says, we could see Dragonsreach and the Gildergreen and the ancient mead hall, and he says they always sell lots of food out on the street, and people play music and dance in the square through the night!"
"Faendal said all that, did he?" Gerdur asked. She finished her first apple, having skillfully corkscrewed the peel into one long, curling strip. She set the peel aside and began slicing the apple into smaller chunks. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with that young man."
The way she lifted her eyes and simultaneously lifted one brow gave Deirdre the cue she needed.
"He's just showing me archery."
"Are you sure?"
She tried not to sound too petulant. "Yes, Gerdur, I'm sure. He's madly in love with Camilla Valerius. And I'm not interested in him like that."
Gerdur shrugged. "If you say so, lass."
The tone of her voice suggested she didn't believe her, and if that wasn't annoying, Deirdre didn't know what was. She discarded her much-less-precisely-peeled bits of apple skin and also began carving the fruit into pieces.
"Besides, I'm taking a break from archery for a little while," she said. "I ran into Sven this morning and he heard me singing, and he wants to teach me to read music. And I already talked to Faendal about it, so I was thinking I could just switch out one lesson for the other."
Now Gerdur stopped and rested her hands on the tabletop. "Sven? That slacker?" Her expression was all sorts of disapproving. "How is that better than spending time with Faendal? He's a monstrous flirt."
"He's only a monstrous flirt when it comes to Camilla. Because he's also in love with her? And is also not interested in me like that."
Gerdur clicked her tongue and tossed her apple slices into the pot. "If Camilla Valerius has so many young men chasing after her, I wonder she doesn't just pick one and get it over with."
"It's not that simple," Deirdre explained, hearing herself get defensive. "They've both got good qualities but she likes different things about them. She's got a lot to think about."
"Or she just likes the attention."
Deirdre shook her head at Gerdur's lack of understanding and let the subject drop. Obviously the woman didn't appreciate the complexities of young love, or she would have given Camilla a break. Deirdre didn't think Camilla's love life was a bad one at all. At least she knew exactly what options she had in front of her.
Her mood drooped, as it always did, when her thoughts turned inward. Gerdur seemed to think she could have been a young bride in her previous life. There could have been someone, a beau or a husband or maybe just an errant infatuation, who hadn't seen her in almost a year. Would he have moved on? Would he be searching for her? Was he … the person who had forced her into this predicament, as Gerdur theorized?
She didn't like these questions. Camilla's love life was comparatively simple, and fun to watch, and it made her feel better about how lost she constantly felt.
A sigh escaped her, drawing a glance from Gerdur. Thankfully the woman didn't pry. She always seemed to understand when Deirdre was done talking.
Author's Note:
So I've named our Dragonborn after the character from the children's song, but of course I wrote the children's song, so she's actually named after Deirdre of the Sorrows from Irish legend. I've always thought the name Deirdre was so pretty (Irish names in general are really pretty to me). I pronounce it "DEER-drə," with the shwa at the end.