Author's Note:

A couple things I want to note before we start this chapter:

First, a note on the shipping tags after I mentioned them last chapter. This story is tagged Dragonborn/Vilkas. Had the site allowed, I would also have tagged Dragonborn/Ulfric. Ulfric will not appear for a long time, and Dragonborn/Vilkas is definitely the primary romantic ship, but there will be Ulfric content eventually.

Second, a note on other tags. I've also posted this story to AO3, where it has several more tags than what FFN allows. These other tags include some slightly spoilery trope tags +as well as a few trigger warnings.+ If at any point any readers are concerned about the possibility of triggering content, please feel free to PM me or check out the AO3 tags.

Middas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E202

Out on the cool porch of the Sleeping Giant Inn, Sven told Deirdre he had his own, secret birthday present waiting for her back at his house. He extended his hand in a theatrical flourish and requested they go and get it. Deirdre giggled and accepted the proffered hand with equal theatrics, allowing him to tow her down the porch steps and then the street.

He raved about their song on the way, and Deirdre's heart palpitated at the recollection.

"But aren't you glad you did it?" Sven insisted.

She nudged him in the side with her elbow, disentangling their hands. "I admit, it felt … nice. For everyone to clap like they liked it."

"They did like it," Sven said with fervor. "How could they not? How many times do I have to tell you, I've never heard a voice like yours before. You're the most exceptional singer I know."

Deirdre thanked him for the praise as clumsily as she always did, because over-complimenting was just part of what made Sven, well, Sven. Everything was in the superlative with him.

It only took a couple of minutes to reach Sven's house. He opened the door with a gaudy bow for her, earning a laughing scoff as she entered. He'd left a fire going in the hearth, the low light reaching all corners of the single room. Even so, Sven added another log to coax the flames brighter.

Deirdre stretched her arms above her head and let out a great sigh, feeling a warm contentment at the way the day had gone. The only thing to go wrong had been her two run-ins (literally) with the Companion, and the man himself didn't seem to think much of it. Her presents had been unexpectedly fine and thoughtful and more, frankly, than she deserved, but her favorite people had been just as happy to give them as she had been to receive them, so that made it all right.

She finished her stretch as Sven finished tending his fireplace. He set aside his poker and dusted off his hands, turning to her. "Now, about that present. I'm afraid it comes with a condition."

She tilted her head. "Oh?"

Sven nodded and sat down on the small table in the center of the room. He extended both hands. Deirdre walked forward to take them, and Sven gave her fingers a squeeze.

"I think you need to continue singing," he announced. "And I don't just mean while you do your chores. I mean, I think you should sing for people. Like tonight. I think you should become a bard."

Deirdre drew back in surprise, but Sven didn't release her. "Oh," she said again. She wasn't opposed to singing for the village in the future, if there was an occasion for it. She wasn't even opposed to, say, learning the lute. She liked learning songs, she liked music. But to make a career out of it?

She didn't want to decide something like that. She had a past life she hoped to find some day. Wouldn't being a bard draw her away from that?

She opened her mouth to try and explain, when Sven cut her off. "Before you answer, just hear me out. We could be great together." His grip on her hands tightened as he tugged her a step closer. All levity had vanished from his eyes.

"Like a duet?" she said, half-laughing, to tempt him into a lighter tone.

He didn't take the bait. Drawing her hands toward his chest and leaning forward, he said, "Exactly like a duet. We could travel across Skyrim. We could be famous. People from every hold would know our names. You're already as good as anybody from the Bards College—trust me, I'd know—and before you know it, we could be performing in courts, for lords and Jarls. We could be amazing."

Deirdre attempted to gently free her hands. "Amazing, huh?"

Sven slid off the table and closed the space between them. "We were meant for each other," he said, and took her by the shoulders.

In the split second that followed, Deirdre had an inkling of a thought that something had changed without her realizing it.

Sven leaned down and kissed her.

The gears in her brain faltered.

Sven couldn't be kissing her. Realistically. Couldn't be. And yet his mouth was touching hers, so what else could that mean? His body had eaten up the space that should have separated them, and at that moment it seemed intent on drawing closer still. His hand was lifting to run a thumb along her cheek and his mouth was increasing its pressure—

She jumped like he'd used a shock spell. She jerked free, practically tripping over herself in her haste to retreat. Her eyes could not have gone wider. Sven, for a moment, remained unmoving, as if he hadn't yet realized she wasn't still in his grip.

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

What in Oblivion. What. In. Oblivion.

She wanted to say it. "What in Oblivion are you doing?" But in her shock, nothing came out.

Sven blinked and lowered his hands, awkwardly. When his eyes landed on her, she still found herself speechless.

"Did I surprise you?" he asked, sounding surprised himself. As if she were the one acting unpredictably.

When she just continued to gawk like a startled deer, he stepped forward. She stepped back and hit the door. Sven paused. A crease appeared between his brows. He smiled around it.

"Don't tease me like that," he said with a light chuckle. "I've been holding back so long."

What.

The gears in her brain struggled to resume their motions. "But," she choked, at a loss, a total loss, because it didn't make sense, what did he mean, "so long," as if—

"But Camilla," she burst, voice cracking. There was a pressure in her chest and throat as her words built up, needing to get out. Why wasn't she demanding an explanation?

Realization flooded Sven's face. He smiled more easily, placatingly. He laughed. "You're worried I still have feelings for Camilla? Is that the problem?"

That scratched at the problem, yes.

Sven strode confidently forward, and she couldn't back up any further. Before she knew it, he'd dropped to one knee at her feet and pulled something out of his pocket, which he laid on his palm and offered to her. It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at, as she'd only seen a similar object once before. Gerdur had shown it to her and explained that she'd received it from Hod when he'd asked her to—

"You're the only one for me, Deirdre," Sven was saying, as he took one of her hands in one of his. "As proof, I give you this amulet of Mara."

It came to her. This was his secret present. She had stumbled into a daedric realm where nothing made sense and Sven was asking her to marry him on her fake sixteenth birthday. She had a moment of disconnect from reality—maybe she was about to wake up from this weird dream in the back of a prison wagon.

Sven pulled her hand forward and began winding the cord attached to the amulet around her wrist. When she realized this, she yanked her arm away, shaking it so the cord came loose and the amulet hit the floor.

Sven rose up, the crease reappearing between his brows. "I'm serious, Deirdre. Don't doubt me now. Ever since that day by the river, when I first heard you sing, I've known I wanted you. Do you remember that morning?"

She stared up at him, recalling the day, the innocuous greeting at the riverside. He had only talked about her voice back then, not any of this—whatever this was.

Sven took yet another step and braced both hands against the door, one arm on either side of her head as he leaned down to meet her at eye-level. She curled her hands together over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed by her flattering dress. She didn't like this. She needed some space. He needed to step back so she could relax. She should tell him that. "Sven, hold on," she imagined herself saying.

"I'll never forget the image," Sven said in a low voice. He probably thought this was romantic. His expression grew distant, and he closed his eyes. "The early sunlight gilding the river, the golden halo around your face, the shining tendrils of hair that framed it … and the way you startled and turned to look up at me with those big, cornflower eyes …"

His bard's tongue had run away with him again. He sounded ridiculous. It made her angry. It had just been an average morning. There had been no romance, no poetry, nothing to inspire this outburst. And by the gods, why wasn't she telling him to back up?

Sven opened his eyes as he gravitated ever so slightly closer, so close she could feel the body heat radiating from him. The look in his eyes didn't help; she was tempted to call it possessive. Why was he doing this?

"And of course, that voice sweeter than a bell," he continued. "I knew I had to have you for myself. I'd never seen anything so perfect."

She saw his intent before he moved, and turned her face away, hands shooting out to push at his unbudging chest. His lips fell on her cheek, which he didn't seem to mind, because he lifted his right hand to curl under her chin and placed another kiss a little further along her jaw, then another below her ear. Her skin crawled. She tried to slide out from under him, but his fingers gripped her chin tighter.

"Let me show you how much I love you," he murmured into her neck.

He pulled away. Deirdre felt a rush of relief that instantly died when Sven grabbed her above the elbow and swung her in one motion to the corner of the room where the bed sat. She went cold.

He didn't mean that. He couldn't mean that. He wouldn't do that.

Unbidden but not unwanted, a scared little, "Wait," slipped past her numb lips. Yes! She had said something! She really ought to be screaming at him by now, but at least she was sure he heard her, because the hand not gripping her arm reached out to caress her cheek in a soothing gesture.

"It's all right," he said. He sat down on the bed and yanked her down beside him, immediately turning toward her and placing an arm on her other side, creating a barrier that stopped her from standing or sliding away. Still, she tried, turning so he couldn't kiss her again, drawing her legs up on the bed so she could back out of his reach and scoot free.

Sven caught her around the waist and pushed her down. And that was all he had to do, pin her with one arm, because as she quickly discovered, just one arm was enough to keep her there.

"Don't be scared," Sven said, but she was scared, and she felt her eyes starting to sting and her breath getting painfully tight in her throat. This couldn't be happening. How had this gone so wrong? Why wasn't she screaming?

She pushed at him with all the force she could muster from her position and Sven didn't even seem to notice. The hand not holding her down began to pluck at the pretty white laces of her brand new dress, and horror rose in her throat like bile. She started kicking; Sven trapped her legs with his own.

He repeated, "Don't be scared. I'll be careful. Just don't make me wait any longer. Don't you want me, too? Isn't that why you're so sweet with me?"

No! she thought, but the only noise that escaped her was a sob.

And then something banged. Sven started, partially releasing her as he looked at the door. A blast of cool air poured in behind the man standing in the entryway, along with the thrum of rainfall—it was Hod.

Deirdre took advantage of Sven's distraction and wriggled free of him, stumbling off the edge of the bed onto her hands and knees. Her eyes were hot with unshed tears and she couldn't bear to look up when Hod let out a stunned, "Deirdre?"

She covered her mouth to stifle her next sob, mortified and shaking. There could be no mistaking the situation, not in the position she'd been in. Hod had seen.

When she heard Sven moving, she lurched to her feet and darted for the door, ducking under Hod's outstretched arm and ignoring his alarmed entreaty, "Deirdre!"

It was raining in earnest as she bolted into the street, but she was also crying in earnest and she didn't care. In fact she welcomed it, the cold and the wet, because it was better than that warm little room and Sven's hot breath on her skin and—

She thought she heard Hod continuing to call her name and panicked at the thought that he was following her. That she'd have to face him. She ran off the street between two houses and kept going, almost blindly. She needed to be anywhere else. Anywhere no one would look to find her.

The inn door flew open with such force it banged against the wall behind it. The room fell quiet, heads turning to regard Gerdur's dripping wet husband shaking rainwater from his limbs. The birthday girl was not with him.

"Hod!" Gerdur welcomed, standing next to Vilkas's table. The smile on her face died at the look on his.

"She's run off," Hod blurted.

Gerdur blinked. "What?"

"Deirdre. I can't find her anywhere."

Hod's tone gave Vilkas a bad feeling. The anger and anxiety rolling off of him in waves said more than his simple statement. Vilkas glanced at Aela and saw her eyes narrow.

"What do you mean? Why would she run off?"

Hod's hands curled into fists and he shook his head sharply, growing more urgent. "I don't want to think she's gone into the woods, but—"

Vilkas froze. Shit, he thought, as the room broke into a chorus of murmuring. Surely she wasn't so stupid.

Gerdur paled. "Oh, gods, why would she—We have to go find her—"

Vilkas stood and Gerdur jumped, staring at him as she remembered anew his existence. Her eyes flashed and she reached out to him.

"Companions, if she's in the woods—"

"We'll go in after her," Vilkas interrupted. Aela stood as well. "Don't send anyone else. We'll be as fast as possible."

Gerdur's expression turned stony as he and Aela removed themselves from the table, and she was right on their heels as they moved to the door. "If she really is in there, and you're taking too long—"

"I said we'll be fast," he cut her off again. "It's too dangerous for anyone else. If there's any chance of saving her, we're the only ones who can do it. This isn't up for debate."

They left her standing in the doorway.

Outside the inn and down the rain-slicked front steps, the Companions broke into a run.

"She could be dead already," Aela warned, raising her voice over a distant peal of thunder.

Vilkas could have kicked himself. He should have grabbed Aela right when the rain started. That had been the plan. Why hadn't he followed the bloody plan? If she was dead it would be partially his fault.

"I know. Let's hope she got lucky."