Sundas, 11th of Hearthfire, 4E202
The room was dark save for a strip of yellow light coming through the bottom of a door. All was quiet. Where was she?
Sitting up, Deirdre could make out the vague, pale shape of the sheet covering the mattress beneath her. This was not her bed. This was not her loft above Frodnar's room.
That's right. She was in Jorrvaskr. Aela's room.
She waited for the wave of pain that should have accompanied this realization, but somehow felt calm. The pain was still there, if she searched for it, but it was buried under a thick, gelatinous layer of serenity sitting heavy in her chest. She couldn't touch it, and it couldn't touch her.
Her mouth tasted strangely sweet. The potion Aela had given her must have been effective. Even the feelings of her dream-self, her fear and confusion in the face of the dragon, were unreachable.
Carefully, she lowered her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She wasn't dizzy. She rubbed her eyes clear and swept her hair back from her face before going to the door, opening it, and peeking into the basement hallway. It had been lit by hanging lamps, but there wasn't a soul in sight. What time was it?
She made her way to the stairs and ascended to the upper floor. The mead hall's fire pit was burning cheerfully a safe distance beyond the edge of the sparring area. At the dining table sat four people, with a small glass lamp between them. Aela was seated on the near side of the table with her back to Deirdre, the hulking figure of Farkas sat at the head of the table on her left, and Vilkas and Skjor were across from her.
Vilkas saw her approaching and signaled Aela. She glanced over her shoulder.
"Look who's finally awake," she said, beckoning.
When Deirdre approached, Aela patted the empty space next to her. Deirdre obliged her by sitting down and swinging her legs over the bench seat. She surveyed the cards that had been dropped on the table between the Companions, and the hands of cards each of them still held.
"Want to play?" Aela asked.
Deirdre shook her head.
"You feeling all right?"
Deirdre debated how to answer. "I feel. Fine. Normal." Though now that she was speaking, her tongue felt slightly too slow. She wanted to keep babbling, to test her tongue's dexterity, but refrained so the Companions wouldn't question her mental state.
Speaking of which, she noticed Vilkas watching her. She recalled her last interaction with him, and thought his posture seemed wary now. As if she were a ticking time bomb.
"I'm sorry I caused a scene," she said.
Vilkas blinked. Looked at his cards. Cleared his throat. "It's fine."
It wasn't. She'd obviously made him uncomfortable. But if he wanted to move on, she wouldn't argue.
"What time is it?" she asked, addressing Aela. The few, small windows in the main hall were decidedly dark.
"Late," Aela said. "You slept all day. Everyone else is either out at a tavern or gone to bed."
Deirdre nodded. She considered her position. The Companions' involvement with her should, by all logic, have reached its end. Vilkas had saved her, Kodlak had appealed to the Jarl, and she was free to go. She'd woken from the potion-induced sleep caused by Aela. She had no more reason to be there.
And nowhere else to go.
Folding her arms atop the table, she rested her forehead on them. Quietly, she said, "Is it all right … if I stay here tonight?"
Aela bumped her with an elbow. "Do you have to ask?"
"Yes."
Deirdre listened as Aela slapped a card down atop the others on the table. "Yes, you can stay here tonight."
The Companions resumed their game, going around clockwise as they played their cards. Deirdre lifted her head to watch. Eventually, Farkas hesitated on a play, pausing for too long. He leaned closer to Aela and held out his hand for her to see. Skjor snorted.
Vilkas muttered, "Farkas, seriously. Stop showing her your cards."
Aela smirked and pointed to two cards in Farkas's hand. He nodded and laid both of them down. Vilkas swore under his breath.
Deirdre thought back to the last time she'd played cards, with Gerdur and Hod and Frodnar. It had been a simple game, one that Frodnar could understand. Even so, he'd frequently shown his cards to Gerdur the same way Farkas had done to Aela.
Underneath the blanket of calm, her untouchable pain stirred. What had Captain Kensley said? "They're going to the orphanage in Riften."
"What do you know about Riften?" she asked aloud.
Vilkas, setting down a card, made a disdainful noise. "Other than that it's the crime capital of Skyrim, you mean?"
Deirdre hummed. "Is it?"
All four of them looked at her. Seeing the mild confusion on their faces, Deirdre realized her mistake. It must have been common knowledge that Riften had a crime problem.
"There's a reason it's the home of the Thieves Guild," Skjor grumbled. His voice was particularly rough, much rougher than Vilkas's, as if to match the white scar cutting through his left eye. "Half the people in that city would rob you of your last septim."
"And half of those would kill you for it," Aela added. "Why do you ask?"
Deirdre uncrossed her arms, thoughtfully splaying her fingers on the table. When she curled and uncurled them, their movement seemed strange. Was that the potion's doing?
Home of the Thieves Guild, she pondered. That certainly didn't sound good. Was it an actual organization? How did one expect to organize something as greedy and self-serving as thievery? Why hadn't such a thing ever been mentioned to her in the last year?
"Deirdre?" Aela called.
Deirdre stopped moving her fingers. "Huh?"
Aela huffed. "I said, why do you ask? About Riften."
"That's where the orphanage is. Captain Kensley said they were taking the children there."
A crease appeared between Aela's brows, and she took a moment to consider her cards. "And you want to go get them."
"Yes."
Aela played her card and shared a doubtful glance with Skjor. Vilkas took it upon himself to voice the problem.
"It takes money to adopt a kid. And you want to adopt two."
Deirdre stared at him. It occurred to her that she wouldn't be able to just walk into the orphanage, demand they give her the children, and walk out. Captain Kensley had also said, "You might be able to take custody of the children if you can prove you have a steady income and a place for them to live."
She had neither of those things. And the only money to her name was what she'd won in the tournament—which she'd left, along with her precious bow, in Hod's wagon. Right now, she had nothing but the clothes on her back. How was she supposed to even get to Riften? Walk, alone, on the bandit-infested highways? And then what? Live with the children on the street? Mona was just over a month old; she'd need a wet nurse. They both needed housing. Beds. Clothes. Things an orphanage could give them, but Deirdre could not.
She looked down at the table and pressed a hand against her heart, marveling at how evenly it continued to beat. She wasn't sure if it was preferable to the pain—this wasn't actually fine or normal at all.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Aela asked. "You look sorta …" She gestured vaguely with her hand.
Deirdre shook her head; she didn't want to address that. "I need money," she said instead.
"And a place to live," Vilkas added, matter-of-factly.
Deirdre nodded without looking at him. The Companions' game went once more around the table before it apparently came to an end, because Aela began gathering all the cards. Deirdre hadn't paid attention to the rules at all.
"Well, if you need money, you need a job," Aela reasoned, expertly shuffling the deck. "What skills do you have? Besides competitive archery. Can't really make a living with that."
Speaking up, Farkas said, "She won money yesterday."
Aela paused mid-shuffle, glancing from Farkas to Deirdre. "You're right. That would at least help you get started. Where's your prize money?"
Deirdre considered. "Probably in Captain Kensley's pockets by now."
Aela made a short, disgusted noise, and threw a glare at Vilkas. His own expression darkened.
"I'll talk to the steward about it when I go to Dragonsreach tomorrow. The money came from the Jarl in the first place, so he can get it back. He owes you that much."
His dark eyes met Deirdre's for a moment, and she realized he was probably trying to reassure her. Like he had in Dragonsreach Dungeon, when telling her it would be fine to leave. He'd said Jorrvaskr was the safest place in Whiterun. Thus far, it had lived up to his words.
"Thank you," she said sincerely. She hoped he understood it was for more than just her prize money.
His face twitched oddly, and he looked away. She almost smiled.
"There are probably a lot of jobs you could do," Vilkas said gruffly. "Like a local courier. But not a traveling one. You'd get mugged."
"Can you sew?" Aela asked, beginning to deal the cards again. "Cook? Clean? Rich folks always need housemaids, right?"
Skjor said, "Lot of farms outside the wall probably need help with the harvest."
"I don't suppose you know any trades?" Aela continued.
Deirdre mentally bounced between their suggestions. They all seemed to be focused on Whiterun. "I can do some sewing, and cooking and cleaning. But even if I can't adopt the children right away, what if I just lived close to them? There are jobs in Riften, aren't there?"
Aela made a face. She began arranging the cards in her hand. "Sure, if you want to gut fish in a smelly building all day with a bunch of skooma addicts."
"And live at Haelga's Bunkhouse," Skjor muttered.
Aela, Vilkas, and Farkas gave him horrified looks.
"Don't even joke," Vilkas said.
"What's Haelga's Bunkhouse?"
They froze. After an awkward pause, Aela cleared her throat. "It's a cheap place for working people to get a room and board."
Vilkas scoffed softly. "And sometimes a little more than that." At Deirdre's questioning look, he dropped his gaze to his cards. "Just trust us—you don't want to live in Riften. It would chew you up and spit you out. It's not a safe place for someone like you."
Deirdre frowned. She propped her chin on one hand. She could probably guess what else you could get at Haelga's Bunkhouse; did they think she was totally oblivious? But, still, the point was clear. Riften was a dangerous place. Whiterun was closer, and contained a few familiar faces.
With Whiterun in mind, Deirdre closed her eyes and pictured her best possible scenario. If she was lucky enough to find a job tomorrow, and if it provided housing, and if Vilkas could get her prize money back, she could afford a few essentials and then begin saving. She would write to the orphanage and find out what she had to do to get the children. And she would work until she could do it.
As far as best-case scenarios went, this plan was … totally insufficient. It relied on luck, and it meant leaving the children with strangers for who knew how long. It didn't even guarantee she'd ever be able to take them.
It was also the best she could do. That, and pray. For the Divines to take pity on Gerdur and Hod, preserve them, somehow set them free, and send them back to their children.
From the side of the hall opposite the stairs to the living quarters, she heard a tired sigh.
Opening her eyes, she looked with the Companions to see the little old woman who'd been setting the table that morning, her narrow shoulders drooping as she walked toward them. On her arm hung a well-worn basket full of spools of thread and scraps of cloth.
"Awake at this hour, old woman?" Aela clucked, disapprovingly. "It's past your bedtime."
The old woman gave a smile more worn than her basket, framed by soft, deep wrinkles. She hobbled to Skjor and Vilkas's side of the table and hefted her basket atop it. "Have to catch up on the mending sometime, don't I? If you kids weren't so rough on clothes, I'd have less work."
"Sorry, Tilma," Farkas said, both automatic and genuine.
Tilma rasped a chuckle. She settled onto the bench next to Skjor with a groan. "It's all right. But I'm starting to think these old fingers might finally be getting stiff. And this back doesn't like to bend over the sewing for too long."
"Of course not. You're working from dusk till dawn," Vilkas admonished. "You need to take it easy."
Tilma waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Taking it easy is for the rich and the dead. What I could really use, is that potion that makes you ten years younger."
Vilkas, after setting his cards facedown on the table, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tilma."
"That potion's not real," Aela stated firmly.
"Boo it isn't. Those mages just don't want to share it. You expect me to believe they live long on accident?"
Deirdre's lips curved in an almost-smile, and she rested clasped hands against her mouth to hide it. By the exasperated looks on the Companions' faces, this was an old argument.
"Either way, you're not getting it," Vilkas said, leaning around Skjor to give Tilma a stern look. "So you do need to take it easy, or you'll have to start training a repl—"
He stopped dead. Like a statue. A few seconds passed.
Aela let out a confused, "What?"
Farkas gasped. He slammed both palms onto the table so suddenly, everyone but Skjor jumped.
"Deirdre!" he blurted.
Deirdre's eyes darted between him and his brother, as the both of them were now staring intensely at her. "Yes? What?"
"Deirdre can do sewing and cooking and cleaning!" Farkas quoted brightly, eyes urging her to understand.
The connection between Farkas's words and Vilkas's pause dawned on her. She looked between the brothers again, then at Aela, whose face was lighting up. Even Skjor's severe mien had changed. Were they serious?
She turned to Tilma. The old woman had a new glint in her eye—as if considering something. Or sizing her up. Deirdre instinctively sat straighter.
Tilma extended a skinny, spotted hand across the table. "Lend us your palm a moment, lass."
Deirdre obeyed, placing her hand cautiously in Tilma's, palm up. The old woman used the first finger on her other hand to trace the lines in Deirdre's skin. After several seconds, she nodded.
"Tender-hearted, I see. But more resilient than you look."
Deirdre blinked. Resilient? Her? After her breakdown earlier that same day?
"Yes," Tilma continued, as if answering her thoughts. "Resilient and a hard worker. You like to please others and be useful." Her finger jumped to another line in Deirdre's palm, and she clicked her tongue. "Only trouble is you'll be married young, so you might leave us sooner than we'd like. But we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it."
Deirdre knew she should feel stunned—incredulous and hopeful—but the lingering effects of the potion made it difficult to access that feeling. Instead, she just sat there, unmoving, unable to look up from where Tilma's hand held hers. This was too easy, right? It wasn't even tomorrow. She hadn't even had to go looking.
"Well?" Aela demanded, nudging Deirdre with her elbow again. "You want to work with Tilma, or not?"
Vilkas said, "There's room in the budget. But Kodlak would have to approve."
"He'll approve," Skjor muttered.
Farkas batted the table to get Deirdre's attention. Unlike Vilkas, his expression was easy to read—eager and expectant. Deirdre's logical brain reminded her she barely knew him, and he had no reason to be so pleased for her sake. She barely knew any of them. They didn't have to do this.
"Say yes," Farkas encouraged.
Deirdre's eyes stung. Without warning, there was a tear on her cheek. She swiped at it quickly.
"You'd—take me on, just like that?"
Tilma squeezed her hand and laughed. "What do you mean?" she said warmly. "It's a job offer, lass. Of course we would."