Loredas, 29th of Frost Fall, 4E 202
A bony hand shook Deirdre awake. As she peeled her eyes open, she became aware of a deep ache in her neck. Pain radiated all the way down to her shoulder and all the way up over her skull.
"You've slept in, lass," came Tilma's creaking voice.
Deirdre resisted the still-heavy weight of sleep as she sat up. Beside her bed, Tilma stood with a lit candle in one hand and a heavy shawl around her shoulders.
"Slept in?" Deirdre mumbled. She tried to massage her neck, winced, and dropped her hand.
"Aye. And here on the day you have plans. That's not like you."
That woke Deirdre fully. How on Nirn had she slept in, and today of all days?
Jorrvaskr was always cold in the mornings, but today as she threw off her blankets, it seemed especially so. Shivers immediately overtook her, and she hastily pulled one of her blankets out from under the others to wrap around herself.
The instant she slid off the bed and stepped onto the icy floor, a surge of blackness swam up over her eyes. She swayed and caught herself on the bed.
Tilma put a hand on her shoulder. "Steady there. Your young man isn't waiting right this second."
"I'm all right," Deirdre said, as her vision cleared. She clutched her blanket tighter around herself. "Thanks for waking me."
She scurried quick as she could to the main hall. Lugging some new logs to the fire pit, she arranged them before crouching down and extending her palm. She did her best to focus on the thought of fire—the light, the color, the burn—until a leaping spurt of orange shot from her hand. The logs caught the flames easily.
Soothing warmth washed over her. She stayed crouched by the fire pit until the chatter of her teeth grew less severe. The heat and light stung her eyes, and she closed them, fleetingly longing to curl up on the floor. Why was she so tired? She'd been fairly deeply asleep before Tilma had woken her.
But she did not have time to laze about. She had a lot to get done if she wanted to be ready in time to meet Leif.
A lurch of anticipation filled her stomach. Still shivering, she went to get ready for the day.
The morning passed in a hurried haze. Deirdre kept hoping that focusing on her tasks would clear the fog from her head, but if anything it got worse. She found herself yawning constantly, and everything from cleaning up breakfast to making beds was tiring.
As she stepped into the stuffy warmth of the kitchen, she felt her muscles ease out of their persistent shivers, and her body grew heavy. She shook herself vigorously and smacked her cheeks with her palms.
You don't have time to be tired! she chastised.
She walked over to a large sack of potatoes, the contents of which needed to be scrubbed so Tilma could use them later. When she went to haul the sack up from the floor, her knees locked—
And she was opening her eyes again. For a moment her vision was blurry, and she saw double—no, wait, those were the twins, crouched on either side of her. There was a big hand patting her face.
"There she is," said Vilkas on the right.
"Deirdre?" called Farkas on the left. His hand stopped hitting her.
She made an unintelligent noise. Her head was throbbing, and the surface beneath her was hard and uncomfortable. Why was she lying on the ground?
As if in answer, Farkas said, "You fell over."
Vilkas corrected, "She fainted."
Now that he mentioned it, the floor did seem to be swaying nauseously. It felt like she'd broken into a cold sweat, and she was shivering again.
Farkas nodded. "Yeah, we were going out to the yard but I looked over and you just sort of … boom." He made a motion with his hand, letting it smack into his other palm.
Vilkas touched her forehead. He rumbled in disapproval.
"Ysmir, did you get bit by another spider? You're like an oven."
As his implication sunk in, Deirdre pushed feebly at his arm, prompting him to remove his hand.
"Fever?" she said through sluggish lips.
"Maybe you got what Vilkas got," Farkas said.
She shook her head, making the room spin. No, she didn't have any of the symptoms of the rattles, except this alleged fever. No cough, no sore throat. How could she have a fever anyway, when she was so cold?
Fighting a surge of nausea and dizziness, she sat up. She squeezed her eyes shut as a hand on either side of her grabbed her by the shoulder.
"I can't," she said, trying to brush them off. Neither let go.
"Can't what?" Farkas asked.
"Have a fever. I'm not hot, I'm cold."
Vilkas's hand took hold of her upper arm, as if to assess the shudders moving through the limb. "They call that a fever and chills."
But that would mean I'm sick, she thought.
"I can't," she said again. "Leif is coming to get me."
"That's too bad for Leif."
She tugged her arm from Vilkas's grasp, shooting him a bleary glare. "You don't understand. I promised I'd go ice fishing with his friends. I barely met them before. It's important."
Her annoyance bounced harmlessly off of him. "Guess he'll have to reschedule."
She clenched her jaw. She just needed to eat something hearty and sit down for a while. Oh, and she still had to scrub the potatoes and pluck the pheasants Aela had brought home a couple days ago. She didn't have time for this.
"I'll be fine."
She went to try and stand up, but Farkas pressed down on her shoulder. Vilkas's hand came up under her chin, turning her head toward him. His dark eyes bored into hers.
"Are you kidding me?" he said flatly.
She unsuccessfully tried to turn her face, but he held fast, his brows lowering sternly.
Huffing, she said, "I don't have time to be sick."
Vilkas gawked. "Why you—little hypocrite!"
Deirdre blinked. It occurred to her, belatedly, that only a week ago their positions had been in the reverse. She shoved his hand away, wriggling out from under Farkas's hold as well.
"This is different," she insisted. "I have something important to do."
She stopped short. Vilkas gaped. When she glanced at Farkas, he had the same expression as his brother. She winced.
"I-I mean, not that you don't have—"
But Vilkas began to rise, grabbing her arm again. He tugged her effortlessly to her feet. When she staggered, and her vision bloomed black, Vilkas simply picked her up and threw her over his shoulder—which did not help her dizziness in the slightest. The impact of his shoulder against her middle made her stomach leap dangerously.
"What are you doing?" she tried to demand. With all the blood rushing to her head and making her see spots, it came out sort of pathetic.
Vilkas proceeded to exit the kitchen, Farkas popping up from the floor to follow.
"I'm doing exactly what you did to me. Annoying, isn't it?"
She moaned shortly, seriously worried she might vomit on him. "I didn't do this!" She balled up a fist and hit it ineffectually against his back. Gods above, her head was swimming.
Farkas trotted along behind them, and Deirdre threw him an accusing scowl. How could he just let his callous brother manhandle her? But he seemed oblivious to her ire, frowning in concern as he kept up with them down the hall.
They reached the door to Deirdre and Tilma's room. Vilkas opened it, walked over to her bed, and dumped her unceremoniously atop the covers. She swallowed another moan, propping herself on her arm and holding a hand to her forehead.
"You're ridiculous," she snapped. "You're horrible."
"'Stop being a brat,'" he quoted.
Deirdre glowered. His mouth quirked, almost smirking, as if it pleased him to throw her own words in her face. He crossed his arms and stared her down, waiting for her to break eye contact first. In her peripheral vision, Deirdre could see Farkas hovering in the doorway.
She sat up fully, but did not try to get off the bed. She suspected Vilkas wouldn't let her.
"I'm telling Tilma," she warned.
He snorted. "Be my guest. She'll tell you you're too sick to go out."
Deirdre clenched her fingers in her bed covers, silently conceding the point.
"Tilma needs my help today."
"If she needed you that badly, you wouldn't be going out."
Rats. It was difficult to think of another argument while her body was begging her to flop over and stop thinking. Her neck still hurt, too.
Well, fine, so what if I am a little sick? she thought. Leif was due to arrive at noon, and he'd been so looking forward to re-introducing her to the friends she'd met on Tournament Day. She could definitely endure a little cold weather for a few hours—
"You really are a hypocrite," Vilkas said above her. He uncrossed his arms. "If you want to be useful to Tilma, you can't kill yourself just to go ice fishing. Don't be stupid."
He's right, whispered the voice of logic. But a flicker of pride and indignation sparked within her, and she refused to admit it aloud.
She turned her head away to let him know she was mad. She thought of Leif, and how his excited brightness would dim in disappointment once he arrived to find her laid up in bed. Her eyes prickled childishly.
"I promised Leif," she said, trying to sound petulant instead of dejected.
"He'll get over it."
He dropped a hand atop her head, the way Farkas often did, gave it a couple of pats, and left. Deirdre deigned to watch him go. As Farkas moved out of Vilkas's way, he gave her a sympathetic smile.
"I'll get Tilma to come look at you," he offered.
She pouted, deliberately lying down with her back to him. She assumed he left. After a minute of trying to ignore her shivers, she gave in and sat up to kick off her shoes and climb under her covers. She stewed in fretful thoughts of Leif until she slipped into a doze.
At some point, she was roused by a gentle hand against her cheek. She turned toward it, recognizing the touch, eyes opening a slit. She made out a familiar figure seated on the bed. He drew his hand away.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Leif said softly.
She reached for the hand he'd retracted, drawing it toward her and letting their hands rest together atop the bed. Her eyelids were too heavy to keep open, so she closed them.
"Sorry," she murmured.
He breathed a laugh. "No, I'm sorry. They said you were sick. I should be letting you sleep."
"I wanted to go with you …"
His thumb ran lightly over her knuckles. "Don't worry about it. We can go another day."
"Mmm," she agreed, focusing on the continuing stroke of his thumb. How nice this was, all of a sudden. Blankets piled on top of her, pillow beneath her head, Leif's warm hand in hers. He didn't sound disappointed at all. He sounded soothing and lovely. She should have known.
"I really like you," she mumbled, feeling herself slipping back toward sleep. "Really … really …"
He said something quiet in reply, but she would not remember what it was. The last thing she registered was a light touch on her forehead, as of the briefest of kisses, before she fell, happily, back to sleep.
The first letter in Vilkas's small pile of mail was a request for a job—at an estate just outside of Riften. As he scanned the letter, he determined that the contract was not one he could confidently assign to someone outside the Circle.
It's like she knew, he thought, recalling Deirdre's request from the day prior.
He might normally have given the job to Skjor, since it sounded like it would benefit from his more ruthless approach. But it wasn't as if he, Farkas, or Aela wouldn't be able to handle it.
He jotted Deirdre's name in the top margin of the letter, along with the word Riften, and drew a single circle around both. If she tagged along, whoever took the contract would need to hire a carriage instead of running as a werewolf or renting a horse. He'd best give the job to Farkas, then—Aela loved to run, and Vilkas hated to waste time.
He put the letter aside and continued working through the mail. He had a few more contract requests, a thickly-packed envelope made of stiff, fine paper, addressed to Kodlak, and a smaller envelope stamped with a magic seal in lieu of a wax one, addressed to Deirdre. He raised a brow at the seal, wondering who could be so official. He noted two small, round objects within the envelope, which rolled back and forth when he shook it. He set that letter on the little table in the middle of the sitting area, swapping it for the notebook wherein he kept track of contract assignments.
He was running over the details of one of the contract requests when Aela came up from the basement, wearing a nightshirt and wrapped up in a sheepskin blanket. Her hair was damp and tangled, as if she'd just washed it.
She dropped into the chair across from him with a groan, tucking one foot up under the opposite knee. "I must be getting old. My joints are creaking like Tilma's."
"You crossed the threshold to spinster a decade ago, and you're just now realizing it?"
Aela's mouth popped open. "I'm only thirty-two, asshole!"
He shrugged. Aela exhaled in irritation, dropping her head against the back of her chair. "You're old," she muttered.
Vilkas heard his brother's voice burbling from the direction of the kitchen. He looked over to see Deirdre entering the main hall, Farkas behind her.
"I really feel fine now," Deirdre replied. She had a slice of bread in one hand, slathered with dark jam, and was holding her own blanket closed around her shoulders.
Aela's head lifted from her chair. "Deirdruuuuuh," she whined. "Comb my hair for me."
Vilkas barked, "Don't order her around. She's sick."
Deirdre approached them, Farkas sticking annoyingly close, watching her like she might pass out again at any moment. At Aela's questioning look, Deirdre shook her head.
"I feel fine."
Aela looked at Vilkas. "Since when was she sick? Today?"
"While you were gone. She fainted."
Aela squawked.
"But my fever's already broken."
Extracting an arm from her blanket, Aela threw out a demanding hand. "Forehead."
Deirdre bit into her slice of bread with a roll of her eyes, bending to let Aela press the back of a hand against her forehead. Aela grunted.
"Feels normal to me."
"I told you."
Vilkas scrutinized her. Her eyes weren't glazed over like they had been earlier, nor was her voice listless, nor her posture drooping. Still, her face was paler than usual, even after she'd spent the whole day resting.
"But you did faint this morning. You would have gotten worse if you'd gone out with Sir Ginger."
She swallowed her bite of bread and jam, looking at the ground. Rather than reply, she let her expression turn distant, a little smile playing at her lips.
Aela noticed. She squinted a bit, suspicious. "Great Aedra. I know that look."
Deirdre came back to herself, looking at Aela before averting her eyes. She took another bite of bread and sat down on the worn cushions of the single bench seat, adjacent to both Vilkas and Aela. Turning to Farkas, she patted the space beside her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
As Farkas took the offered seat, Aela brought up her free-hanging leg onto her chair, folding it under the other. "Sure you do. So. Just how far has this little romance blossomed?"
Deirdre stiffened. Her shoulders rose toward her ears. And if she'd been pale a moment ago, it only emphasized the rush of blood to her face.
"I don't—It's—Is that any of your business?"
Vilkas held up a hand to interject. "It's not. We don't care."
Aela clucked her tongue. She rested an elbow on one knee and propped her chin on her hand. "Don't be a spoilsport. Did he come by today?"
Deirdre's cheeks darkened. She stuffed what remained of her bread into her mouth, raising both eyebrows as if to say, "Sorry, mouth full, can't answer."
Before Aela could ask any more invasive questions, Vilkas picked up the magic-sealed letter from the little table, extending it toward Deirdre. "Here. This came for you today."
She accepted it with a nod, still chewing, swiping a bit of jam from the corner of her mouth.
Aela said, "How am I supposed to vet this kid if she won't give me any details?"
"He's about as harmless as a toad," Vilkas replied. "He doesn't need to be vetted."
"What if it's a poison toad?" Farkas offered.
Aela pointed at him as if he'd said something significant.
Vilkas sighed, abruptly weary. He began stacking the mail together in a pile atop the contract assignment notebook.
"A rabbit, then."
"But you know what they say about rabbits. And what they do in their spare time?"
Vilkas gave her a dirty look, and she lifted both hands as if to absolve herself of saying anything untoward. Farkas's brows furrowed in confusion.
Beside Farkas, Deirdre went still. But she was not looking at them; her head was bent. The hand on her lap held a torn envelope. In her other palm, she held two rings, simple in design and without gemstones. The previous color in her face had drained so completely, she was ashen.
Aela and Farkas noticed her after Vilkas did. Aela sat up straighter.
Farkas said, "Deirdre?"
Vilkas looked at her palm. The rings were the definition of plain, the metal dull, clearly not gold. One was noticeably larger than the other.
Wedding bands? he thought.
And it hit him. His eyes widened fractionally. Deirdre seemed to be having trouble drawing air, and he had a flashback to her episode after they'd been dismissed by Jarl Balgruuf.
"Are those Gerdur and Hod's?" he demanded.
Aela and Farkas's jaws dropped. Farkas put a hand on Deirdre's back. She kept staring at the rings, a liquid sheen filling her eyes, her breaths short and shallow.
"Is there a letter?" Vilkas pressed. When Deirdre still didn't reply, he snapped a finger at Farkas.
Farkas removed the hand from Deirdre's back to snatch the envelope from her, pulling out a folded sheaf of paper. He passed it immediately to Vilkas. Vilkas skimmed it. Not realizing he'd tensed, he felt himself relax a bit.
"It's fine. It's not bad news."
Deirdre lifted big, watery eyes to him, stricken and incredulous. He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. When Farkas again put a hand on her back, she sucked in a full breath.
"What does it say?" she croaked.
"They're not allowed to have personal items while in custody. They just took a while to find out where to send them."
She closed her eyes, curling her hand around the rings and pressing them to her heart. Slumping, she dropped her head into her other hand.
"For a moment I thought …"
Aela, somber-faced, said, "If it was an inheritance, they would have sent them to their next of kin. A blood relative. They wouldn't have sent them to you for safekeeping."
Deirdre processed this. "That makes sense," she said slowly. "They would have sent these to Frodnar. Or Gerdur's brother, maybe."
Her voice broke on the last word. She bit her lip, fighting not to let her emotions break through and show on her face. But she'd already shown enough that Vilkas felt it—a jab of anxiety in his chest.
Helpfully, Farkas drew Deirdre into a hug that engulfed her small frame, and she shut her eyes and ducked her head against him. Vilkas released a breath.
After several seconds, the tell-tale shudder of suppressed weeping eased from Deirdre's shoulders. Farkas ran a hand up and down her arm.
"You know, me and Vilkas lost our father too," he said in a low voice.
Vilkas froze. In the corner of his eye, Aela looked at him sharply.
"He went to the Great War and never came back. We never found out what happened to him."
Deirdre's eyes opened, focusing on some spot on the floor. "How can you stand it? Not knowing?"
The letter for Deirdre crumpled in Vilkas's grip. Any gratitude he'd just felt for Farkas disappeared. Suddenly the sight of his brother with that sad-puppy look on his face, that vulnerable posture, was infuriating.
Farkas said, "I guess I just remember him. And the good times."
Vilkas stood up. Farkas and Deirdre drew somewhat apart.
"Farkas," Vilkas warned.
Farkas did not seem surprised by the glare leveled at him. He met it squarely. Vilkas's jaw clenched.
"I hate it when you romanticize this shit. It's not the same. Gerdur and Hod didn't leave by choice. Jergen had a choice."
Farkas just kept stoically meeting his gaze. Beside him, Deirdre pulled fully out of Farkas's arms, watching Vilkas. He could not explain the surge of anger that rose in him. How dare Farkas bring this up in front of her? Like some sort of heartfelt confession about long-lost parents? Call him a father?
Since when? he thought bitterly.
"Jergen, chose battle and glory over us, and he left. We didn't lose him. He left."
"He didn't leave for glory," Farkas said quietly.
Vilkas tossed Deirdre's letter to the little table. "It's not the same. Don't compare the two. Jergen had a choice."
He looked at Deirdre. Her eyes were still glassy with unshed tears, but the mix of emotions on her face held too much of what looked like concern. Which was backwards. How dare Farkas try to pass off Jergen as the same as Gerdur and Hod?
"Deirdre."
She blinked at him.
"I'm taking a contract in Riften. You'd better be well enough to leave by Morndas. Morning. It's a two-day trip by carriage."
He waited until she gave an uncertain nod, and then he turned and left the sitting area, heading straight for the stairs to the basement. Behind him, no one said a thing.