Morndas, 31st of Frost Fall, 4E 202
Across the plains of Whiterun, as far as the eye could see, the ground stretched unbroken and white. A heavy layer of clouds cast the world in gray overtones.
Deirdre pulled her cloak closer for warmth, watching as her exhale turned to mist. She closed her eyes and listened to the low, guttural murmur of men's voices, ebbing and lulling alongside the breathy snorts of horses and the creak of wooden wheels. No breeze stirred, no birds sang, and no sound carried. But for the Whiterun Stables, all of Nirn seemed asleep.
She opened her eyes when she heard Vilkas's footsteps. Approaching her, he pointed a thumb back at the driver of the carriage.
"He's ready to go," he said.
He gave her a hand up into the carriage. As she took her seat, he entered after her and pulled the little door shut. The interior went dark. Deirdre drew open the heavy, faded curtain covering the lattice window to let in some light.
Vilkas, dropping his traveling pack to the floor and removing the greatsword from his back, sat heavily on the bench opposite Deirdre's. He set his sword across his lap and pulled his side of the curtain open, eyeing the landscape beyond the window with a dour expression. As the driver gave a holler and the carriage lurched into motion, Vilkas slouched and crossed his arms.
His frame took up too much space in the carriage. Where Deirdre could fully stretch her legs out, Vilkas's knees had to remain bent.
She cleared her throat. "You don't usually travel by carriage, do you?"
"No."
The walls and wheels rattled noisily around them.
"I'm sorry," Deirdre said.
His gaze stayed fixed on the window. "Did I ask for an apology?"
"No. But …"
He waved a hand. Lifting his boot, he knocked it against the underside of her bench to dislodge any snow, and set his foot on the seat beside her. "Don't apologize if you haven't done anything wrong. It's not like you twisted my arm."
"I don't think it's possible to twist your arm," she agreed.
His lips might have quirked a bit, but he did not let himself smile. "Tell that to Aela. Or Tilma. And you did a pretty good job of it when I got sick." He paused, mulling over his own words. Under his breath, he muttered, "Women."
Deirdre grinned. She mimicked his posture, leaning back with her arms crossed, and for a few minutes they sat in silence and watched the plains pass by through the holes in the window.
"This isn't going to be a comfortable trip," Vilkas said suddenly.
Deirdre glanced at him. She lowered her hands to her lap. "I suspected as much," she replied. "We're not exactly sitting on velvet cushions."
He bent his head in acknowledgment. "There's that. But we're not stopping at an inn at the halfway point, either. Once we reach the Pale Pass, we're going to switch right to another carriage. You'll have to sleep on the road."
He lifted a brow, as if daring her to complain. But something he'd said had distracted her; she looked out the window again, reassessing the position of the landscape without the sun's guidance.
"The Pale Pass? Isn't that southward? We're not going north?"
"The south road is a more direct route. Merchants go north around the Throat of the World because it's better patrolled and they can stop off at other places along the way."
Deirdre looked to where her gloved hands rested beneath her cloak. South meant they'd pass through Riverwood. And even further south, they'd pass by Helgen. She clasped her hands together.
"There are fewer guards along the south road, but I'm not worried about bandits," Vilkas said, as if perceiving her dismay.
She hadn't even thought of bandits. Scanning Vilkas's too-large frame, and the huge sword he carried, she found she was not worried about bandits either.
"It's not that," she said. "I just haven't been south since Gerdur and Hod were arrested. And I haven't seen Helgen since it was attacked."
Vilkas said nothing. The carriage rolled on, jostling them with every bump in the road.
I've made him feel awkward again, Deirdre thought, staring at her lap. She had to stop doing that. One moment things were fine, and the next, she'd soured the mood. She shouldn't have said anything. He was already put out at having to travel by carriage; did she have to make it even more uncomfortable?
She remembered how caustic his voice had been the other night, when reprimanding Farkas. She wasn't the only one with memories that made her heartsore, and yet she seemed to be the only one struggling not to burden others.
Under the cover of her cloak, she lifted a hand to her heart, where Gerdur and Hod's wedding bands hung from a chain around her neck.
Vilkas's foot slid off the bench and thumped to the floor.
"All right, ground rules," he announced.
Deirdre blinked up at him. He sat forward and pointed at her chest.
"Number one. You're wearing those rings?"
She hesitated, a little embarrassed he'd noticed, but nodded.
"Then you'd better wear them inside your clothes. Jewelry is the first thing to go missing, on the road and especially in Riften."
Hesitating again, realizing he was waiting for her to respond, she obediently tucked the rings into the front of her dress, and patted the little lump they made beneath the fabric. She waited for him to continue.
His expression soured. He sat back again.
"Number two. Don't do everything other people tell you to do. It's like you've got 'please pick my pocket' tattooed on your forehead."
Her mouth fell open. "I was doing what you told me to do!"
"Number three," he continued, holding up three fingers. "Always keep one hand on your bag. Number four, don't let anyone touch you, hand you anything, or take anything from your hand. Even if they look harmless. Even if it's a little old woman or a sad-looking child."
With four fingers raised now, he glared at her until she pursed her lips and nodded.
"Number five, once we get to Riften, don't go anywhere but the inn, the orphanage, and back, unless I'm with you. Six …"
"How many rules are there?"
He dropped the five fingers he'd raised. "One more. If you choose not to listen to me, and someone picks your pocket, don't expect my help getting your money back. Unless you want to hire me for a job."
Deirdre rolled her eyes. She let her head fall back against the carriage. "Fine. But you're worrying too much. I'm not that helpless."
Vilkas observed her with half-lidded eyes. "I'm not worried. I just want you to know what you're getting into."
She clicked her tongue, but didn't argue. They were good rules, she admitted to herself. She didn't foresee any trouble in abiding by them.
They lapsed back into silence, and Deirdre let her mind wander as the carriage rolled on. And on. Until they were passing through Riverwood.
The village was quiet. She caught the acrid tang of the blacksmith's shop in the air, but heard no metallic clanging. The buildings all looked smaller than she remembered. Blanketed with snow, they seemed especially diminished.
"It hasn't even been two months," she murmured, as she watched the Riverwood Trader pass by. "It feels like it's been years. Strange, isn't it?"
Vilkas gave a noncommittal hum.
Outside the village, a light snowfall began, with big, fluffy flakes drifting lazily through the air. She thought about digging through her satchel for the book she had brought—a storybook, to read to Frodnar. But if she devoured it too soon, she would deprive herself of entertainment later.
Vilkas was staring out the window, as she had been. His face was relaxed, if closed off. She wondered what he daydreamed about. Supposing he indulged in something as fanciful as daydreams. He'd previously claimed not to dream when he slept. Did that extend to his waking life, or did he daydream even more to make up the deficit?
She considered his handsome profile. He had a practically perfect nose; prominent, with the barest bump high up on an otherwise straight bridge. It wouldn't have suited a girlish face like hers, but for Vilkas, it added a touch of ruggedness. As did the dark scruff on his cheek and jaw, as did the heavy, dark line of his brow. Camilla, an age ago it seemed, had called him both terrifying and beautiful within the same day.
"Vilkas," she said, to draw him from his thoughts. "I've been wondering something. Are Companions allowed to have romantic relationships? I never see any of you … courting."
The way his eyebrows puckered suggested she was an idiot.
"We're not monks," he said flatly.
She gestured at him. "Well then? You've never brought a girl home. Not since I've been at Jorrvaskr. Neither has Farkas. I can't imagine why you don't have flocks of girls chasing after you."
"Who says I don't?"
She blinked, then saw the faint smirk around his eyes and mouth. She huffed a laugh.
"I'm serious. You and Farkas especially are so handsome, but all of the Companions are reasonably attractive people. And you're all respected and have good reputations. So what is it? Are Companions too busy for romance?"
"Long-term relationships don't suit our lifestyle."
Deirdre crossed one leg over the other, clasping her knee with her hands. "What happens if a Companion falls in love? Wants to get married?"
He shrugged. "Usually, they leave. No one wants a spouse who's never home, who could die on the job at any time. And if children could come along, that's especially troublesome for Shield-Sisters. You can't exactly charge into battle six months pregnant."
The word took her aback—she felt herself blush. Gerdur had only ever used it on one occasion, during their mortifying discussion about the birds and the bees. And to hear it from a man was embarrassing.
She cleared her throat and looked out the window. "I suppose that's only practical. Would you leave? If you found someone you wanted to marry?"
"I'll never be married."
He said it matter-of-factly. She turned toward him again, and he met her gaze evenly. When he did not elaborate, she frowned.
"You're very sure about that, for being so young."
His face was impossible to read. "I'm part of the Circle. You don't leave the Circle. You … die in it."
Deirdre felt a stone drop in her stomach. She stared into his eyes, trying to glean more from him. After several seconds, Vilkas surprised her by looking away first.
"You keep doing that," he blurted.
She leaned back. "Doing what?"
"You get this look on your face. Like you feel bad for me. There's nothing to feel bad for."
"I'm not," she denied. "I just—It sounded a little sad. If the Circle is so permanent, why would you join so young? You're younger than Aela, aren't you?"
"Farkas and I were the youngest Companions to ever join the Circle. We were probably around sixteen, and it was ten years ago."
Deirdre opened her mouth, about to point out that he hadn't answered the "why" half of her question, when she thought better of it. He hadn't missed the why. He'd ignored it.
"Well, then what happens if a member of the Circle falls in love? What if you want to marry someone and they're fine with you staying a Companion? Is that allowed?"
He took a minute to answer. The carriage clattered along, and he swayed slightly in his seat.
"It's allowed. But it wouldn't be fair. To ask someone to accept what comes with the Circle. If what they want is marriage, they'd be better off looking elsewhere."
He still spoke matter-of-factly. Like it didn't mean much to him at all. But Deirdre wondered if it did, deep down. It was one thing to choose not to be married, but it was another to feel marriage wasn't even an option.
When he glanced at her, his hard-to-read expression turned dry.
"You're doing it again."
She dropped her head. "Sorry."
Perhaps she did feel bad for him. The idea of being in love had always appealed to her. In Riverwood, she'd sometimes fantasized about a long-lost love showing up and bringing a flood of memories with him. Lately, though she hardly dared acknowledge it to herself, she'd begun picturing a future with Leif.
But Vilkas couldn't hope for anything like that. Even if he wanted to.
"It just sounds lonely to me," she mumbled to her lap. "But if you're happy with it—Well, then you're happy with it."
"It is what it is."
Keeping her head lowered, she looked at Vilkas's too-long legs, with their bent knees sticking out, stuck in the confined space. Unable to extend freely, like hers could.
"I knew what I was getting into," Vilkas said.
Tirdas, 1st of Sun's Dusk, 4E 202
By the time the town at the entrance to the Pale Pass was in sight, it was visible only as a smattering of lanterns in the dark.
Deirdre had fallen asleep over an hour ago. Vilkas envied her, as her size meant she could lie down across her bench, using her traveling satchel as a makeshift pillow. She was probably cold, and the wooden bench didn't look comfortable, but still she slept. Vilkas would have to do the same sitting up after they'd changed carriages.
She startled him by making a sharp noise. With his enhanced vision, he saw her brow furrow. He waited, wondering if she would make the noise again. Her eyes were moving behind her eyelids. Then her lips pulled into a severe frown.
"Deirdre?" he called warily.
She did make the noise again—a short, unhappy moan.
He opened his mouth to call her again, when suddenly, she bolted upright. She hit the back of the carriage with a frantic gasp. Vilkas froze. Deirdre sat, shaking like a leaf, breaths shallow and quick.
"Dii vingge," she quavered. A strong shudder ran through her. She lifted a hand to curl protectively over her shoulder.
Vilkas echoed the words in his head. He thought they were words.
"What?"
Her unfocused eyes turned toward him, unable to find him in the dark. She blinked, and shifted the hand from her shoulder to her heart.
"Vilkas?" she asked.
"What did you just say?"
"Huh?"
"What language was that?"
She dropped her hand to her lap. Her face scrunched. "What … language?" She looked toward the window and squinted. "Where are we?"
He stared at her. Did she not remember what she'd just said, or was she avoiding his question on purpose? Was she even fully awake?
"We're almost to the Pale Pass," he answered.
"Oh. Good."
Her voice still carried a shard of panic. She curled an arm around herself and pressed her other hand to the hollow of her throat, slumping against the back of the carriage. After several seconds, and a deep breath, her trembles subsided.
"You had a bad dream," Vilkas stated.
Her drooping eyelids blinked open. She rolled her head toward him, still not able to see him.
"One of your dragon dreams?" he ventured.
She hesitated. "It was flying."
Though her voice was quiet, Vilkas heard it clearly. He weighed the risks of questioning her further—she sounded like she might get emotional.
But he was curious.
"What happened?"
He watched her hand move up to her shoulder once more, gripping it. Her voice was unsure and distant. "People were shooting arrows at it. I think they weren't normal arrows. His wings—tore?"
She shuddered again. Her shoulders hunched inward, as something eerily close to pain passed over her face.
Unprompted, as if just remembering, she said, "He had gold scales. I didn't know they could be gold. And his wings—It hurts them. A lot, when they tear. I didn't know that."
She closed her eyes, and her pained look grew more pronounced as her jaw clenched.
"You feel sorry for it?" Vilkas realized.
The pain on her face morphed into confusion. "Do I?" she mumbled.
Vilkas watched her carefully. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation, except that the odd theory she'd once proposed to him seemed more plausible, now that he'd witnessed one of her dragon dreams himself.
"I've never spoken to another survivor, but I think seeing the dragon … did something? To make me dream about them."
Everything about this—her confusion, the subject of the dream, her bizarre empathy for the dragon—felt supernatural. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
He said, "There are all sorts of old stories about dragons. Some say they once bewitched humans into being their slaves. And they have powers over the mind. There are old legends of cults that worshiped them as gods."
"You think the dragon from Helgen bewitched me?"
Vilkas shrugged, though she couldn't see it. "I don't know."
"They're connected," she said, an edge in her tone. She leaned forward abruptly, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. "The other dragons, to the dragon from Helgen. He told me so in a dream. He said he raised their bodies from death to live again. Sometimes he speaks to me. He said my soul seeks him. Maybe I'm cursed?"
Vilkas gawked at her. She sounded on the verge of babbling, but she cut herself off as if noticing it herself. Against her hands, she shook her head.
"I'm sorry. Don't listen to me. I sound crazy."
Vilkas did not know what to say. He rubbed the back of his neck, because it was too dark for her to see the action for the nervous tic it was.
"Forget I said anything," Deirdre added, having ironically forgotten that he'd been the one to inquire.
"Sure," he said, because that was easiest.
The carriage began to slow. They both looked out the window, surprised to see they'd reached the town. Orange light filtered through the lattice slats as they approached the braziers outside the main gates.
Vilkas looked surreptitiously at Deirdre. He watched the firelight and shadows pass over her pale face, and wondered what other thoughts she had that she dared not say aloud. If only she knew he had his own supernatural secrets. Would she tell him more, if she did?
He forced himself to avert his gaze. He needed sleep. Werewolves didn't need as much, and didn't sleep as deeply, as normal humans. But he must have needed sleep very badly. Why else would he have had such an absurd thought?
The town outside the Pale Pass could hardly be called a town at all. As Deirdre walked behind Vilkas down the street, she saw no houses whatsoever, only taverns and shops.
Most of the people out and about seemed to be guards, though there was a plethora of different uniforms between them—evidence of how many authorities wanted an eye on what passed through the Jerall Mountains into Cyrodiil. In particular, Deirdre's eye was caught by a group of soldiers in bright, butter-yellow tunics, with elaborate black trim and the figure of a bird on their chests. Their shoulder pauldrons were bigger and shinier than those of the other guards, as were their helmets.
A large hand took her arm.
"Don't lag behind," Vilkas said, as he tugged her into a faster walk. "This is a rough place."
Deirdre hastened her steps accordingly. "Who are those fancy soldiers in yellow?"
He looked in the direction she pointed, and snorted softly. "They're from Bruma. I heard they didn't lift a finger last year when the Legion ambushed the Stormcloaks in the pass. Probably hid in their barracks until it was all over."
Releasing her arm now that she was keeping up, he lowered his voice and bent toward her. "People say the new Count of Bruma is spineless, and so are his men. Looking at them, I'm inclined to believe it."
Bruma must be the place on the other end of the pass, Deirdre concluded. Skyrim didn't have counts. She scanned the torchlit street again, trying to imagine what it had been like in the wake of the Stormcloak defeat. Was she from Bruma, perhaps? Is that why she'd been at the border when the Stormcloaks and the Imperial Legion had clashed?
Vilkas led her to a tavern and pushed open the door, gesturing for her to enter first. Pulling off the hood of her cloak, she stepped inside and surveyed the wide, dimly lit room, trying to find some indication of the time.
The door slammed shut behind her. Vilkas stepped to her side. Without a word, he grabbed the hood of her cloak and pulled it back up over her head.
She grabbed the hood, surprised and annoyed, and looked up to demand what had gotten into him. But Vilkas was shooting a glare over the rest of the room that made her freeze in her tracks.
She glanced over the occupants of the tavern, scattered amongst low, candlelit tables. Did she imagine how they all seemed to turn away from her at once? She lowered her hands from her hood, leaving it in place.
Uneasiness skittered through her. Vilkas put a hand against her back and did not remove it until he'd guided her to the bar on the opposite side of the room, where he silently prompted her to sit at one of the tall stools. As he took the seat beside her, a stout Nord woman on the other side of the bar approached.
"Food, drink, or other?" the woman asked. While her face may as well have been made of stone, her eyes were shrewd as they ran over Vilkas first, and then Deirdre.
"Food. And water," Vilkas said.
The woman nodded and walked away, through a swinging door in the wall behind the bar.
"Other?" Deirdre asked quietly.
Vilkas shrugged. "Information is a popular request. Drugs, prostitutes. Could be anything."
Deirdre went quiet. Suddenly, she wished they hadn't stopped at this tavern. True, she'd only brought along one other meal in her satchel and had been saving it for the second leg of their trip. But now she was nervous. She was imagining the other patrons of the tavern watching her behind her back. Their phantom gazes prickled.
"Why do I have to wear my hood?" she asked.
He turned on his stool, as if to signal to the other tavern patrons he was keeping an eye on them, indirect though it was. "I didn't like the way they were eyeing you."
He left it at that. But despite her discomfort, Deirdre was struck by a morbid curiosity.
"Why?"
His face said he neither expected this question, nor wanted to give the answer. He put a hand on the counter and tapped it with his finger, as if debating whether to reply. She leaned toward him a bit and tilted her head.
"People like you don't come to places like this," he conceded.
She tilted her head further. A muscle in his jaw flexed.
"Young, pretty girls. You're a human trafficking tragedy waiting to happen. Just—stay next to me, and don't worry about it."
Deirdre leaned back and focused on the bar counter, failing to come up with a response. Her insides gave a twist.
A bowl of soup landed before her. The tavern-keeper had reappeared, and set down another bowl in front of Vilkas, then a wooden cup for each of them.
"Thank you," Deirdre said.
The woman tucked her little tray under her arm and went to turn away, but Deirdre sat up straighter and lifted a hand. "Oh, ma'am—do you happen to have the time?"
The woman paused. She peered intently at Deirdre until her stony mien cracked the tiniest bit.
"Half past midnight."
Deirdre nodded. The time did not surprise her; it felt very late.
"Thank you," she said.
The woman looked directly at Vilkas, and pointed a short, thick finger at Deirdre. "Keep an eye on that one, lad."
She departed a second time. Vilkas lifted his bowl to his lips. Deirdre, copying him, downed her soup as fast as possible.
They left their money on the counter and took their leave, heading back to the stables so Vilkas could hire another carriage. This one was larger than the first, with actual glass in the windows (though it was dirty, and old to the point of being clouded). Unfortunately, its size meant they had to share it with another traveler.
Deirdre couldn't tell how old he was, or even what race he was; his shaggy hair even hid whether he had pointed ears. If he were human, he could have been anywhere from her age to forty. His face was covered in a scraggly, ill-grown beard, his clothes worn and too large for him. The driver introduced him as Aseph of Falkreath, and explained he was only accompanying them as far as the turnoff to Ivarstead. The man himself said nothing.
Deirdre climbed into the carriage as Vilkas lingered outside, discussing road conditions with the driver. To her dismay, Aseph got into the carriage after her. She tried to subtly scoot as far away from the door as possible.
Aseph did not take the hint. He sat down right beside her—closer, she thought, than was strictly necessary. When she turned her head, she met his unblinking gaze. Her stomach dropped.
"Can I help you," she intoned, proud of how flinty she sounded.
His eyes flicked down the length of her and slowly back up. Still he said nothing. Deirdre was about to jump to her feet and flee to Vilkas, when the carriage's weight dipped. Aseph turned to find Vilkas filling the doorframe, giving him the same look he'd given the people in the tavern.
Aseph shrunk into himself. He slid away from Deirdre, and she took the opportunity to switch to the opposite bench. Vilkas sat next to her, dropping his pack on his other side. He set a foot on Aseph's bench and rudely nudged him closer toward the door. His leg had just created something of a barrier between Aseph and Deirdre.
She released a silent breath of relief. Just to feel more secure, she tucked a hand into Vilkas's elbow, and sent Aseph her own version of Vilkas's glare. He turned his face to the window as the driver threw the door shut.
"Everything fine?" Vilkas muttered, when the carriage began to move.
She patted his arm in thanks and confirmation, leaning back so she would be all but hidden behind the bulk of him and his armor. He didn't make for the most comfortable furniture, but he was still warmer and less jerky than the wall of the carriage. And she couldn't see Aseph like this.
Against all odds, with the tavern soup still warm in her stomach, she managed to drift off with her head on his arm. She didn't wake again until the carriage had stopped. She blinked groggily at the early-morning light, vaguely recalling there was a reason she had cuddled up to this wall of armor.
"He's gone," Vilkas informed her.
Perhaps he said it so she'd give him some space. But she was too groggy to realize it, and simply mumbled her gratitude, hugged his arm more securely to her, and went back to sleep.
Author's Note:
Not me making these two clueless knuckleheads acknowledge they find each other attractive...