Author's Note:

Merry Christmas and happy holidays! We are back with Part Three!

Barring any bumps in the road, I am planning to post on Sundays (US time) again. Hope to see you there!

PART THREE: AFTER RIFTEN

Fredas, 4th of Sun's Dusk, 4E202

Deirdre walked out of the dark and cold night into the bright and warm hall of Jorrvaskr, and it felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She lowered her red hood as Vilkas came in behind her, and as a few heads in the sitting area turned toward them.

"Deirdre!" said Leif, springing up from his chair.

Deirdre stopped short.

Leif approached her, nodding a greeting to Vilkas, and held out his hands. She took them automatically, still wearing the gloves she had once received from him. And still wearing the cloak Brynjolf had given her.

"You're here late," she observed, smiling so he knew it wasn't a rebuke.

"Well, the Companions were gracious enough to let me play cards with them rather than kick me out. I just wanted to be here when you got back."

He returned her smile. Vilkas moved past them with the softest of snorts. He went to the chair Leif had just vacated and plopped into it, dropping his traveling pack to the ground. Across from him, Aela looked up from her hand of cards.

"How was Riften?"

She was looking at Vilkas as she said it, but he gave that little snort again and gestured toward the door.

"Ask Deirdre."

Aela, accordingly, looked to Deirdre—as did Farkas, Njada, and Ria. Leif was already focused on her, face bright with curiosity.

Deirdre gave a noticeable pause. She squeezed Leif's hands.

"I'm actually really tired," she deflected. "Can I talk to you tomorrow?"

He started. "Oh, of course! I'm sorry. Of course you're tired. I think it's after eleven."

Deirdre forced a grateful smile. Leif hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her cheek.

"See you tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow."

He released her, waving back at the Companions and thanking them for tolerating his presence before he left. Deirdre sighed heavily as soon as he was out the door. She lifted the strap of her traveling bag over her head and trudged to the sitting area.

"All right. What happened?" Aela asked, pointing between Deirdre and Vilkas.

"I said, ask her," Vilkas maintained.

Deirdre gave him a warning glare. "Stop it."

"Stop what? All I said was she should ask you about Riften."

"You're judging me," Deirdre snapped.

Vilkas feigned nonchalance, shrugging, not looking at her, as he slouched in his seat.

"Did I say anything judgmental?"

"You didn't have to."

"Hey!" Aela interrupted, snapping a finger. "Really, now I'm dying to know. Explain yourselves."

"Yeah," Ria piped up, setting her cards face-down on the little table. "What're you fighting about?"

Farkas, in a perfectly innocent rumble, asked, "Is that a new cloak?"

Deirdre pressed her lips together. The women and the twins were all waiting for her to speak. Aela made a rolling motion with her hand, urging her to begin. Deirdre opened her mouth, found she couldn't admit to any part of it, and huffed.

"You know what, Vilkas can tell you if you really want to know. I'm going to bed."

And she hefted her bag into both arms and strode to her bedroom without another word. Tilma was already asleep. Deirdre got quietly undressed, combed out her hair before re-braiding it, and washed her face at their washbasin before climbing into bed.

Despite how worn out she was from being on the road, she did not fall asleep right away. She turned over several times, unable to get comfortable.

Leif's face was such an open book, and it would be obvious if he felt hurt and disappointed at her faithlessness. Perhaps he would even be disgusted, or think she was a woman of loose morals. Was she a woman of loose morals? It had only been a kiss. She and Leif weren't actually courting, and hadn't even kissed yet. Did they ever agree not to kiss other people?

Maybe she shouldn't tell him about Brynjolf at all. It wasn't as if it had meant anything. She had just been caught up in the moment, just a little senseless after the terror in the Ratway, just a little less inhibited because of that shot of liquor and soothing mug of cider. That was all. Why did Leif even need to know?

She tried to justify keeping her betrayal a secret, but no amount of internal reasoning could mitigate her guilt. Especially because, when she forced herself to be honest, she didn't think she actually regretted the kiss itself. She would do it again if given the chance to go back in time. The thrill had been too delicious.

Eventually she did sleep. Heavily. Dreamlessly, which was uncommon for her. And eventually, groggily, she woke to a room just as dark as the one she'd fallen asleep in. The only difference was Deirdre herself—she was sweating.

She sat up, and the world spun around her. She put her hands against the bed to try and steady herself, utterly disoriented. She felt disturbingly weak, and her heart was racing almost painfully.

She sucked in a huge breath. It felt like she was suffocating; the air was too thin. No matter how many times she forced herself to inhale, it did not alleviate the feeling.

Despite the fact that she was sweating, she was shivering badly, and her fingertips were cold and tingly. Her face was searing to the touch.

Sick? she realized, aghast. But she'd just been sick a few days before leaving for Riften. She couldn't possibly be sick again.

The floor was tilted when she got out of bed. She only managed a step before the tilt became too severe and she half-sank, half-toppled to her knees. Divines, why was the air so thin? It felt like she had a bag over her head.

She lowered herself fully to the floor in a fetal position, wincing when her neck bent and she felt a deep kink spasm with pain. She rolled onto her back and tried to stretch out her neck, hissing when the tender muscle twinged again.

This was not good. She had so much work to catch up on. Tilma had been slowly shifting more and more of her responsibilities to Deirdre, which Deirdre was normally happy to accept. She wanted to earn her place at Jorrvaskr. But how could she do that if she kept getting sick and going on trips?

She must have fallen unconscious, because she was roused by someone shaking her. It was Farkas. Above him, Tilma and Aela were standing, peering down in concern as they held candles aloft.

"Her fever's really hot," Farkas said. He helped her into a sitting position and put a blanket around her shoulders, gingerly supporting her as if she were made of glass. She was shaking like a leaf.

"Think'm sick again," she mumbled.

"I think so," Farkas agreed. He picked her up and set her on her bed, tucking her in.

"How did she get sick again just a week later?" Aela wondered. "Shouldn't she be immune?"

"Maybe she caught something new in Riften," said Farkas.

Tilma came to her bedside and touched Deirdre's forehead, her wrinkles deepening with a frown. "I'm going to get her a remedy. This is too hot to leave on its own."

She turned and said something else, but Deirdre was already slipping back toward darkness. Her sleep was not dreamless this time. It was full of flames, a man screaming in agony; her throat crushed by giant, unbudgeable fingers; her skin searing through to the bone and her voice unable to so much as cry out; a gaunt woman's enormous eyes bugging out of her face, gleaming with manic, murderous rage.

Deirdre woke a third time to a dim room, a film of sweat all over her. Tilma urged her to sit up and drink something. She drank it, wishing the effects would be as immediate as those of the antivenom potion when she'd been bitten by the spider. They were not. In fact, it felt like more than an hour passed, and there did not seem to be any effects at all. She lay there waiting for some measure of relief, and it didn't come. Errant flashes of Riften flitted through her head; the smell of the canal, Frodnar snug in her arms, the violence in the Ratway, Brynjolf's hands and lips.

Everything was confusing and hazy, the good and bad all mixed together. The strength had been sapped from her limbs. She wasn't sure when she was sleeping and when she was dreaming.

"Oh, Deirdre," said a voice she knew, full of pity. He stroked her arm, from shoulder to elbow, his skin cool and dry against hers. "You're burning up. I thought Tilma had given you some medicine."

"She did," Deirdre tried to articulate. She wasn't sure if the words made it from her head to her mouth.

"If this doesn't go down soon, I'm going to get a healer to come see you."

There was a beautiful person with bright red hair kneeling beside the bed, his face level with hers. His big brown eyes were awash with worry.

Deirdre's throat grew tight. She reached out and ran her fingers down his freckled cheek.

"I did something bad," she confessed. "You'll hate me. I don't want to tell you."

He held her hand against his face. "I couldn't hate you."

"You will."

He patted her hand. "You don't have to tell me, then. Sometimes—Sometimes we have to keep things from the people we care about, for their sakes. Don't we? It's all right. You couldn't do anything to make me hate you. You wouldn't hate me, would you?"

She shook her head. She tried to prop herself up, reaching for him. Leif understood her uncoordinated attempt, and secured her blanket around her before drawing her into an embrace, her chin on his shoulder. It felt good to be held tight while she shivered. Even if everything was still too hot.

"I missed you while you were gone," he murmured.

Then she woke again, alone. And everything was not too hot.

Sitting up, she surveyed the quiet room. Her stomach growled.

She climbed out of bed, lightheaded, weak, and short of breath, but no longer sweating or shaking. After rinsing her face at the washbasin, she dragged the blanket off her bed and put it on like a cloak. She left the room.

In the hall, Tilma was coming toward her with Vilkas in tow. They both stopped, looking surprised.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Tilma asked, hobbling over. She put her hand to Deirdre's cheek and paused. She put her other hand against Deirdre's other cheek. She squinted.

"Vilkas?" she called. "Does this feel feverish to you?"

He got close enough to feel Deirdre's forehead. "I thought you said she was dangerously hot?"

"She was, lad. I've rarely felt such a fever."

Vilkas retracted his hand and peered at Deirdre's face. She probably looked hideous and haggard; it was a good thing Leif wasn't there.

"Well, she doesn't have a fever now."

"I don't think so either. I suppose the remedy must have finally worked."

She sounded uncertain, and Deirdre felt the same. Her fever had not gradually declined after she'd taken the remedy, as it was supposed to. As Vilkas's had. It had just broken, suddenly. Hours after the remedy should have started to have an effect.

"Should we still take her to the temple?" Vilkas asked.

"The temple?" Deirdre repeated, pulling her blanket tighter around herself.

Tilma put a hand on Deirdre's arm, nudging her toward the bedroom. "Your fever was getting out of hand. I was going to have him take you to the Temple of Kynareth to see a healer."

Deirdre resisted the nudging. "I wanted to get something to eat?"

Tilma tsked. "I can get you something to eat. Just go back to bed. You're pale."

Deirdre was about to comply, when someone else entered the hall—Leif. He perked up and rushed to her side, looking her over.

"You're up? How are you feeling?"

Deirdre gripped her blanket with one hand and reached up with the other to smooth her hair.

"You're still here?" she blurted.

Only when his face fell did she realize how rude that sounded.

"It's just that I look so awful," she explained. "You shouldn't see me like this."

"I don't care—"

"You really ought to go back to bed," Tilma interrupted, and took the opportunity to push both Deirdre and Leif toward the bedroom. "Let me bring you some soup. You two, see to it she doesn't get up again."

She gestured at Leif and Vilkas, and shuffled off toward the kitchen. Leif gently took hold of her arm through her blanket.

"You don't look awful," he assured.

Deirdre exchanged a glance with Vilkas. One of his eyebrows lifted, just enough to remind her he'd witnessed something in Riften that Leif would want to know about. She bit the inside of her lip and looked at the floor, allowing Leif to usher her back to bed. He sat down by her legs, completely attentive. She self-consciously made sure her blanket stayed closed, as she was only wearing her shift. Come to think of it, that's all she'd been wearing when he'd been at her bedside and she'd hugged him. Did he think she was indecent?

"You don't have to do this," Deirdre said. "I don't want to be a bother."

Leif shook his head. He scooted a little closer, watching her as if for permission, and then came close enough to touch her face.

"That's amazing. Your fever's gone."

As they sat there, looking at each other, his hand against her cheek, Deirdre remembered Brynjolf. And how he'd touched her face, her hair, her hands. Leif's hair was a much lighter shade of red than Brynjolf's. His face was comparatively boyish, clean-shaven, and open. He was a different kind of handsome entirely, but his attention was actually authentic. There was no ulterior motive in his gaze, no seduction.

And even still, even in the face of such dedication, the memory of Brynjolf's kiss made her heart quicken.

She ducked her head, unable to meet his eyes. Her hypocritical heart grew heavy with guilt.

"You're too good to me," she admitted. "You're too good for me."

His hand fell from her cheek to her shoulder. After a moment of silence, he answered her in a strange, emotionless tone. "That's not true. Not at all. I'm not good. If anything, it's the other way around."

Deirdre tentatively lifted her head. He had such a sad, conflicted look on his face, she felt even guiltier. Ignoring the voice telling her she owed him the truth, she leaned forward and put her arms around his neck to hug him.

Leif's arms immediately locked around her, pressing her to him. He buried his face against her neck, his soft, warm sigh ghosting across her skin. Giving her goosebumps.

She tried to mollify herself with the knowledge that perhaps Brynjolf had made her heart flutter, but this, with Leif, did the same. And she did not need even a drop of liquor to feel this way. He did not need to lower her inhibitions, or use any tactics to lure her in. Leif was genuine in everything he did. Leif was real. And the way she felt for him, unlike her passing excitement with Brynjolf, was real.

At some point I'll own up to it, she resolved. When the time is right.

If she wanted to deserve Leif's sincerity, she needed to return it in kind. She could only hope he would forgive her, both for the kiss, and for not being honest with him from the beginning.