Middas, 9th of Sun's Dusk, 4E202
Deirdre worked furiously for four days to make up her neglected housework. Laundry and mending, in particular, were labor-intensive tasks that Tilma completed much more slowly than her, and the catch-up took the majority of Deirdre's time and energy. While she tired quickly the first couple of days, she disliked feeling like a leech more than she disliked exhaustion.
It began to annoy her when Leif and Tilma continually entreated her to take it easy. Leif especially did not seem to understand why she felt obligated to work so hard.
"It wasn't your fault you were ill," he said for the umpteenth time, as they made their way back from the market. "And Tilma agreed for you to go to Riften. You didn't do anything wrong."
Deirdre exhaled sharply, trying not to lose her patience. "I'm not punishing myself. I just don't want to be a freeloader. I have to earn my keep same as anyone."
"But I'm sure the Companions would understand if—"
"Great Aedra, Leif!" she burst, as she shouldered open the door to Jorrvaskr. "I know what I can and can't handle!"
He stood in the doorway, caught off guard. He was distracted by something behind her.
Just inside Jorrvaskr, Vilkas was wearing his armor and had his sword on his back, waiting for them to clear the doorway. A similarly equipped Ria stood beside him.
Deirdre fixed Vilkas with a warning eye, not in the mood for any sort of commentary. He glanced between her and Leif. After a moment, he nodded at Leif.
"I'd take her word for it, if I were you."
Deirdre paused. It was the last thing she expected him to say. Where was the rebuke about her supposedly faulty sense of self-preservation?
Vilkas gestured impatiently at Leif, who lurched to move out of the doorway. Vilkas and Ria exited, the latter with a cheerful farewell and an amused twinkle in her eye.
Deirdre spun on her heel and began marching toward the kitchen with her basket of produce. Leif followed, contrite.
"I'm sorry. I just don't want you to make yourself sick again. Sometimes it comes back worse if you don't allow yourself time to recover."
Deirdre did the dangerous thing and looked at his face. That face that never failed to make her soften, and which was particularly potent when forlorn. As it was at that moment.
She sighed. "I know. But I'm fine. I'm doing this mostly for myself, anyway."
To his credit, he did not say another word on the subject for the rest of the day.
Also to his credit, she woke the next morning with a raging fever.
"Not again," she groaned, as she sat up and the bed whirled beneath her. She held her head in her hands, so frustrated and miserable that tears pricked her eyes. The ache in her neck was back with a vengeance, along with the shakes and the shortness of breath. What on Nirn was wrong with her?
"What on Nirn is wrong with her?" Aela asked Tilma, as she laid a cold cloth on Deirdre's clammy forehead. "Why does it keep coming back?"
Tilma was putting on her cloak and gloves. "I don't know, lass. I never saw anything like it when I worked at the Temple. Just sit with her until I get that remedy."
Deirdre drank another remedy, and Leif came to visit and took over applying a cold cloth to her forehead. He was gracious enough not to say he had told her so. Just as before, the remedy did not seem to have an effect, and Deirdre's fever only worsened as the day went on. As she slipped in and out of consciousness, she dreamed she was breathing fire. She soared close to the hot sun as its rays beat down on her scales, and her chest was a furnace from which she roared torrents of flame on the world below.
The last thing she dreamed, before she woke around supper time, was of breathing ice in lieu of fire. Her fever was gone again.
"I just don't understand it," Tilma muttered, examining Deirdre's eyes, mouth, the pulse at her neck.
Leif sat on the bed by her feet, trying to appear reassuring.
There came a knock at the door, which had been left ajar. Kodlak nudged the door further open and peered into the room.
"How is the patient?" he inquired, giving her a once-over.
"Fever's broke," Tilma answered, with a puzzled pucker in her brow. She made a dissatisfied noise. "We're going to get a healer if this happens again."
Again? Deirdre thought, dreading the idea. But Kodlak Whitemane was standing at her bedroom door inquiring about her health, and that made it seem like there was something seriously wrong with her. Did she have some sort of chronic disease? How was she supposed to be of any use to the Companions like this?
"I'm sorry for being a bother," she said, addressing Kodlak.
He seemed taken aback. "What gave you that idea? It's not your fault you're ill."
Deirdre glanced at Leif. He ducked his head almost sheepishly, and put a hand on her ankle over her blanket.
Tilma brought her some soup to eat, after which Deirdre felt well enough to want to get out of the bedroom. Tilma allowed her to get properly dressed and transfer to the main hall. Leif took the chair beside her in the sitting area and worked on a sketch of Skjor for her amusement, exaggerating the scar across his eye and the intensity of his omnipresent glare.
She had just whispered a suggestion to doodle him fighting with the twins over the game bird on the table (they had been arguing over legs and wings), when the back door opened. Eorlund Gray-Mane entered the hall, stomping snow off his boots.
The Companions all broke into surprised, happy greetings, which Eorlund returned genially.
Aela said, "Look what the cat dragged in, just in time for supper. Did the missus kick you out without feeding you, or what?"
Eorlund scratched the back of his gray head. "Not exactly. She's at her sister's tonight. Left me to fend for myself."
Kodlak asked, "Is working an oven so much harder than a forge?"
Eorlund walked up to the table and patted himself on the stomach. "Of course! My wife is the true genius of clan Gray-Mane, you know."
Deirdre smiled at the joke as the Companions laughed. She turned to Leif—to see his face had gone white as milk.
"Leif?" she said, startled. She put a hand on his arm, noticing he'd accidentally drawn an ugly line across his sketch paper.
He was staring at Eorlund like he'd seen a ghost. His throat bobbed with a swallow.
Perhaps Eorlund felt Leif's eyes on him, or perhaps Leif's unusual stillness drew his attention. Whatever it was, Eorlund had been about to sit down on one of the table benches, when he caught sight of Leif and stopped short.
Leif sucked in a breath.
Eorlund's affable expression turned dark. He fixed Leif with an unblinking glower.
"What is a Battle-Born doing in this hall?" he rumbled.
Deirdre stared at Eorlund. What was he talking about?
Leif jumped to his feet, closing his sketchbook, holding it tightly in his whitening fingers. "Sir. I. Am visiting my friend."
She stared at Leif now. There had to be some mistake. Eorlund did not mean to imply Leif was a Battle-Born. That would be absurd.
"A Battle-Born with a friend in Jorrvaskr?" Eorlund repeated, incredulous. "A Battle-Born deigns to have a friend where the Gray-Manes have ties? Does your grandfather know about this?"
Leif opened and shut his mouth, eyes darting across the table of Companions. To Deirdre's confusion, the light of comprehension seemed to be filling one Companion's eyes after another. Vilkas was watching her with anticipatory wariness. Bracing himself.
Her gut sank. She turned to Leif as he spun toward her.
"Leif?" she asked.
"I—Deirdre—" He couldn't seem to find words.
Deirdre stood. It made her lightheaded. "What is he saying?"
He did not speak. The white-knuckled grip on his sketchbook betrayed his anxiety. He tossed the book down on the little table and reached for her hand.
She drew it back. "No. I'm—I don't understand."
"Let me explain," Leif rushed, reaching again.
She smacked his hand away. He froze, shocked. Deirdre took a step back.
Was it the illness making her dizzy? Or the weight of the realization flooding into her?
"The Battle-Borns support the Empire," she recalled, quoting Eorlund, watching the fear and panic grow more pronounced on Leif's face. "They send them money and weapons to fight against us."
"Not against us," Leif blurted. "Against Ulfric."
She stared. Leif snapped his mouth shut, lips pale. Deirdre's vision started to go hazy at the edges.
She turned her back on him, a crushing sensation pushing into her chest. She felt faint.
"Deirdre," Leif implored, trying to take her elbow.
"Don't touch me!" she yelled, yanking free.
It couldn't be true.
He'd listened to her sob story about Gerdur and Hod and Captain Kensley. He'd expressed sympathy. He'd comforted her. He'd listened to her anecdotes about life in Riverwood. He'd condemned Captain Kensley as a monster.
It couldn't be that all this time, he'd actually felt differently. That all this time, he'd been one of them. That all this time, he'd been deceiving her.
She couldn't stay in this room. The pressure of everyone's stares was giving her vertigo.
She fled to her bedroom in a haze. Leif's footsteps followed her the whole way, as he repeatedly begged her to stop, to listen, sounding more and more desperate. She covered her ears with her hands once she made it inside the room, the pain in her chest starting to splinter with each strike of his voice.
He turned her around and forced her hands from her ears, holding tight to her wrists, tears in his eyes.
"Don't shut me out. Let me explain. It's not—"
"I told you not to touch me!"
Her voice cracked horribly and she flinched away from him. He released her as if burned. She shoved at his chest, realizing she was crying too. Leif stumbled back a few steps.
"Were you laughing at me?" she choked out, as the image of him wavered and blurred through her tears. "Was this just a game to you?"
"No!" he cried, his voice breaking. "That's not what this is! I just didn't tell you my family name because I thought you would reject me!"
"You lied to me!"
"I didn't! You never asked about my family—"
"Don't make excuses!" she shouted, swiping furiously at her eyes. "You tricked me! You—took advantage of me! You made me think—"
She cut off so she wouldn't break down into open sobs. A sharp, overpowering sense of betrayal clamped around her lungs, making it hard to draw a full breath.
All the kind gestures, the shy kisses on the cheek, the easy smiles; they were all meaningless. He'd hidden this from her. On purpose. When was he planning to tell her? Was he going to wait until she fell hopelessly in love with him? Was he going to wait until their wedding day? Hide his family until it was too late, and then reveal the name she'd unknowingly vowed to take as her own?
Or had he never planned on anything so permanent? Had he intended to lower her defenses, take the one thing men always wanted, and then go back to his family of Imperial supporters, without another thought for her and what the Empire had done to her? Was she just a plaything for him?
It was Sven, pretending he only wanted to teach her music. It was Captain Kensley, pretending he only wanted to talk to her. It was Brynjolf, pretending he only wanted to sell her a necklace. All they did was pretend.
"I should have told you from the beginning," Leif said, half-strangled with emotion. He held a hand to his midsection—not quite against his heart, not quite clutching his stomach. "I made a mistake. I'm so, so sorry. But I wanted to get to know you. And then I was afraid you'd be angry. I—I just—"
Deirdre watched him, and the tears rolling down his freckle-dappled cheeks, how his lovely brown eyes implored her as if his heart could shatter at her next word. He put on a good show. It almost broke her.
"Do you support the Empire?" she asked, her head swimming senselessly. "Do you want them to have reign over us?"
He hesitated. He searched her face for some way out.
"If I say yes, what happens?"
Deirdre clenched her hands. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She focused on the slight pain, using it to keep herself grounded, her voice level. She needed to sit down. The room was swaying.
"Then we're done."
He drew in a shuddering breath. "It's … not that simple. Skyrim needs the Empire—"
"Are you on their side, or mine?" Deirdre spat. "You can't be both."
His expression crumpled. He blinked, shedding more tears. "Don't say that. Of course I'm on your side."
She shook her head. Covering her face with her hands, she fought the sensation of sinking into the floor. She was so dizzy.
"Leave. Now."
"I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you," Leif persisted.
Deirdre sensed him coming closer, heard his faint step against the floor. She tensed, curling into herself, cringing back. He stopped.
"Please, Deirdre," he pleaded.
She just shook her head. Biting her lip, she turned to face her bed, giving him her back.
After a moment, he inhaled tremulously, and his footsteps retreated from the room.
Blindly, Deirdre stumbled to her bed and dropped onto it like a stone. She curled up in a ball and pressed her blanket to her face.
It was true. Leif was a Battle-Born. He supported the Empire. He'd chosen the Empire over her. And he'd felt that way the entire time she'd known him. He'd tricked her, just like all the others.
She felt sick. Her chest hurt. Her head hurt. Her heart throbbed from humiliation and disillusionment, a brand new flavor of heartbreak. Would she ever cease to be a fool?
Leif's image would not leave her mind. The beautiful shade of his hair in the sunlight, when the tips of it were trimmed gold. The brilliant softness in his smile. The safety of him. The warmth and adoration in his eyes. All an illusion. He wasn't safe. He wasn't real. He'd seemed so real.
"Are you a good man?" she'd asked once.
"Yes," Leif had said. "Remember? I promised the Companions I wouldn't be a shithead."
She'd laughed. She'd kissed his cheek. She'd told him to call on her again. Because she'd believed him.
More so than any of the others, he had deceived her.