Author's Note:
I don't believe there is a way to share photos in a chapter on FFN and if there is I am technologically too illiterate to accomplish it, haha. But if anyone is curious to see a reference photo for the dress that I based Deirdre's evening gown on, I'm going to share an Imgur link on this chapter when I crosspost to AO3. I've figured out that much at least XD
Thanks for sticking with me and reading this far, on with the show!
Loredas, 24th of Evening Star, 4E202
Leif had brought a small carriage with a driver to take them outside the city wall, so Deirdre didn't have to walk in the snow in her lovely but impractical shoes. The problem, of course, was that they now had several minutes—in close quarters, under the warmth of a fur lap robe, as the last rays of twilight were snuffed out behind the mountains—all to themselves.
As Leif snaked his arms around her, Deirdre slapped a hand over his mouth. "You're going to mess up my hair and gown."
He kissed her gloved palm before taking her wrist and moving it out of the way. "I won't. I promise I won't."
"Leif," she warned, leaning back as he leaned in.
He sighed dramatically. He drew her hand to his heart and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Settling against his seat, he looped her hand through his arm.
"You're killing me. Looking so charming, and not letting me tell you so."
"You can tell me so with your words."
He sighed again, rolling his head away and letting it droop as if from sorrow. Deirdre patted his arm. The last thing she needed was to show up in front of his parents looking freshly-kissed; it would not improve their opinion of her in the slightest.
Is that the goal? she asked herself. It's not as if they actually want to get to know me.
Well, regardless of his parents' motives, Deirdre was determined to spite them by making a good impression. Claire had told her to be confident, and she was going to do her damnedest to fake that confidence.
They soon had exited the city wall. Past the Whiterun Stables, they turned onto the road that led into the huge stretch of farmlands owned by Clan Battle-Born.
A patchwork of square, fallow fields rolled out for miles on either side of their carriage. All was still, the furrowed rows of earth iced with a layer of silvery snow. The small windows of several farmers' huts began, one by one, to glow yellow as they drove past. A faint flute played somewhere, accompanied by a drum. Deirdre could not begin to guess how many people lived and worked on this land, relying on the Battle-Borns for their daily bread. And Leif was to inherit all of it?
And he wants me to manage it some day, she thought.
Battle-Born Manor was as grand as Deirdre had expected, and perhaps more so. It was curiously tall for Nord architecture and grew more narrow toward the top, almost as if mimicking Dragonsreach Palace. The patterns carved into the slanting roof beams had been buffed to a soft shine from years of wind and weather, every line and knot gilded by the light spilling from dozens of glass windows. The roof itself was many-gabled and dripping with strings of tiny icicles.
As their carriage came to a stop near the bottom of the front steps, Deirdre leaned closer to the window and peered up at the wooden dragon's head jutting from the central gable. Imperial uniforms, too, often featured the image of a dragon, as did their carriages, shields, and official notices posted in public spaces. Deirdre had always found this ironic. The emperors in whose veins flowed the legendary Dragon Blood, who had been blessed by their covenant with the Dragon God Akatosh, and whose progenitor Tiber Septim ascended to godhood and became Talos, had been gone for over two hundred years—and yet the Empire still clung to the dragon image as if they had any claim to it. If anything, Skyrim was the country of dragons now. They were the only country fighting for their right to worship Talos, and the only country where dragons had reappeared.
The driver of their carriage approached to open the door and Deirdre scooted back, allowing Leif out first, hastily tucking away thoughts of dragons and gods. She only hoped his parents were similarly shelving the topic in their own minds, and they would not be served a side of political discourse with their dinner.
Leif offered his hand as she stepped out of the carriage. She accepted it, smiled gratefully to the driver, and walked with Leif up the stone steps. They stopped in front of the freshly-painted door of Battle-Born Manor, upon which hung a huge wreath made of evergreen boughs, pine cones, and snowberries. Deirdre took a breath, as one would take before plunging into icy water.
As Leif opened the door and it swung inward, it revealed a glowing scene. Leif's parents stood waiting for them like two figures in a painting, everything around them agleam—from the dark, smooth, natural stone floor, to the intricately carved, deep brown staircase balustrade, perfectly polished and twisting elegantly up and away behind them, to the ornamental candlestick sconces circling the room, burnished to a golden shine.
Leif drew her inside this brilliant foyer, letting the door fall shut. The chill of winter began to recede from Deirdre's nose and cheeks, the warmth of the room a ready embrace. She glanced briefly around. A colossal stuffed snow bear stood on its two back legs, its fur glossy, glass eyes bright, black claws shiny. A trophy elk head was mounted above the stairs, above the heads of Leif's parents as if to make them a crown of its impressive antlers. Beyond and into the next room, Deirdre caught a glimpse of a floor covered by an enormous, patterned floral rug, and dark, solid furniture with fine upholstery, and an elaborate tapestry on the wall—
She forced herself to focus on Leif's parents, schooling her expression to appear amiable and unsurprised. Inwardly, she felt suddenly dowdy. She'd thought her gown was luxurious up until stepping into this house. Only now did she realize how plain it was.
Hertha's gown was a mature shade of green satin. The skirt, and particularly its hem, was heavily embroidered, her slightly-off-shoulder neckline trimmed with a wide swath of lace (gods above, how much money must they have spent on this thing?). Her hair was immaculate, styled up and flame-bright under the glow of the candles. She'd painted a polite smile on her rosy lips.
Leif's father, Idolaf, looked completely unlike his son. He actually reminded Deirdre of Ralof: tall, sturdy, bearded, with thick blond hair to his shoulders and eyes a light, perceptive blue. His fur-trimmed coat was a similar shade of green as his wife's gown, his tunic a rich black.
What caught Deirdre off guard was the genuine spark of curiosity in his eyes. She lowered her gaze immediately, instinct telling her not to appear too bold. But—that instinct couldn't be right. Not here, in a Nord household; surely boldness was a desired trait? Wasn't that why even Claire, a Breton, had encouraged her to be confident?
"Well, now, here they are," Idolaf greeted. "Hopefully the ride over wasn't too cold. Roy, let's take those cloaks."
"It was fine," Leif replied, as he helped Deirdre remove her cloak. A manservant approached them, and Leif handed over his own cloak as well.
No longer hidden under her cloak, Deirdre became newly self-conscious of the cut of her gown. She fought the urge to physically shrink, relaxing her shoulders and holding her head up. Spur of the moment, she decided to aim for somewhere between confident and demure.
"Mother, Father," Leif said, putting Deirdre's hand on his arm and drawing her toward them. "Let me finally introduce you to Deirdre."
Idolaf bowed, fist on the opposite shoulder, and Hertha dipped in a small curtsy. Deirdre's heart started pounding.
Idolaf said, "At last we meet, lass. Though I seem to recall first seeing you at the archery tournament, is that right?"
Deirdre's eyes flicked up to his face, then shifted toward his wife. She detached from Leif, let her hands float up on either side of her skirt, and descended into a formal curtsy. She did not bow nearly as low as she once had for Ulfric Stormcloak, but they didn't need to know that.
"Yes, I was at the tournament, Sir," she said. She rose gracefully and gave him a smile. "I'm honored to be remembered. Thank you for inviting me to your beautiful home."
Idolaf blinked. Hertha's polite smile had been wiped off.
"How surprising, Deirdre," Hertha said. "Wherever did you learn an Imperial gesture?"
Deirdre glanced at Leif to find him just as surprised as his parents. She smiled again, hoping it appeared natural. She lifted a hand to her heart. "I learned it many years ago, ma'am."
Hertha, tactfully, let the vague answer slide. "Very impressive."
Deirdre thought she might be sweating. In her gifted gown, she might actually be sweating. By the Nine, she already wished she could open a window and let in some air. Claire could have pulled her laces even tighter with how little she was breathing.
"Well, son, you told us she was beautiful, but I don't think your words quite did her justice," Idolaf said. He stepped forward and extended a hand to Deirdre. "I think I now understand why he's so determined to keep you, Deirdre."
It was rote flattery, the kind any girl brought to dinner could have expected, regardless of her actual beauty. On top of that, Idolaf's smile was practiced. But Deirdre still blushed as she gave him her hand.
Her lips formed the words, "You flatter me, Sir."
This, too, felt like a scripted response. Leif's parents paused and exchanged the briefest of looks. Deirdre already knew her lines, and they hadn't expected it. Deirdre hadn't totally expected it either. Something evasive was at work in the shadows of her mind, its actions performed out of sight, the effects spilling out of her from some place she couldn't access. It was confusing—but she wasn't about to resist it.
"I only speak the truth," Idolaf said. He briefly kissed the back of her glove. Rising, he nodded to Leif. "But let's get out of the doorway, shall we? I don't know about you three, but I'm famished."
Leif offered his arm to his mother, and Idolaf began leading Deirdre into the next room.
Deirdre knew, without having to observe her dinner companions, to use the biggest spoon beside her plate for the potato and leek soup. She knew to use the funny-looking fork and knife for the salmon topped with bizarre, fluffy cheese (she wasn't sure she liked that). She knew which fork to use for the winter salad, and how to eat it in manageable bites so she wasn't clumsily stuffing greens in her mouth. She knew which knife and which fork to use when the stuffed goose made its aromatic entrance. And she knew the tiniest spoon of all was reserved for the dessert—though she had never heard of a "souffle" before.
She scooped up a miniscule bit of the stuff, making sure her spoon did not clink against the dish. But when that first bite hit her tongue, and the incredible, fragrant flavor burst across her taste buds, she was floored. For a moment, she was transported out of body.
"Of course I implored Cook to get a copy of Uncommon Taste now that it's been published," Hertha was saying. "I sampled some of The Gourmet's recipes when we spent that summer in the Imperial City. Simply genius."
"You and your bizarre sweets."
"I have to agree with Mother on this. Whoever The Gourmet really is, he knows what he's doing."
"Bah, he's just some fat little Breton chef, like the rest of them. All these rumors that he could be an Argonian or an Orc or what-have-you are just part of his gimmick."
"How are you finding your dessert, Deirdre?"
Deirdre snapped back to reality. Hertha's keen eyes had slid in her direction just when she'd allowed her spoon to linger in her mouth. Dammit.
Deirdre removed the spoon, putting on a serene smile. "It's easily the most exquisite thing I have ever tasted."
Hertha's smile mirrored Deirdre's. "I'm so pleased you like it. Is this your first time tasting vanilla? It's a somewhat exotic flavor; I believe Cook had the beans imported from Valenwood."
"Somewhat" exotic? Deirdre silently retorted. You call all the way from Valenwood "somewhat" exotic? And do you really think I could have ever afforded to eat something shipped from the other end of the continent?
But, of course, Hertha didn't think that.
"Yes, this is the first time I've tasted it. But I find myself possessed by a sudden desire to know more about Valenwood." Deirdre tapped her chin, cocking her head and innocently widening her eyes. Hertha faked a small laugh, and Leif chuckled.
"We'll have this dessert again some time," he promised.
Dread trickled into Deirdre's already-full stomach. Delicious flavors or no, she wasn't sure she could endure another dinner like this. She'd been vaguely nauseated the entire meal.
But—didn't Leif look so happy? His eyes, gazing across the table at her, seemed to be saying he'd never loved her more than he loved her right then. In his warm home, with his family, talking and enjoying food together. It made her heart throb. With guilt.
Hertha was harder to read. Deirdre could only assume, by the way she paused before eating more souffle, that she was also hesitant to commit to a repeat performance. (Idolaf, meanwhile, was eating his dessert at a rate that seemed unconducive to actually tasting it.)
"I was thinking we could adjourn to the parlor for tea, and you might play something for us, Leif," Hertha said. "Put that new lute of yours to good use."
Leif brightened. Deirdre knew what he was about to say before he said it.
"Only if Deirdre will sing for us too. You've never heard a voice like hers, Mother. Trust me."
"Yes, so you've told me. I'm very intrigued to hear her—if the lass is willing?"
Damn. It.
"I would be delighted," Deirdre lied.
Hertha's eyes crinkled. It was supposed to appear friendly, but to Deirdre, she seemed more to be issuing a challenge. Hertha thought Leif was exaggerating about her voice.
Fine, Deirdre thought, taking her turn to mirror the other woman's expression. I'll prove you wrong.
They finished dessert, lingering around the table as servants brought them dishes of water in which to rinse their fingers. Deirdre found this painfully awkward, not to mention pointless (she'd used silverware the whole meal and her hands were perfectly clean). Leif and his parents acted as if it were routine. As Deirdre patted her hands dry on the cloth offered up on a tray, she caught sight of Hertha slipping her gloves back on beneath the table. Deirdre copied her.
The parlor was decorated entirely in shades of cream with sparse touches of pink. As they entered, there were two maids arranging a tea set on a small table not far from the crackling fireplace. Deirdre was surprised to see one of them was Claire. She met Deirdre's eyes, giving a subtle nod of greeting. Deirdre returned it. Claire and the other maid retreated to stand against the wall, silent as furniture.
"I don't suppose they drink much tea at Jorrvaskr?" Hertha asked, as she alighted on a chair. She reached for the silver teapot and began pouring its steaming contents into four cups. "It is famous as a mead hall, after all."
Deirdre and Leif had sat on the opposite settee. "Tea is not usually a warrior's drink of choice, no. Some of them do favor their mead. But the Harbinger will often have tea with his books, as he says it helps him focus."
Idolaf, reclining a bit in his chair, snorted. "Curious. Books are no more a warrior's pastime than tea is a warrior's drink, wouldn't you say?"
Deirdre's brow twitched. Idolaf wasn't wrong. Most of the Companions could not care less about books, or any intellectual pursuits for that matter. The same was true of Nords in general. But when Idolaf said it, it sounded like a criticism.
"On the contrary. The Harbinger spends a great deal of time with books. Vilkas, of the Circle, also reads as often as time allows. I only wish I were so dedicated to improving my mind."
Leif put a hand against her back. It knocked her thoughts off course—he was nearly touching the window of skin above her laces.
"The Companions are more varied than one might first assume," Leif obliged. He grinned. "And they're surprisingly tolerant of me being such a nuisance and hanging around their home."
The women laughed politely.
They all sipped tea and carried on a painfully banal conversation for several minutes. Deirdre couldn't help trying to read Hertha's mind every time either one of them so much as twitched a pinky finger. It was maddening trying to match her constant, flawless composure.
She was only able to relax when Leif picked up his lute (previously delivered to the parlor) and sat beside her to play a spritely New Life Festival tune. His infectious joy took some of the edge off her anxiety; he came alive when he played. She was so glad he'd put his foot down and insisted his parents recommit to sending him to the Bards College.
But then when he'd finished, Leif was urging her to stand and sing for them. He took her hand and raised it up, prompting her to her feet.
"Do you have a request, or should I choose the song?" Deirdre asked.
"You choose. Whatever you want."
Deirdre considered. "All right." She cleared her throat and squeezed his hand. "Give me the first note of 'Once More.'"
Leif obligingly released her and plucked a lute string. Deirdre stood tall and open, taking a steadying breath as the lone note faded away. She focused inward, finding a loose thread of buried emotion and giving it a gentle tug.
"Once More" was a poignant ballad about missing a loved one, waiting in bittersweet remembrance for a return that would never come. As she sang, Deirdre drew on the feeling of being bereft of a past, and on thoughts of Gerdur, Hod, and the children.
She didn't normally allow so much of herself into her singing. There was an intimidating potential in her, deep, deep down, that she could sense whenever she sang, and which she was usually too inhibited to touch. She'd only ever cracked the lid on its container. But she opened that lid wider, now, to the point of almost getting swept away.
When she'd sung her last note and brought the song to a gentle stop, she closed her eyes. Leif took her hand again. Looking down at him, she saw his eyes glistening with tears.
Motion distracted her. A silent, subdued Idolaf was handing his wife a handkerchief. Hertha took it, head turning from Deirdre as she dabbed at her face. Against the wall, Claire had a hand to her mouth, her eyes brimming with water behind her spectacles. The other maid was staring blankly at the floor, tears trailing down either cheek.
Deirdre tamped down a surge of emotion.
"Excuse me," she said softly.
"No." Idolaf shook his head, gazing into the fireplace. Was it possible his eyes were misty as well? "Forgive us. That was very moving."
Leif swiped at the tear that escaped down his freckled cheek. He smiled, gave a brief, incredulous laugh, and lightly tugged Deirdre to sit back down beside him. His hand released hers to again touch her back. This time, just once, he swept his warm thumb across her bare skin.
At the front door again, before the manservant could step forward and give them their cloaks, Leif told Deirdre he had to fetch something and would be back shortly. Before she knew it, he'd left her with his parents.
"Well, I do have a few matters to check on, so I'll excuse myself as well," Idolaf said. He took Deirdre's hand and bowed. "It was wonderful to have you with us, Deirdre. Have a merry holiday."
"And you, sir, thank you."
He released her, gave his wife a peck on the cheek, and was gone. Deirdre and Hertha looked at each other. Hertha's eyelids lowered to half-mast.
"Deirdre. May I, before my son returns, be frank with you for a moment?"
Deirdre braced herself. Here we go, she thought.
"Please do."
Hertha ever so slightly inclined her head. "Please understand, what I am about to say, I do not mean as an insult. But. You are a very … odd young woman. I cannot puzzle you out in the slightest."
Deirdre blinked.
"Your manners bewilder me. There were moments tonight when I forgot you were not of gentle birth, and yet—moments when it was obvious. And the way you sing, as if you were not only taught, but …" She shook her head. "There is something almost unnatural about it."
Dumbly, Deirdre just stared at her. Was this an improvement over Hertha's former opinion? Or was being odd even worse than being common?
Hertha clasped her hands before her. "Leif warned me not to ask about your background. Your past. He says you are reluctant to talk about it, and he knows nothing of your life before you came to Riverwood. But you must understand something, and you must understand it as soon as possible. Clan Battle-Born is depending on Leif to become head of the family, and all eyes are upon him—and will be upon you, if you remain at his side."
Her tone, her piercing gaze, and the rigidity of her posture all implored Deirdre to hear what she wasn't saying. She wouldn't directly demand to hear the secrets of Deirdre's past—yet. But a girl with a mysterious background, and perhaps especially a girl who was possibly a little less than common, was a potential liability. Hertha would not allow her to keep her secrets if she and Leif continued their relationship.
She was saying Deirdre was a possible threat to Clan Battle-Born's reputation.
But she was also, however grudgingly, entertaining the possibility of Deirdre joining Clan Battle-Born. Her background wouldn't matter if she ended up being just a youthful fling, but would matter if Leif forced them to accept a marriage.
Deirdre's thoughts were in disarray. She couldn't tell if she was in a better or worse position than when the night had begun. She recalled Gerdur warning her, so long ago it seemed, not to tell anyone that she had no memories, because they might take advantage of her. What would Clan Battle-Born do with such information?
Because Hertha was waiting for a response, Deirdre tried to collect herself. "It's true. I don't like to talk about … before Riverwood. But I understand what you are saying, and the position you are in. I will give this a great deal of thought."
Hertha drew a breath as if to say more, but cut off when footsteps on the stairs interrupted her. Leif was rushing down toward them.
"Sorry, it took me a minute to find what I was looking for. Are you ready to go?"
Stepping off the last stair, he glanced between Deirdre and his mother. Deirdre attempted a reassuring smile, but it felt like her ability to pull it off was wearing thin.
"Yes, we were just talking while waiting."
"Great. Roy, our cloaks?"
The manservant stepped forward to put Leif's cloak on him as he tugged on his gloves. Leif put Deirdre's cloak around her and looped her hand through his arm.
Hertha said, "Try not to linger too long, Leif. The first of the clan arrives early tomorrow, and you'll need plenty of sleep before then."
Leif rolled his eyes. "Right, right. I know."
Pausing, observing her son, Hertha gave a small, true smile for the first time that night. She stepped back and gave them a small curtsy.
"Thank you for indulging this mother tonight, both of you. Please convey the season's greetings to the rest of Jorrvaskr, on behalf of Clan Battle-Born."
Deirdre gently pinched the side of her skirt in her free hand and lifted it slightly as she returned Hertha's curtsy. "I will. Thank you again for having me."
Their eyes met before Hertha politely dipped her head. Leif turned with Deirdre and the manservant opened the door. Finally, they stepped out into the dark, cold evening, and the door of Battle-Born Manor clunked shut behind them.