Author's Note:

Apologies to everyone for missing last week, Easter Sunday got away from me. On an unfortunately similar note, we are getting close to the end of Part Three, and it's looking like I will need to take another hiatus at that point. Thank you to everyone who's followed me on this journey thus far, your support has been a huge motivation when I'm sitting down to work on this story!

Sundas, 25th of Evening Star, 4E202

Farkas had never been the latest riser in Jorrvaskr (that title had always belonged to Aela). But he'd never been the earliest, either. Not even when he and Vilkas had been small boys, and Jergen had enforced an early bedtime.

But in the wee hours of that particular morning, on the day of the New Life Festival, Farkas was the first one awake. The reason was simple—he'd had his fair share of mead before falling asleep, and his bladder was now protesting.

As he sat up on the floor, he noticed that the logs in the fire pit were burning low, and the mead hall was dimmer and cooler than it had been a couple hours earlier. He blinked sluggishly at the other Companions, all of them out cold in chairs or on the floor. He smiled to himself.

Remembering something, he looked over to where he'd left his brother and Deirdre.

Vilkas was flat on his back, completely dead to the world. Deirdre, by contrast, had curled into a tiny ball and fallen asleep tucked snugly into his side—knees digging into his ribs, head on his arm, fingers still clutching his shirt.

Farkas thought, Vilkas's arm is probably numb.

And then he thought, They're going to be awkward if they wake up like that.

In spite of the mead, he remembered Deirdre waking and crying. He remembered Vilkas uncharacteristically being the first to inquire into the cause, and even more uncharacteristically being the one to pull her into an embrace. Farkas suspected that, had Deirdre been sober and coherent, Vilkas wouldn't have been quite bold enough to extend the gesture. His brother was stupid like that.

But, stupid brothers were still brothers. Farkas would have to give him a hand.

… After a trip to the washroom.

Trip completed, Farkas came back to the main hall and tread as lightly as possible into the sitting area, stepping carefully over the other Companions so as not to wake them. When he reached Deirdre, he got down on one knee and tried to pick her up.

But the second he began to move her, she started in her sleep and clutched at Vilkas. Vilkas's head jerked and his hand darted across his stomach to grab hers.

"It's just me," Farkas whispered, clasping Vilkas's wrist. "Calm down."

Vilkas relaxed. Though he didn't completely release Deirdre, his grip on her loosened, and he settled back onto the floor. Farkas sat Deirdre up. She had no choice but to release Vilkas's shirt when he scooped her into his arms. As Farkas started toward her room, she made a noise like a slurred version of his name.

"Yep, just me. I'm gonna put you to bed, all right?"

"A'right," she mumbled.

Tilma and Deirdre's room was even cooler than the mead hall, so Farkas made sure Deirdre's blankets were pulled all the way over her poofy dress and up to her chin. She snuggled into her pillow and seemed, immediately, to fall back asleep.

Farkas watched her for a moment. He knelt on the floor by her head and poked her cheek.

"Psst. Deirdre."

Her eyelids flickered. "Mm?"

"You never answered my question. From earlier. Do you love Leif?"

Her eyes opened halfway so she could meet his gaze. Her brow and lips scrunched in thought. Finally, she turned her face completely into her pillow.

"'Fraid to," she admitted.

Farkas rested his chin on the bed. "How come?"

"'Cause … what if I … lose him?"

Farkas stared. The exact words were new to him, but the fear behind them was familiar. He smiled sadly, and found the lump of Deirdre's hand and patted it over her blanket.

"You sound like Vilkas."

"Oh," she said, freeing her face from her pillow, her eyes fully shut again. "Good."

Farkas tilted his head. "Do you like Vilkas?"

After a deep inhale, Deirdre faintly breathed, "He's nice …"

And then she fell silent. Her face gradually slackened as sleep overtook her.

Farkas pondered for several seconds, until at length, he whispered, "Only to you."

"HAPPY NEW LIFE!"

Vilkas started awake. Ria's voice was ringing in his ears, his back was stiff, he was cold—and as he rolled onto his side, he found no warm girl in his arms. Groggily, he blinked at the empty space beside him.

A growl sounded from somewhere above his head, followed by the words, "Somebody kill her."

"Oh come on, it's a holiday," Ria said. "Wake up already! I can practically smell the almond cakes in the air! We've gotta go get some before they're gone!"

Aela muttered something profane. Vilkas rose to a sitting position, blinking again at the spot where, last he'd checked, Deirdre had been fast asleep and curled against him. Had she gone to bed?

Ria was standing at the edge of the sitting area. Vilkas watched her step behind Aela's chair and lean over the back of it with her hands cupped around her mouth.

"Cookies! Cider! Meat on a stick!"

She dodged Aela's uncoordinated fist.

"We have a perfectly good pair of kitchen maids who can cook all our treats for us," yawned Athis, also sitting up on the floor. "Let us alone."

"Well, we have Tilma. I'm pretty sure Deirdre's hungover, 'cause she's still in bed."

Vilkas glanced toward the side hallway and quickly away. What was this pit in his stomach? Like … disappointment? No. Worse than that.

Shit.

This hugging thing Deirdre kept doing was getting out of hand. Except—Wait. He'd been the one to pull her into his lap.

Shit.

He got up hastily, tuning out the other Companions as Ria bothered them awake. He went straight to the basement and encountered Farkas emerging from their bedroom, dressed for the day. As Vilkas brushed past him into the room, Farkas opened his mouth, and Vilkas threw the door shut on him.

Alone now, Vilkas ran a hand up his face and curled his fingers in his hair. The tug on his scalp helped him focus his sleep-addled brain.

What are you doing, Vilkas?

Deirdre of Riverwood should not have been the first thing on his mind upon waking up. And he should never have fallen asleep holding her like that. It wasn't the same thing as Deirdre nodding off with her head on his shoulder—it was much worse. It crossed a boundary. He was just lucky she'd apparently wandered back to her own room before anyone had seen them. That he had not woken with a warm girl in his arms.

He felt that pit in his stomach again.

"What was I supposed to do?" he blurted, tossing up his hand. He strode to his dresser and yanked open a drawer. "She was crying. She's always crying. What else am I supposed to do?"

What would you do if it were one of your Shield-Sisters?

Vilkas snatched up a change of clothes, threw them on his bed, and glared at them. It was hardly a fair question. His Shield-Sisters didn't cry. At least not that he knew of? Not that he could remember? He didn't really pay attention.

There's your problem. You're paying too much attention. She has Aela and Farkas and Tilma and her little Battle-Born if she's crying. Why would she need you, too?

"She doesn't."

Then what is this? What are you doing, Vilkas?

Vilkas sat on his bed and stared at the floor.

Gods above, Deirdre was thirsty. She'd never been so thirsty in her life; she would have braved the Ratway for a flask of cold water. Luckily, she only had to stumble her way to the pump in the kitchen. She winced at the glare of sunlight beaming through the window.

After drinking to her heart's content, she rested her arms on the kitchen counter and buried her head in them. She had to swallow back the urge to vomit all the liquid now sloshing in her stomach. At least Tilma had helped her out of that damned corset the first time she'd woken up.

She heard a warm chuckle. "Ah, lass. Still feeling poorly? It's nearly noon, you know."

Deirdre moaned pathetically. Tilma's bony hand patted her back. "I could make you something to help with that?"

"Yes, please," Deirdre croaked.

A few minutes later, Tilma set down a steaming mug on the counter. Deirdre hadn't seen what she'd put in it, but the vapors alone made her eyes water. What was that smell? Pepper? Horseradish?

"Plug your nose," Tilma advised.

Deirdre obeyed, and still the concoction tasted much worse than the shot she'd had in Riften.

As she swallowed the last gulp with a grimace, Tilma said, "There's a good lass. Now you need some food in you."

Deirdre shoved a barrel up to the counter so she could sit on it, and promptly slumped over the counter again so she didn't have to face the brightness of the kitchen. Tilma sliced a boiled egg and toasted some bread for her, and filled another mug with more water.

"You'll be right as rain soon enough," Tilma assured. "Give it a couple hours."

Tilma left her to her belated breakfast (lunch?), and Deirdre ate her food in silence, with her eyes as close to closed as she could manage while still able to distinguish what was on her plate. When she'd finished, she laid her head down and prayed for the ache in her skull to subside.

She must have slipped into a doze, because a trudge of boots had her jolting up.

Vilkas stood in the kitchen doorway. Deirdre looked at him blankly, just as he looked at her. Slowly, a memory crawled out of the dark depths of her mind. Of lying on the cushioned bench and clutching at him like a frightened child, nonsensical and blubbering. Of being held like a frightened child. Of … falling asleep like that? In his arms?

"Shit," she mumbled.

Vilkas blinked. "Excuse me?"

Deirdre swiveled her head in the opposite direction, shielding her eyes so he couldn't see them. She racked her brain; she hadn't actually gone to sleep in Vilkas's lap, had she? Because that would be sort of … Well.

Frightened or no, she wasn't actually a child. She didn't have the excuse of being a little girl, crawling into someone's lap because she'd had a bad dream. They were both old enough that such a thing was, by all accounts, improper.

For some reason, Leif leapt to mind. And for some reason, she felt a stab of guilt.

"Sorry, I'm. Um. My head hurts."

Vilkas said nothing. A moment later he was striding into the kitchen and snatching up a half loaf of bread, and a chunk of cheese, and a few boiled eggs from the stack Tilma had set into a bowl, and stuffing it all into a haversack.

Deirdre sat up straighter. "Wait—Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes." Vilkas turned and strode back the way he'd come.

"But it's the New Life Festival. Where are you going?"

"Out."

And before she could even ask if he'd be back in time for supper, he was gone. Deirdre frowned after him, bewildered. She supposed it was best that he hadn't delved into her awkward reaction to the sight of him. But was it strange he hadn't made so much as a passing comment about the night before? Hadn't even asked about her dragon dream? He usually did that, didn't he?

Maybe she hadn't inappropriately latched onto him after all. Maybe, after seeing the lonely old dragon, she'd been so in need of comfort that her brain had dreamed up someone comforting her.

Or, she realized abruptly, Vilkas just doesn't care.

Oh. She was just making something out of nothing. Vilkas was used to her emotional outbursts at this point, and didn't consider whatever she'd done to be anything new, let alone more embarrassing than usual. He'd just humored her and moved on. How immature to assume anyone, let alone Vilkas, was paying that much attention to her.

A little relieved, Deirdre slid off her barrel and stretched before heading back to her room to dress. It was time to actually start her day; she had a whole New Life feast to prepare.

Vilkas ate his hastily-packed lunch on the road. The sun was shining full-force against the snow of the plains, invigoratingly bright, and he kept his pace such that his heart rate could not slow. He skirted around Riverwood once he neared it, hearing music on the air, smelling baked goods. He undressed in the woods, let the cold sink into his skin as he stuffed his clothes into a traveling bag, and then transformed.

He ran. He ran until the man in his mind was quieted, and the wolf was in control. He ran until the orange sun cast long, lonely shadows through the trees, and the fog of his breath caught the light as a gold mist. He ran, and made himself hungry again.

Emerging from the other side of the woods, he caught the scent of a herd of elk. And when he found them, he singled out the biggest, strongest, fastest-looking bull, and chased him down amidst the terrified screams of the herd. The bull struggled well, but was ultimately no match for him, and Vilkas relished ripping his throat out.

Blood pooled rapidly beneath the dying elk, the volume of it staining the snow a visceral crimson. As Vilkas tore into the carcass and the light died along with the elk, steam rose from the hot flesh, wavering in the sun's last rays. Vilkas glutted himself on the meat—if a beast could be accused of gluttony.

When he could physically eat no more, he found an icy stream and drank, and washed the blood from his fur, and backtracked to fetch his discarded traveling pack. He warmed himself by running all the way to Falkreath.

Only at this point, when the sky had gone dark but for the light of two moons, did Vilkas turn back into a man. He dressed himself behind a crypt in Falkreath's infamous graveyard. He focused on nothing but the simple tasks of lacing and buckling, and on soaking in the mercilessly frigid night air.

Shelter, he thought.

He walked to the inn. The New Life Festival was in full swing inside, the Breton bard leading a song as the townsfolk ate and drank and sang and danced. Vilkas ordered some of their special holiday drink, spiced and heavily alcoholic. He leaned back on the bar as he took a warming gulp and surveyed the room.

It wasn't long before a familiar figure sidled up to him.

"Why, if it isn't my favorite Companion," Narri greeted. She placed a hand on his bicep and leaned up to speak close to his ear, pressing her ample bosom to his arm. "What brings you to Falkreath tonight, love?"

Vilkas removed her hand from his arm and pushed her back without looking at her. "My Shield-Siblings were driving me crazy."

Narri cooed sympathetically. "Family will do that. You lookin' for someone to help you distract yourself? It is a holiday …"

He could see her grin out of the corner of his eye. "Not tonight, Narri."

She sighed dramatically. "Always playin' hard to get. Just let me know if you change your mind."

He grunted a neutral acknowledgement, and Narri left. He did send a glance after the deliberate sway of her hips, but went back to searching the crowd once she'd been lost to it.

There. Already looking at him. The woman smirked when they locked eyes, and took a relaxed sip of her drink. Vilkas held the gaze and took a sip of his own.

The woman paused, threw back the rest of her drink, and began making her way across the room. Vilkas kept his face neutrally pleasant as she came to a stop beside him and leaned her forearms on the bar.

He eyed the gentle arch of her back, the curve of her backside in her well-fitted trousers, the artful shapeliness of her long, long legs. She, too, looked him carefully up and down, with eyes blacker than polished obsidian and just as glimmering.

"I had a premonition you were about to buy me a drink, stranger."

Her voice was both husky and feminine, and charged with implication. Vilkas turned back to face the bar and ordered another drink.

"Do you have premonitions often?" he asked, as her mug was set before her. He placed some septims on the counter, nodding at the barkeeper as he took them.

"Only when I'm feeling inspired."

"I take it you're no fortune teller, then?"

They held eye contact as she took a swig of her drink. She set down her mug and traced a finger around the rim, the tip of her tongue running over her full upper lip.

"Mercenary," she said. "Same as you."

Vilkas cracked a smile. He'd known she was a warrior already, between the twin daggers at her hip and the way she carried herself. With the confidence of a predator.

"I suppose like recognizes like."

The woman nodded. They observed each other for a few seconds more. Her skin was flawless, hickory brown and practically glowing, the inn's lantern light gleaming faintly across her prominent cheekbones. Vilkas could already imagine how smooth it would feel to the touch.

The woman gestured at him. "I saw you turn down that barmaid. Not your type?"

His smile twisted wryly. "No."

"Mind if I ask what is?"

Vilkas, pretending to think about it, gave her curves and mile-long legs another once-over.

She was his type, of course. Through and through. She was exactly what he was looking for. Exactly what he always looked for. Exactly what he needed. Bold. Strong. Assured. Forward—

"Tall," he said simply.

The woman blinked. She threw back her head and laughed. Shaking her head incredulously, she downed several gulps of her drink. Then she set her mug on the counter and fixed him with a heated look. She licked her lips again.

"I'm feeling inspired," she said. "I'm getting another premonition."

Vilkas leaned on the bar and shifted closer. "I think I'm getting one too."

She smirked, eyes now brimming with unabashed lust. "I'm due in Solitude in a few days. Bought a room here for tonight, heading out tomorrow."

"Fancy that. My premonition said I'd find myself in such a room."

The woman made a small sound, as one might make when tasting something delicious. Sliding closer, so their shoulders brushed, she lowered her voice to a suggestive purr.

"So did mine."

Vilkas touched her hand with the back of his. And the woman, whose name he never asked for, and who never asked for his, took his hand and led him from the bar. The second her room door had shut behind them and plunged them into darkness, she pushed him against the door and shoved her tongue in his mouth. Vilkas responded in kind.

Her skin was, as predicted, smooth to the touch. She was, as predicted, completely his type. And Vilkas was, as predicted, perfectly satiated, and perfectly content to fall asleep holding a perfect woman in his arms. Really he was more than content, because this time he would not be disappointed when she was gone in the morning.

But. Then it happened. And he could not have predicted it.

Vilkas was in his bed, except that it was not his bed. It was too large and too comfortable. The room (which he had never seen before but somehow knew belonged to him) was snug and warmly lit by a lamp on the bedside table. And as he was lying there, the woman who'd approached him at the bar was nowhere to be found.

Instead, a petite, golden-headed figure climbed up onto the bed wearing her shift, her hair unbound and spilling over her shoulders. As she knelt in front of him she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and soft lips to his temple. On the third finger of her other hand, propped against the mattress, a glint of gold caught the light.

"Vilkas?" she murmured sweetly.

Nirn stopped turning on its axis, caught off guard by the force of Vilkas's need to kiss her. He rose up, reaching, to see a matching gold ring on his own finger. His fingertips met her satiny cheek as the blue of her eyes disappeared behind her eyelids. She leaned in, and he leaned in, and he, in a flash of lucidity, realized, Deirdre?

Vilkas woke. He was lying on a strange bed in a dark room. His legs were tangled with the long legs of the woman beside him, and his heart was going crazy.

What, he thought, stunned into stillness. No. What.

It couldn't have been a dream. And yet it resembled one. He hadn't dreamed in over ten years, but he remembered some of the dreams he'd had as a child. But, now, as a member of the Circle, he could not possibly have dreamed. And certainly not—

Why, in all of Nirn, in all of Mundus, would he dream of her (if he could dream) instead of the perfect woman he'd found and—

Vilkas rolled onto his back. He ran a hand up his face and gripped his hair. The tug on his scalp did absolutely nothing to help the utter pandemonium in his brain.