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He is in love.
Daena Frostfire is a beautiful young woman. Born of both Imperial and Altmer blood, she is aged only by twenty summers, and is intelligent, strong, confident, and kind. Not to mention an incredibly capable fighter – her title of Harbinger is proof of her skill. In fact, she is everything that a man could yearn for in a woman. At least, according to Vilkas; though perhaps he is slightly biased. Months spent sparring and training with her in the courtyard of Jorrvaskr have led to him longing for her presence. She has smiled more lately, and he likes to think it is because of him. He shares meals with her in the hall, listens to her tales of glory and battle. He live to hear her laugh in the air when she bests him in combat, to see her smile when her swing strikes the target precisely in two, or to feel her warm embrace after she has had one too many tankards of mead; alas, he knows he is a man doomed.
But though he is love struck, he is no fool – if he does not make a move now, if he does not attempt to win her hand, she will be snatched up sooner or later by some handsome lad - someone who will not be able to love her like he would. Hells, he would pull the stars from the sky if she asked it of him. Perhaps that is why, on the sixteenth day of Suns Dawn – Heart’s Day, in the common tongue – Vilkas finds himself with a bundle of flowers made up of dragon’s tongue and lavender, freshly picked from the fields outside of the city gates, and heading towards Daena’s modest home in the plains district. There is a smile on his face and a spring in his step as he walks, alight inside as though he is a young boy again, falling for his first sweetheart. The sun is bright, warming both his skin and his spirit. Strolling down the steps towards the market, Vilkas catches the eye of Carlotta, who looks at the flowers he is carrying in his hands quizzically before meeting his gaze again with the slightest of smirks.
“I take it those aren’t for homemade perfume, Vilkas?” She laughs, resting one arm on the counter of her stall.
“Sharp as ever Carlotta, I see.” The merchant smiles at him in jest. Vilkas is fond of Carlotta, and he knows Daena is as well. Often he sees the two of them conversing, gossiping over one thing or another. They act like young girls, which pleases him – after everything that has happened, that he heard has happened… well, Daena deserves to be able to relax.
“What poor young lass are you chasing now then?” In answer to her question, Vilkas taps the side of his nose, grinning like a fool. “Oh, don’t be like that!” Carlotta scoffs. “Come on now Vilkas, your secret is safe with me.”
“I would prefer to keep my lips sealed, for my talk of the beauty I am looking for would surely anger all other women.” To that, Carlotta laughed bodily.
“Oh my! She must be quite the girl to garner such romantic words.”
“Indeed, she is a woman like no other. Never in my life, nor in my wildest dreams have I witnessed such loveliness and-”
“It’s Daena, isn’t it?” Farkas interrupted from over his shoulder.
Vilkas had always been jealous of his brother’s ability to move lightly on his feet, despite his physical prowess – he’d witnessed it enough when they were children, having been the victim to many a surprise scare. Now, however, that jealousy morphed into extreme annoyance, irritation and embarrassment. Vilkas fell silent, a faint hue of red spreading across his cheeks and ear, and he refused to turn to face his twin. His grip on the flowers grew tight, but he caught himself before he could crush the stems and ruin his gift.
Vilkas’ silence was telling, however, and Farkas chuckled.
“You couldn’t stay out of it, could you, brother?” Vilkas grumbled, his spirits suddenly dampened.
“And miss you make a fool out of yourself? Of course not! When I saw you leaving Jorrvaskr I had my suspicions, but come now brother – every other companion knows how you feel about our golden-haired warrior. And by the gods, I would not miss seeing anyone attempting to tame our resident dragon.”
Farkas clapped Vilkas on the shoulder, still smiling. “But, brother, I cannot say that I do not wish you the best of luck. After all, you’ll need it!”
Vilkas went to turn his head to glare at his brother, but instead his eyes fell on the sight of Carlotta’s face. Her smile had twisted into a look that was an unfortunate mixture of both confusion and pity. That wasn’t a look that Vilkas was expecting to see, nor was it one he particularly wanted to see. Especially not now.
“Carlotta,” he began, suddenly nervous, “is there a problem?”
Carlotta darted her eyes between the two brothers, and then quickly in the direction of Daena’s domain. She was quiet for a few more moments, biting her lower lip.
“You don’t know.” A statement. Not a question. Vilkas was taken aback by the merchant’s sudden change of tone, and his face fell into a frown.
“Don’t know what?”
“About… Daena…” Carlotta said slowly, as though she was explaining something to a small child.
“What about her?” Vilkas growled impatiently.
“I thought that she would have told you, what with you all being so close. Though, I guess it makes sense, considering. I’m sorry, I didn’t think-”
“Carlotta,” Farkas interrupted, noticing how his brother was becoming visibly tense, “I may not be the sharpest sword on the weapon rack, but I think it would be best if you just told us what it is exactly that we don’t know.” Carlotta shifted uncomfortably.
“Daena… she’s-”
“Careful now men!”
The merchant was cut off by a voice loud enough to stretch to the cloud district, and it subsequently caught the attention of both Carlotta and the two brother’s. All three looked towards where the voice had come from, which, coincidentally, was near Breezehome.
The sight that met them was a surprise to two, and a confirmation for one.
Flowers. Dozens and dozens of flowers. Flowers of plum, jade, carmine, cerise and azure. Flowers from the north, the east, the south, the west. Flowers that were definitely not from Skyrim. In fact, there were some that the three had never seen before.
Vilkas looked down at the ones in his hand. In comparison, they looked like weeds.
The flowers were being loaded off of a carriage that must have only recently pulled through the city gates. Four men – no, elves – in finely embroidered clothing were each assisting in removing the bouquets and vases from their transportation and onto the cobblestone outside of a house.
Daena’s house.
Vilkas’ heart fell, and before he knew what he was doing, his feet were carrying him towards the gifts that greatly outshone his own. Farkas briefly glanced at Carlotta before heading after his brother, and the merchant sighed deeply, before following along behind. She knew something like this would happen sooner or later – but she hadn’t expected Vilkas to be the one caught out of the loop.
There was a fifth elf in crimson who appeared to be the one in charge – his voice was the one that had cut the earlier conversation short. His shirt was etched with threads of gold, and his stance of confidence and pride demonstrated a wealth far beyond that of anyone from Whiterun. He was an Altmer, with a traditional Altmeri face and build. There was one other Altmer among the remaining four, with the last two being Bosmer; all of them were clad in fine cloth and held themselves in such a way that it was clear they were not natives to Skyrim. No, these mer reeked of the Imperial City – there was a stench of arrogance and coin that stuck to their clothes like honey. People had started to gather around them, murmuring, whispering, wondering.
Vilkas approached the one in crimson, who was still barking orders at his associates, and coughed. He was not heard the first time, so once more he tried and once more, he was ignored. Before he could put to test the idea that there was a charm to trying thrice, Farkas spoke up.
“You there! Elf!”
Vilkas cringed. Subtlety had never been his brother’s strongest suit.
The Altmer was silenced, and slowly turned to face the two Nords and the Imperial. When his eyes landed on the warriors, his lip curled, and he sneered with obvious disdain.
“Are you addressing me?” He drawled, his accent academic and rife with pride. His amber eyes darted between the three, judging them. His verdict was that they evidently were not worthy to be in his presence. Farkas did not seem concerned, however – that, or he didn’t pick up on the elf’s clear annoyance.
“Indeed I am,” Farkas replied. “We wish to know your business here; more specifically, on the doorstep of the home of Daena Frostfire.” The elf smirked.
“We have a delivery to make.” Was his simple explanation, and he gestured with his hand to one of his men – one of the Bosmer, who was dressed in a green that echoed springtime. The Bosmer nodded, and then approached the door to Breezehome, before gently rapping his knuckles against the wood before stepping away. There was a brief pause. Then, the door was opened.
Vilkas has always thought Daena was a beauty, but now, in the golden light of the late morning, with her sun-stained hair hastily pinned back away from her face, and her bountiful body wrapped in a simple cream dress, she looked like Dibella made human. Her cheeks were rosy, standing out against her milky skin, and her lips were redder than any summer apple, and far suppler. She caught his eye, and smiled at him. Vilkas was breathless.
Daena’s attention was quickly snatched up by the Altmer in red, however, who shouldered past Vilkas to stand before her. He bowed his head, before reaching for her hand. To Vilkas’ dismay, she gave it to him, and he raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Vilkas felt sick.
“I am to presume that you, my dear, are Daena Frostfire?” The elf gave a charming smile. His teeth gleamed.
“Indeed I am,” Daena replied, smiling back. “And you are?”
“Marianus, my lady. I manage a floral store, in the Imperial City.” At that, Daena raised a brow. “We sell flowers for perfume, alchemy, party decorations and… romantic gifts.” Marianus gestured towards the bundles of flowers in front of her door. Daena’s face lit up like a star when she saw the assorted arrangement of colourful blooms.
“Oh,” she chuckled, smiling. “And, I am to assume…?”
“Indeed, a request was sent to us around a month ago.” Marianus flourished a letter from his shirt pocket, and handed it to Daena. It was tied with a single green ribbon, finished with an intricate bow – someone had taken time, taken care with this letter. Vilkas hadn’t written a letter. Hadn’t thought of it. That was foolish, he now realised. Who didn’t write their sweetheart a romantic letter?
Daena’s fingers gently untied the ribbon, and she tucked it into her palm before unfurling the parchment. Vilkas watched as her smile widened, as her eyes began to sparkle. A blush dusted her cheeks, and she giggled. Giggled. Vilkas had never heard her make that sound before. He felt like he was intruding. That wasn’t a sound meant for him. But if not for him, then…
“The Commander was very specific about his choices; demanded only the best.” Marianus smirked, clasping his hands in front of him. “I hope you find our products satisfactory.”
“They’re beautiful,” Daena managed to pull her attention away from the parchment just long enough to reply, “I am incredibly thankful for your service.”
“I am glad to hear of it, my lady. Would you like my men to carry the flowers inside?”
“Oh no,” Daena shook her head, “You’ve already done enough. I’ll have my housecarl arrange them – I’m sure you and your men must be tired and hungry after your long journey. Please, take this,” she handed Marianus a small coin purse, “And head to the inn. Tell Hulda that I sent you and she shall provide the best service you could ask for.”
Marianus bowed again, and took Daena’s hand once more.
“You’re too kind, my lady.” His lips brushed her fingers. “The Commander is a lucky man.”
Vilkas felt his knees go weak.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Carlotta whispered to him and his brother, as the band of Altmer moved pass them towards the Bannered Mare. Vilkas watched as Daena re-read the letter, placing a kiss upon when she had finished. She turned and called to Lydia as those who came to spectate dispersed. “Daena’s spoken for.”
Vilkas’ world stopped.
Of course she was.
Who was he kidding? He should have known. He wasn’t worthy of her, wasn’t meant to be with her like he had dreamed of late at night. That was a boy’s dream. He felt the flowers crumple in his hand.
“Who?” he whispered, voice thick. What if he had been quicker? What if he hadn’t have been such a coward? What if-
“You heard him say Commander, didn’t you?” Carlotta replied, eyes heavy with pity. “She hasn’t told me much, but from what she has let slip, it’s some high ranking military Altmer.” Vilkas lurched. How could he ever compare to that? Of course it would be an Altmer that took Daena from him. He expected the mer was far more educated than he, had a face of chiselled amber, eyes of burning emerald. He knew what they were like. Knowing that know, Vilkas realised that he never stood a chance. A military officer? And here he was, a glorified mercenary.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Carlotta continued with a shaky breath, “I’ve…I’ve also heard… rumours. They’re a bit more specific.”
“Meaning?”
“They give him a title. They say that he isn’t just a military commander. They say that he’s… he’s…”
“He’s what?” Vilkas barked. Carlotta paused, staring him down. She sighed. And when she spoke, Vilkas’ blood ran cold.
“The rumours say that he’s Thalmor.”
That did it.
Vilkas briskly turned away and marched in the opposite direction of the elves, towards the city gates. He ignored the words of Carlotta and his brother, blocking them – and the world – from his mind. A Thalmor. He should have known. A Thalmor could offer Daena wealth, power, and security. Everything made so much more sense now. She was already taken. The gold and diamond necklace she had worn last month, the one she had blushed about when he asked and stuttered her answer. The wistfulness about her, the joy she carried. She wasn’t smiling more because of him. She was smiling more because she was a girl in love. In love with a man he could never hope to compare to.
He needed a walk. He needed air. He needed to be away from the city, from her. In his hand, he felt the stems of the gift he had been so excited to give her. They were crushed from his grip now; ruined, broken. They looked like weeds. And so Vilkas threw them to the floor and crushed them with his heel.