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Shouts of celebration reverberate loudly within dragonsreach. Alduin, the world eater, had been slain just last night by the dragonborn. It was a difficult victory, but one all the same. The word of Alduin’s defeat trickled down from the Jarl’s tongue to the nobles, then the common folk. Social class mattered not, each and every person was allowed to celebrate. It seemed the cheer was enough to soften the grudge between the Battleborns and Greymanes. It's an uneasy, but somewhat agreeable alliance. For now.
To the left stands the companions, and Alexandra feels excitement mixed with stupid, giddy emotions rising into her throat. She turns away from the venue, heels clicking as she hides behind a pillar. She can feel Lydia’s gaze on her. Their eyes meet, and she sneers when her friend's eyes crinkle. “Don't say it.” Alexandra huffs, dropping the fabric of her elaborately decorated dress in a heap.
“Say what, Harbinger?” Alexandra growls at the jab. “Stop. I don't have…” the words are there, but she doesn't have the will to say them.
Lydia arches a dark brow, “Feelings? Emotions?”
A voice nears, and Lydia watches Alexandra’s expression morph into panic. Brows low and lips pressed tightly, she looks ridiculous in her attempt to play the stoic.
“Lydia.” The voice greeted her housecarl with the brusque accent of a Nord. It's nasally and a little throaty, but somehow still satisfying to hear. Cold pricks down her spine in uncomfortable waves. “Vilkas.” Lydia smiles neutrally, tugging her thane out of hiding.
Alexandra gasps, stumbling forward into Vilkas. She stands feet taller than him, another testament to her Altmer ancestry. In the face of battle, the added height is a boon as she looks over her enemies. Now, it only serves as a curse when her breasts cushion her trip against his face. With bared teeth, she rips herself away—heels digging into the wood beneath her—pointedly looking down. For the first time, she could admit to herself that she was simply too weak to see what expression he's conjuring at the moment. Too weak, far too weak that her hands begin to shake at her side. The petulant expression Vilkas is used to is wiped clean. With her eyes drawn to two beautifully glassy heels, he feels a spike of confidence. Finally, he's gained the upper hand.
Lydia watches with a hint of a smile as he takes Alexandra by the arm, looping it into his. Her thane is as rigid and tall as an evergreen as she struggles not to lean into his embrace. She watches as they walk across to another balcony. Alexandra struggles in his grasp, her fingers twitching in confusion. Does she lean in? Or, does she push him away and brush past him like every other day? Only she could tell when was the right time to face the warmth growing in her heart. Every time he looked her way, the icy frost melted, leaving her heart vulnerable to the touch. Each clap of their palms when he hoisted her up after a scrap, something other than a frown would grace her lips. She doesn't realize she's hunching until he stops.
He unlinks their arms and leans over the balcony, brown hair rustled by the breeze. Overhead, the sky is beginning to darken to a rosy tint. Even such a sight as this does little to quell her anxiety. Alexandra knows what he’s going to say. Before she had left atop Oodaving’s scale-covered back to Skuldafn, he mentioned his feelings. They're so close to something, but she's stubborn in her refusal to acknowledge what they share. What she feels for him. It feels stupid. She feels like a dolt for even entertaining emotions at all. They muddy up relationships and only serve to make your head full of cotton at the worst of times. Still, her heart failed to calm in her chest.
“You never answered me.” She perks up, eyes sharp. She fails to respond, so Vilkas sighs in frustration. “Alexandra.” Her glance drops in embarrassment. Did he have to call her name like that?
“I don't owe you an answer.” Her words are choppy. Short, dry, and hard to swallow.
Vilkas’ fingers rub across the smooth, marble surface of the balcony. “You’re right.” Disappointment lowers her shoulders, “You don't owe me one, but I would prefer it.” The emotion is quickly replaced with annoyance.
“Fine.” She grumbles, crossing her arms and brooding beside him.
Vilkas turns to face her, silver eyes wandering a fair canvas strangely left unclaimed by freckles. Her jaw works furiously, and for a moment, he fears this may be too much for her. She's never been one to freely express herself. The amount of resistance he's dealing with is astounding. This woman has faced countless threats—each larger than the last—and yet she can't even admit to her own feelings. Perhaps it is torturous of him, but it's not the same if she isn't the one to speak the words.Her face is tight, screwed up like she's in pain. It's comical. A laugh passes his lips, and she has the most incredibly offended expression he's ever spied her with.
“What?” She snaps, huffing in indignation. “Stop laughing.”
Vilkas groans, “For the love of the Gods, woman. Spit it out. You're the Dragonborn, how can this be so hard for you?” He receives another huff and a sour look in return for his gripes.
“Unlike you, I don't spend all day chasing my feelings. It's a foolish endeavor.”
He scoffs, “Foolish? You’ll fail at diplomacy. Perhaps Kodlak was wrong to choose you as Harbinger.” It's a low blow, but this back and forth is beginning to irritate him.Her wrath is clear as day as she grits her teeth and a bit of force is felt leaving her angry curses. The thu’um. He'd best be careful.
“Fine, don't answer.” Vilkas shakes his head, preparing to turn on his heel when he finally hears it. It's small. Quiet, so very quiet that if the celebration were outside, he couldn't be sure he'd have heard it.
“I love you.” Tears prick her eyes—unshed emotion threatening to close her throat, and weep down her slowly reddening cheeks. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they turn her to face him. Never, not even in her worst moments, had he ever seen such an expression. It's as gratifying as it is disarming. Her brows turn up as her lips tremble in a pitifully tragic expression. He knew her prickly demeanor was a shield, an easy way to protect herself from getting too close, from falling too deeply into another. The words that come next are just as shocking as the last, and he brings a knuckle up to brush her tears away.
“I'm sorry.” Her croak is whispered against the wind. “Don't be.” Vilkas murmurs, matching her volume. She looks so soft, so very weary of this world. The rough pad of his thumb rubs circles into her cheekbone. Her chest rises, but whatever words she meant to utter are swallowed by his lips.