The flesh of his cheek tore with a slick click through the impact of the red-haired woman's braced fist, the metal cutting her own knuckles in the process; the two Companions, shield-siblings, blood kin were enthralled so by the fight, the moment, just another power struggle, that they forgot themselves.
Vilkas swore and spat as his steel boots slipped in the dust of the cave floor, kicking grit and billowing dust. He swiftly dropped to his hip and rolled as Aela swung at him with her short sword. The huntress was not nearly as skilled with iron as she was the bow; she missed the heaving, dusky toned Nord, his black-lined, glacial eyes suddenly lit ablaze with fury. He lashed out a thick, muscular leg and tripped her as her sword struck the uneven ground, her off-hand, weighed down by her shield becoming overbalanced, caused her to crumple, her arm folding at the elbow under the weight of her lithe yet strong body. Vilkas was a large man but fierce and battle-honed, like any great predator much quicker that one might expect; within a second he was astride the woman as she scrambled, her face in the dirt, the slit side of her form fitting leathers staring up towards his groin, her waist caught between his powerful thighs. Despite how she struggled and kicked he managed to keep her pinned down, and forcing his weight forward to compress her writhing shoulders under his chest, the battle was done.
They had fought for over twenty minutes. At range Aela had, of course had the advantage; she was full of fire, quick on her feet, with eyes and aim akin to that of the hawk, but they were in an ancient burial chamber; this, like the many they had explored over the years was full of small natural cells and snickelways, dead ends and various traps and obstacles. Vilkas knew how to use this to his advantage; the man was as much an insightful tactician as he was close-combat warrior. Biding his time, he had allowed her to back away from him, allow her to grow over-confident, proud of her skill as an archer, opportunity for shot after painful shot until out of nowhere, she had no further to go. The two wolves had reached the small, moss-covered cavern at the end of this ironic game of cat and mouse and he finally managed to break her to submit.
After a stretch of time in their grapple that seemed almost as long as their fight itself, Aela started to calm. Vilkas loosened the pressure on her upper body somewhat and she instantly attempted to spin, lashing out with all the force that she could muster. She gave a furious roar and, being the only part of her body that she could freely move, cracked him across his strong jaw with the crown of her head, causing as much pain to herself as her competitor, yet providing her with at least a final, satisfying physical comment, and a bellowing scream of shock from the man that echoed beautifully all the way to the cavern's high peak as he caught the tip of his tongue with his teeth,
"Dammit Aela!" He cursed, "by Ysmir, woman, it was you who got us into this, now get down and stay down or help me find a way out!"
The warrior woman, still pinned, suddenly transformed her wrathful expression into a sadistic grin by observing Vilkas dribble blood from his pouting lips as he tried to chastise her.
"Oh come," she scoffed with condescension, "you expect me to take you seriously?" Her grin widened, "if not for your clumsy manoeuvring in heavy steel, I should be inclined to mistake you for your horker-brained brother," her amber eyes caught his icy ones with one smouldering glimmer of challenge, "you look as pathetic as a child with a bloodied lip."
Before she was done laughing, she was unconscious as his armoured elbow struck her forehead with a dull thud.
An hour or more later and she was awoken by the violent wind, sweeping with it threat of blizzard, outside in the wilds of Skyrim's harsh Morning Star. Vilkas was carrying her in his strong arms, his broadsword strapped to his shoulders and her equipment hanging at his waist; walking with the single-minded determination of making it home to Jorrvaskr with as few well-armed distractions as possible. He knew she had regained consciousness but he fought his own mind not to break his gait or his glance and continued on. Aela's head hurt; her arm throbbed and she was fairly sure she had a wound on her leg that would shortly become infected if nothing were done. That one had not been due to the friendly fire she had engaged in with her old ally; it had happened when she had clumsily released the wrong switch in a Nordic puzzle and the pair and fallen through a floor grate into a dark, slimy abyss below ground level. Her refusal to accept responsibility had been what had lead to their confrontation. She had thrown the first punch. Vilkas had hit a nerve about her state of mind. She was in pain, a wounded animal with both a damaged, run down body, tired and restless, and a shattered mind. She let herself relax in her strong friends arms, her pride too obliterated to struggle any more – not even for the words that she buried deeper the more she longed to express them.
She so longed to join Skjör.
Aela awoke once more to find herself in her chamber. She didn't remember her arrival back at Jorrvaskr but was grateful for the warmth of the furs that lined her bed. The pain in her thigh had subsided to a dull drone; she couldn't summon the energy to look but assumed that one of her colleagues must have treated her wounds as she'd slept. She guessed she'd slept at least, as opposed to simply loosing consciousness again; it was difficult to tell with the beast inside her but the beating she had taken from Vilkas was certainly not the worst she had ever experienced.
She knew she was alone. She'd been alone for over a year now and she was falling further and further into feeling it. She hated the fact that she was afraid, hated it with rage as hot as the fiery breath of Akatosh; yes, she had confessed to herself that she was afraid. She had tied herself in circles not knowing if she was angry or distraught; then afraid of being alone; then afraid of others knowing she was afraid; then angry again - angry with herself for feeling; for thinking about the feelings; for caring what the others thought. She knew that she missed Skjör. The pain of needing him struck at a part of her gut from whence before she had only ever felt burning rage; adrenaline, the need to fight, to strike out and kill. However she felt it was now a part that had itself been struck as if by a blade straight from the forge, then frozen, scarred, dead. She wondered if that part of her was her soul – the part of her, once wild, free, passionate, wondered if it was now dead, perhaps taken by the Silver Hand when they took Skjör? Took Skjör. They had killed Skjör he hadn't been taken anywhere. She had carried his once strong, then limp, lifeless body back to Jorrvaskr from Gallows Rock. Seen his weathered, handsome face empty and ashen, watched his funeral pyre burn. So why did the old man persist in stalking her thoughts? Why did she see his face behind her eyes, open or closed? Why hadn't revenge been enough? Perhaps she was dead, then. Perhaps this was the hunting ground of Hircine, as Kodlak had warned, merely not as she had expected. Perhaps it was her soul that was hunted here. Perhaps the truth was that it was herself, not Skjör that she longed for? She wasn't sure if that thought made her feel better or worse; she felt it braced her weakness somewhat but as a result she had to accept that she would never recover herself.
She turned in her bed and buried her face in her furs with what felt like the greatest effort she had expressed in her life for such a minimal movement. She opened her mouth to let rip a scream fit to shatter bone and release her pain but the sound never came. She buried her face further into the soft goat pelt, matting it as it became slick with her furious tears. She would cry it out, let it hurt, then she would drink and her senses would be anaesthetised, only if for the night.
Liset Cheyrouneaud was an odd sight to see, sitting as she was with Vilkas on the steps, near the fire-pit in the mead hall Jorrvaskr. Her slight stature, willowy and standing barely taller than a Bosmer, long mousy hair with it's golden highlights, large, rich hazel eyes and pretty heart-shaped face would not have seen her out of place at a regal house in High Rock. Although born in Skyrim, she was a Breton, a 'Manmer', a fact that would have been impossible for her to deny. She was young, due to see her twenty-third summer in the coming year. She hailed from The Reach but despised The Forsworn. She practiced the schools of restoration and illusion; she was certainly no warrior. Vilkas adored her, and much to his brother Farkas' shock and confusion had wed her the previous year's Rain's Hand. Vilkas had been called with Leonidus Viria, the Dragon Born, and now Harbinger, as shield-brother to retrieve her from a ruin that had turned out to be a Vampire lair. The two bulky men in their heavy armour could not sneak so had struggled but managed to fight through to reach her, only to find their health too sapped for the journey back to her home, then in Karthwasten. Her healing and magickal stealth had saved her supposed saviours that day. If she had have had a lockpick or two herself, she would have been home three days sooner and she and her now husband would never have met. She was not in the Circle; she was not a Companion at all, yet the wolf blood had pumped in her veins since the night Vilkas first bedded her, alighting her instincts, her passions, energies and love for life; love for him. She had found herself pregnant with his child during Second Seed; the baby was due in a matter of weeks. Liset and Vilkas could not have been more different from an outside perspective, the large, dark-haired Nord warrior, weapon-master, often-cold, calloused man grown from abused child and the pretty girl from the mining town, but they shared philosophical souls and deep hearts, her purity and his cynicism forging their relationship to near symbiosis. Also, she and the child being the first family the man had ever truly known aside from his brother, as far as he was concerned the sun shone for her. Aela despised her.
"Ay," Vilkas hissed under his breath as Liset tended gently to the deep cut, Aela's handiwork, still open on his cheek with her magicka. He had stripped down to the leathers he wore under his armour, showing exactly how bruised and scarred his muscular body was, but had instructed his wife to tend first to Aela, lest she wake and find herself in pain or develop an infection she may have been too worn down to fend off. Liset had not long finished that task and moved onto him and he was not in the best of moods, petulantly squirming at her touch, mildly regretting his prior act of selflessness towards his unstable colleague.
Farkas was sat on the floor in front of the tables at the opposite side of the fire, drunk and highly amused by his brothers beating at the hands of the huntress. He roared with laughter, "Only four thousand Sepitims, brother and I'll teach you to remember your helmet next time you pick a fight with Aela!" He continued to laugh.
"Hush your flapping mouth Farkas," growled Vilkas scornfully through his thick accent, "No conflict was intended, at least not by me. The woman is in pain, surely even you see it?"
"Ahh, I don't get it," the slightly bulkier, longer-haired twin objected as he stood with a swagger, "Aela's always teased me, maybe it's just your turn!" He grinned widely, chuckling, and made his way across the room to acquire more mead.
Vilkas tensed to stand, to follow his brother and object to his nonchalance when he felt Liset's slender hands grip his bicep and usher him back to his seat on the steps, "Leave it love," she interjected, her sweet tone calming the animal in him, "don't expect him to deal with too much at once." She smiled, she did not mean it negatively, and she liked her brother-in-law. Unlike her husband whose strength and wisdom she had so come to adore, Farkas was likeable in an almost child-like, strangely innocent way. He was simple, straightforward, had his morals, and was unpretentious. However he was having difficulty thinking of his brother as a husband and father; until it had become obvious in fact, he'd appeared to block out Liset's pregnancy in his mind altogether. It's just the way he has always dealt with things he's struggled to understand, Vilkas had told her. It explained a lot.
She slid her hands down her husband's strong arm, and interlocked her fingers with his. He settled down on the steps with her, embracing her with his free arm and said nothing, simply looked her in the eyes and smiled. He had a beautiful smile when it wasn't laced with sarcasm; he didn't use it often but when he did she blessed the divines for their creation that was the man she loved. They stayed that way for some time.