Chapter 1: Blood

"So," she said, regarding the man over the rim of her shield, "come here often?"

The man replied by puckering his face, ugly as infanticide, into a convulsed scowl. This did not make him any prettier. With one eye pointing inwards and the other one straight, it was as if they were chasing each other as his gaze shifted nervously from side to side. He wore a perpetual expression as if the entire world were an enigma he simply could not solve, and one he suspected was laughing at him too.

Amazing how a man could just exemplify stupidity with his entire being.

Njada grunted. "Alright. I take that as a no, then."

Thin rays of light from the narrow windows illuminated the chaos and disarray in the dark, dusty room of an abandoned fort. The ceiling hung low above them, boards of it missing and the whole thing riddled with cobweb. The room smelt of wet wood, of sawdust and mold, and of mead, sweat, and adrenaline.

The slightest twitch in the corner of the man's good eye, an infinitesimal hint of premeditated aggression, and Njada sprung into motion. The man was just a little too slow to react, with not enough time to even lift up the iron shortsword in his left hand. He could do nothing but receive her crashing into him shield-first.

If offense was the best defense then the offense with an instrument of defense was—what?

A stupid question.

The man was sent staggering back a couple steps, but it didn't take him long to recover. Njada was about to go for a blow from the side with her blade level, when he quickly jabbed at her with his. What little exposure there was available between her shield and sword, that's what he was going for.

Perhaps he was cleverer than he looked.

She retracted her attack, and instead moved her shield to catch the man's sword. She got it in the way just in time, the blade scratched the steel surface with a jarring screech.

The man had obviously not thought his move all the way though, as his sword arm was now left completely vulnerable.

Not so clever, then.

Njada punished such an amateurish mistake by jabbing the tip of her blade at his elbow, into the flesh exposed between the shoulder and the wrist of his leather armor. The man groaned and retreated his arm, but Njada was not finished with him. She dealt a harsh blow to his shoulder, and he was forced back.

"Die!" she howled.

Another strike into his side. The blade cut thought the leather and into flesh

"Die!" she cried.

This was not even a battle. The man's sword arm hung limp and his face contorted in pain as he staggered backwards.

It did not matter. Not all kills needed to be glorious. Most hardly came close.

Despite the clever maneuver being completely wasted on this pathetic excuse for an adversary, Njada lifted up her shield, pretending to again ram it against the man. He merely lifted up both hands in a lame attempt to catch the attack, not even trying to employ his weapon anymore.

She quickly drew the shield aside, and in its stead sent forward her blade, aimed at the man's neck. Prepared for a much larger object, he had not enough time to readjust his defense.

"Die!" she screamed.

Third time was the charm. The blade sailed right over the man's hands, hanging helpless in the air. It slid neatly across his neck, cutting open a flap of flesh and letting out a gush of blood.

Such a vibrant hue of red it was.

The man cackled. Blood came sputtering out of his mouth and he went down on his knees.

Njada had no interest in watching his prolonged death-struggle. She slammed him across the forehead with her shield, sending him down on his stomach. Then she knelt down to routinely pat down his body.

Why do I even bother, she thought. Third-rate bandits such as this never carried anything worth looting on them.

And this one did not disappoint by forming an unwelcome exception. Lint in his pockets, mostly. A couple measly Septims. A lockpick. But then, rummaging through the man's satchel, her hand hit the hilt of something.

A pathetic iron dagger, probably. Why they couldn't sometimes pack some real—

Ho, what's this?

As Njada's hand came out, her eyes went wide.

It was definitely no iron dagger. Dagger, yes, but made of something resembling a mixture of malachite and gold. Was such a thing even possible?

However it might have been, the thing was beautiful! Such a perfect mixture of gilt and emerald; and as she turned it in her hand, it was if it bent the dim light in the room in a different way from each angle. The blade was of exquisite craftsmanship, balanced like a dream and sharp like the teeth of death itself. Above and below the handle, the weapon's hilt was studded with sapphires and rubies.

This must be worth a mint! she thought, feeling that warm tickle in the pit her stomach. The cozy glow of greed was what it was.

She then heard footsteps behind her, and hastily stuck the weapon under her belt, tucking the hilt underneath her shirttails.

It was Vilkas, standing at the mouth of the door in his full Wolf Armor. The dark armor made him look as imposing as ever, but somehow never quite as handsome as it did his brother. He was holding his two handed steel sword tip-down in one hand, dripping crimson on the doorstop. He betrayed no sing of noticing her clandestine loot.

"Done with your man?" he asked.

Of the twins, Vilkas and Farkas, Vilkas was supposed to be the smart one. Still, sometimes Njada had to wonder.

"Nah," she replied, "just taking a little breather. Once his neck stops bleeding, we'll be right back at it."

As usual, her sarcasm was utterly lost on Vilkas. "Not too difficult then, I take it?"

She shook her head. "Yours?"

Vilkas pshawed. "A pushover." He sheathed the sword on his back.

"Yeah," Njada said. "Figures. Obviously these were just a bunch of petty thugs." She stood up. "I think it's a fairly safe bet to say that we won't find the Red Viper here, then."

"No," he conceded.

"Guess it was a false lead we got." Njada kicked at the corpse at her feet. "Damn it! Would have loved to put my blade into that slick whoreson."

"You?" Vilkas said, arching a brow. "Who's to say it would have been you?"

Njada smiled. "Well it sure as Oblivion would not have been you, my friend!"

He gave her that strange look of his then. Part puppy left out in the cold, part—what?

"What?" she asked. She got that uncomfortable feeling she always did when he gave her that look.

Vilkas regarded her for a few seconds, the suggestion of a frown corrugating his brow. He started to walk toward Njada, his eyes in a wary squint and fixed on her.

She felt the stab of guilt. He must have caught a sight—

He reached out his hand toward her face and she instinctively pulled back a hint. "What—"

Vilkas ran a cold forefinger across her cheek under her eye. He then regarded the finger, which came out red.

"Blood," he said.

Njada took a swipe at it herself, and a bit of gore got on her finger as well. She impatiently ran the back of her hand over the spot. "Yeah, well" she said. "It's not mine."

Vilkas stared at her a few seconds longer. There was a certain melancholy to his eyes, but then she found that to be their permanent feature. She started to feel increasingly uneasy, him standing so close. His breath went in and out slow and deep.

He smiled, then, and the smile too had a undefinable sadness to it. "Alright," he said then. "Guess we better look for the others."

Njada nodded. "Yeah. We'd better."

She felt an instant relief as the man turned his back. She felt at the knife tucked away under her belt, checking that it was not bulging conspicuously, and walked after him.

The others were not far off. Down the corridor from the room where she'd neutralized her mark was a largish hallway with a trestle table and chairs, a fireplace in the middle of the floor with a cooking spit, various foodstuffs hanging from the ceiling.

A less than appetizing chunk of flesh lay on the table: a dead bandit with his arms and legs dangling off the side. There was a puncture wound about his midsection, bleeding profusely. The blood slowly dripped off the side of the table. Another corpse lay crumpled up on the floor a couple feet away. This one was missing a head, and the said capitulum was nowhere to be seen.

It did not appear that these ones had been putting up much of a fight, either.

In front of the table stood two figures—male and female—and as Njada's eyes met with the female one, her midriff tensed up as it nowadays often did around her.

A faint smile appeared on Aela the Huntress' thin lips. "I see you two didn't have much trouble, either."

It was Vilkas to reply. "Same here," he grunted.

Farkas, by Aela's side, gave his twin brother a little nod. "Still, nothing beats the thrill of a chase, don't you find? The smell of frenzy. Of blood!"

Vilkas simply regarded the other man in silence. "Aye," he finally said.

Something odd had been going on between the two for some time now. Something Njada could simply not put her finger on.

"Ah, the hunt," said Aela in her slow, stilted way. She didn't appear to notice the strange air between the brothers, or simply did not concern herself with it. She tilted her head back as if she could somehow look straight through the masonry. "Nothing like it on a full moon night."

Njada struggled not to roll her eyes.

"This was a slaughter," said Vilkas. "Not exactly the way I pictured it."

Farkas was nodding. "Yeah. It's obvious we were led on. Someone wanted these poor bastards out of the picture, so they lied to us about the Red Viper being here." He concluded his recap with the raising and dropping of shoulders. "It happens."

"Almost makes you think we should ask questions before chopping off heads," said Njada.

"A bandit is a bandit," Farkas replied. "They're game, however you look at it."

Vilkas grunted. "I'd still much rather fight real adversaries worthy of my blade than run around putting down any old dog who pissed on someone's boots."

"Aye," assented Njada.

Farkas shrugged again. "Regardless." He then regarded Vilkas and Njada. "So, any notable loot?"

"Nope," Vilkas replied.

"Nah," said Njada, though she felt that little stab again. She stole another glance at her waistline.

Still hidden.

Aela gave everyone in turn a look of her pale green eyes. How jealous Njada was of those eyes! Majestic and fearless, like the eyes of a lion. No, likely the woman could stare a lion down with them.

"We are hunters," she said, looking at everyone present, "not scavengers." She kept a pause, then continued with a solemn nod, "But we also must eat. Today we go hungry."

Was that it: her big, encouraging speech?

What an utterly bombastic ass! Njada thought.

What Farkas saw in the woman was utterly beyond her. Maybe he simply fell for the pretentious ones. That would sure explain a lot. She felt a little twinge of guilt, then. After all, she hadn't always felt this way about the woman. It's not like they'd ever been the fastest of friends or anything, but at least it used to be easier to talk to her.

"Though," Aela continued after another needlessly prolonged pause, "this is what we do. Who we are."

"You don't say?" Njada said. The words came out sounding even more sarcastic then she'd meant them. But as long as she'd started, she might as well finish. "And what would our great leader say about us simply chopping down any simpleton come our way as long as someone has a mind to set us to it? Without proper evidence? Or proper pay, I may add."

Aela said nothing, simply regarded Njada with a little smile that likely was supposed to be enigmatic.

Before the silence between the two women started to slide too far into hostile territory, Farkas cut in. "It is true the Harbinger is technically the head of the Companions," he said. "But, as you well know, it is also true that each of us has a measure of independence. We choose ourselves what jobs we take and which we opt out of. While it was I who took this job—and I admit I let myself be duped this time—none of you were forced to join me. You volunteered to be part of this."

True enough. Njada couldn't deny the wisdom of Farkas' words, but that didn't stop her from being irritated. It was partly the way he'd delivered it. A certain stiff manner of delivery united him and Aela. It was almost as if they were uncomfortable in their skins, and that for them normal human behavior was something that demanded constant effort.

Did it irritate her more that she could not fully relate to them, or that they themselves were so tightly knit?

Aela turned to Farkas. "Well spoken, brother," she said in a soft voice. They shared a look.

Njada could not help grinding her teeth at the sight of them. The way they were being so obvious while still pretending not to. It had been going on for the better part of a year now; ever since Skjor died. Did they really imagine everyone didn't know what was going on?

It made her want to vomit. She could practically taste the bile already.

She then noticed Vilkas staring at her staring at them, a ghost of a frown about his brow. She shot him with a look saying: "what?" to which he replied with his own indicating: "nothing".

"Is there something on your mind, still, Njada?"

For a fraction of a second, she almost thought it had been Vilkas' voice, even thought the man's lips were shut tight. Only then did her eyes fix on Farkas' looking right at her.

They hardly ever spoke more than a word at once.

"Uh," she said, speechless.

Curse that man, but that intense stare of his always bit right into her very core. She felt the butterflies in her stomach stir and flutter into a panicky swarm. It was as if they were trapped in there and were trying to chew their way out. Her heart raced, and damn it if she wasn't blushing! The warm surge of blood to her cheeks.

Farkas was waiting, seemingly oblivious to the storm mulling inside Njada. Then again, who could read those unfathomable features, like the face of the most unconquerable mountain. Or some shit.

"I, uh," Njada got out. "No, nothing."

Farkas gave a content nod and—gods, what worse!—added a little smile. "Good. I'm glad."

"Yeah," she croaked in reply, "me too," then quickly looked away.

And where would her eyes find themselves but in the line of Aela's gaze. The damn woman was definitely smirking! Though in her case even a smirk had the air of pseudo-mystical enigma to it. Njada bit the inside of her mouth and looked down. She would not let Aela get to her. She would not!

She can see right through me, can't she? she thought with chagrin. What a damn fool I am!

"Nevertheless," said Vilkas, thankfully cutting off the ugly silence," if I have to spend another second in this Divines-forsaken den, I'm going to loose it."

"Here here," muttered Njada.

Aela nodded. "Indeed, brother. Let us leave now. I have little faith that we would find anything of value here." As if to exemplify, she wiped her forefinger across the surface of the table, then rubbed her fingers together with her nose scrunched up.

Dust, not blood.

"Aye," chimed in Farkas, "let's head back to Jorrvaskar. Some of us have other business to attend to still today." He cast a knowing glance at Njada, and her cheeks felt hot again.

It wasn't out of coyness this time; rather out of irritation.

Maybe they hate you, said a little voice inside her head. That would explain a lot. They hate you, and they want you to leave.

As usual, the voice was that of her mother.

"Shut up," she muttered.

"Excuse me?" said Vilkas by her side.

"Nothing, Vilkas." She sighed. "Nothing at all."

The late spring evening gust outside was the most welcome relief after the dusty dungeon. Sun was sinking behind the mountains and the two moons stood wan in the pale blue sky, tatters of cloud sprinkled over the horizon tinted golden pink.

Normally Njada would treat this part of the day with special reverence. Unless she had some job to do, she'd usually draw back into her own quarters, do some shield-practices or read something—a training manual, usually, or some biography of a renowned warrior. But not so today, and she was not happy about it.

But she tried to push it out of her mind for now. She had enough trouble in trying to get over the mild but persistent disappointment over the fiasco of a "quest" they'd just been on. She really badly wanted to blame someone, but was only able to find herself. It had been her own choice to go with Farkas, after all. Usually his sense was better about these things, but he could not be held accountable for a decision she had made herself.

Damn the man, why'd he have to be so . . . right.

As they walked, Njada and Vilkas fell back some twenty strides while Aela and Farkas ahead were having one of their talks. The two were practically inseparable these days, and most other members of the Companions would quickly get the uncomfortable feeling of a third wheel in their presence.

Aela strode on with her unnaturally straight posture, holding her head so high Njada found herself wishing she'd end up bonking it on a tree branch or something.

"Just look at her," she grumbled.

She'd not really intended to say anything, but now that Vilkas was looking at her expectantly, she hadn't a choice but to continue. "Do you think she's naturally that way or is it just an act?"

Vilkas would not participate in the speculation but sniffed, half amused, half disapproving. "What is it between you and Aela?"

"There nothing between her and me."

Vilkas snorted, switching to look ahead. "Right."

"No really," Njada insisted, "there's not. It's not me putting on the airs, now am I?"

The scar on Vilkas' right brow lifted up. "Putting on the airs?"

"Don't tell me you don't think she does!"

Much to Njada's irritation, the man shook his head. "None that I see," he said. "She's always been a bit odd."

Njada thought it seemed there was something else Vilkas wanted to say, but which he thought better of.

"I don't know," she mumbled, looking at the woman sauntering ahead of them.

Aela was motioning with her hand into the distance, as if she'd just been saying, "Look carefully, my son. One day all this will be yours."

"Though," Vilkas added, a bit hesitant. "What she hasn't always been is so tight with Farkas. Is that . . ." he definitely sounded apprehensive, ". . . that it?"

When she turned to meet the man's gaze, it wasn't teasing or accusing. Rather—what?

Had she always had this much difficulty interpreting people's expressions?

In any case, she didn't much like the look on his face. Or the tone of his voice. Or the question itself. She started to feel embarrassed.

This would not do!

"Well, what about you and him," she said, jerking her head towards Farkas, attempting to steer the subject matter to waters less vexing for her. "You two hardly speak these days."

Now it was Vilkas getting sullen. He didn't say anything, just muttered something unintelligible.

Njada pressed on. "You used to be closer."

"Aye," Vilkas said finally. "Used to."

Njada gave an inquisitive shrug. "So, what happened."

Vilkas was quiet for a moment longer. "Something to do with blood." He was using his curt abstracted tone, meaning he did not want to talk about it but did not want to say so.

It didn't hold Njada back this time around. "Well, obviously," she insisted. "That doesn't explain—"

"Look, I don't want to talk about it, alright."

That was enough to silence her. It wasn't like Vilkas to be so blunt. He was usually just about the calmest man Njada had ever met. Outside of battle, of course. Now he sounded genuinely irked.

But not for long. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said after a heavy pause. "It's just that, if you don't mind, I would like to let the matter be."

"I understand," Njada persisted, "but I just—"

"Look, just leave it! It really doesn't concern you."

Njada stuck his hands up. "Alright, alright! You don't have to bite my head off."

Vilkas gave her an odd askance glance.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing." He smacked his mouth as a sign of changing the subject. "Anyway, a big day today. We're getting some new blood, huh?"

Njada's mood darkened immediately. "Don't remind me."

"What? Don't you—"

"No," Njada snapped, "I don't."

Vilkas made a grunt that might have been a laugh.

It takes my humiliation, Njada thought sullenly, to get him to laugh these days. Nice.

She sighed. So much for getting through the remainder of the walk without thinking about depressing things.

"Anyway," Vilkas said. "I think you're taking the whole thing all wrong. You think they—"

"What are you, my pet parrot, now?"

Vilkas hadn't been all that talkative lately, unless he was listing the things he'd killed. He would still go on and on about that. But now that Njada wanted nothing better than some peace and quiet to properly feel sorry for herself, the man had to keep running his mouth.

He looked taken aback. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, I'm sure you didn't. Nobody ever does." She was irritated at the martyr-like tone of her voice.

"Sorry," Vilkas muttered, sounding a bit wounded himself.

Oh Divines! Njada rolled her eyes. Did he have to pull that now? Hadn't it beenhimsnapping at her just a minute ago?

"Yes, well," she said. "It's fine. Just don't mention it again."

After a silence, Vilkas nodded. "Fair enough."

"Now if you'll excuse me," Njada said, "I have to think a little."

But there wasn't really anything in her mind she actually wanted to think about. She was just desperate for some quiet.

"Don't let me stop you."

Ah, Njada thought, frustrated, don't tell me you hate me now too!

What had she ever done to anyone? Such an unfair world it was!

As sullen as she'd ever been, she trudged on in the darkening evening, next to a man trying to act as if he wasn't mad at her, following people who pretended to be her friends.

And it wasn't about to get any better.