Glad to finally be out of the snowstorm, the courier relished the warmth of the hall she had entered as it washed over her. So this was Jorrvaskr, home of the famous Companions.

That late at night, it was almost empty. Only a group of four was seated around one end of the huge table that dominated the hall. Tankards littered most of the wooden surface at their end, with empty plates randomly stacked in between. A fire was burning in the middle of the hall, crackling happily.

"Excuse me?" The courier took a few hesitant steps towards the group. The four Companions had been caught up in a lively discussion, not noticing – or simply ignoring – her presence. At the sound of her voice, though, four faces turned her way. They were two men and two women. Both of the men and one of the women obviously were from around these parts. The tan of the fourth member of their small circle was much darker, clearly showing her roots from distant Hammerfell. The courier closed the distance between those four and herself.

"Excuse my intrusion," she began, addressing herself mostly to the Nord woman. "I am looking for the Harbinger of the Companions."

"What do you need of him?" the other woman forestalled any other responses.

Him?, the courier wondered silently. I know you're headed by a woman. Out loud, she explained: "I have a letter from Ulfric Stormcloak, rightful High King of Skyrim, to be delivered to the Harbinger's hands only."

The hall was only sparsely lit, but she still saw the frown spreading across the Redguard's face at her mentioning of Ulfric. A fire burnt behind her eyes, one that made the young Dunmer shudder inside.

"He is not here."

Suppressing a shiver as her wet clothes clogged against her skin, the courier continued. "Ulfric Stormcloak, future High King of Skyrim, commanded me to find the Harbinger of the Companions and deliver this summoning to the kingsmeet," she insisted. Who are you, fire-lady, that nobody but you answers me?, she wondered silently, waiting for any reaction. Who are you that those warriors remain silent while you bluster? She met the Redguard's stare, challenging her. They say the Harbinger's a Nord, but could they be wrong?

"He is in Markarth," the woman hissed.

"Red," one of the two men finally broke the silence. It was all he said, his voice hard and cold as ice. Fire glared at him. He only spread his hands in an inquiring gesture.

And who are you to oppose Fire?, the courier mused. None of the others has lifted a finger. She sighed, ignoring the Redguard and her airs. Instead, she turned to face the so far silent second woman. "Is there any chance of reaching your Harbinger, then? In Markarth, maybe? Or along the road?" Before her inner eye, she already saw herself riding hard over the nocturnal plains of Whiterun. Come on, someone answer me, she prayed inwardly, taking care not to show how annoyed she was at the display. But all her words accomplished was an intensified staring match between Fire and Ice.

And then, the cracking sound of a fist slamming down on the table rang through the hall. "Falka! Stop stalling her!" It was the other man, the one who'd remained silent up until then, who finally broke the silence. "She's just come in from Windhelm!" her advocate chided the woman, "through storm 'nd snow 'nd night 'nd all, 'nd all you can think of is sending her one some wild goose-chase 'cross the country?" He turned to face the courier, not heeding the burning look Fire cast him. The semblance between him and Ice was striking. And yet, he seemed kinder, friendlier, missing all the coldness and harshness of the other man. "I apologize for my Harbinger's behaviour."

"Ah." Bereft of any words, the courier accepted his apology with a faint nod of her head, never taking her eyes off his face. So the Harbinger was not only a woman, but—

"Come, you must be weary. And hungry," he interrupted her thoughts. "You got a bed for the night?"

She shook her head.

"'f you want, you can stay here. Tilma!" His sudden shout made her jump. "Tilma! We've got a visitor."

An old woman appeared from somewhere, greeting the young Dunmer with a friendly smile.

"She'll need something to eat 'nd a place for the night. Put her up in one of the empty rooms." The old housekeeper nodded, and the warrior once again turned to face the courier. "Go with Tilma, she'll see you get everything you need. 'nd leave that letter with me."

The courier flashed him a grateful smile, and slipped out of the hall behind the old woman.

"Was that necessary, Falka?" Farkas inquired once they were alone again as he dropped the letter on the table in disgust.

The woman flashed him a nasty glare in reply, breaking her staring match with Vilkas.

"That was really mean, you know?" he continued.

Falka only grumbled incoherently.

Aela took a long draught from her beer. "Why d'you shun him anyhow?" she then inquired. "What is it with you and Ulfric?"

"Nothing!" Falka exploded. "There is nothing with me and this… this bastard!" Rage burned behind her eyes as she grabbed the letter. "Didn't you hear? `The rightful High King of Skyrim commands me!' The Harbinger of the Companions malleable as clay. What a formidable toy for that louse-coach!"

Tiny sparks of fire danced around her fingers as she ripped Ulfric's sigil off the paper. The letter was short, only a few lines. The paper shook in her hands as Falka held it into the light to read the message. A litany of colourful curses in that special dialect of hers, spiced with expressions unknown to the three Nords, let everyone within earshot know what exactly she thought of Ulfric and the Stormcloaks in general.

"What's it saying?" Vilkas asked once it was clear she'd finished reading.

"I am to support his claim as High King," Falka hissed. "Lice-infested skunk!"

"That put you in such a mood?" Aela shook her head. "I don't get it. Didn't you fight at his side when he marched against Soli—"

"Yes, I did!" Falka roared. "And I was an idiot!" She tore the letter in half. "Gullible." Again, she tore the pieces in two. "Vulnerable!" Another tear. "Stupid!" Eight little pieces of paper fell to the floor. "I believed in him!"

"He never singled you out for your non-Nord heritage?" Vilkas wanted to know.

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "Never."

"That man once refused to pay Ria and Athis after they'd completed a job for him only because—" Vilkas broke off, his brow furrowing at some thought. "Not even when you first met him? How comes?"

"He could not." Falka barked a bitter laugh. "Gagged as he was."

"What?"

"He was gagged, bound, and needed my help," she elaborated. "So, no, I never got harassed by him. And," she spun to kick the nearest chair, "I allowed myself to be talked into joining his rebellion."

"Ulfric Stormcloak… gagged," Aela mumbled. "I need some beer to process that."

"And you never stopped to consider the other side of the medal?"

"I always consider both sides, Vilkas!"

"You do know Ulfric killed Torygg?"

"I do now," she snarled, anger boiling inside of her. "And is it not said it was an honest Nord duel, Mister Skyrim-belongs-to-the-Nords?"

"You did consider the Imperium's side, then?"

"Did you?"

Vilkas spat into the fire. "Never." His already hard features gained an additional edge. "Skyrim belongs to its people, you know that. No matter the price, the country should be ours." Passion burnt in his eyes. "But what about you? This isn't your country."

"It is now." Falka looked away and gazed into the embers of the fire. "I never wanted this to happen." She looked at Vilkas, Aela and Farkas. "You have to believe me. But… I could never let the Imperium have the crown."

"Why not?" Aela interjected. "Why d'you care? As long as there's enough to hunt, let Elisif have her way."

"Elisif is only the puppet."

"The Imperials, then." Aela scowled.

Falka shook her head.

"Not the Imperials," Vilkas reasoned, his voice but a fraction of its usual volume. "The Thalmor." He looked at his wife. "The puppet masters."

"'s five years now the Thalmor forbade Talos," Farkas mused.

"But you're a Companion now. You're our Harbinger."

"So because of that I am supposed to turn a blind eye on what is going on outside Jorrvaskr?" Falka shouted.

"You are not supposed to meddle in politics!" Vilkas got up from his seat.

Falka's face twisted with rage. "I will… never let the... Thalmor set foot in Skyrim!" she forced the words out. "Never! As long as I draw breath, they will not set foot here!" Flames were dancing up and down her arms.

"So you're joining forces with an usurper instead? Make the Companions his elite warriors?"

"Wuld!"

In the blink of an eye, Falka had crossed the distance between her and Vilkas.

"Are you two insane?" Farkas' voice bellowed across the hall. "Are you two idiots completely out of your minds?"

Falka ignored him. Only a hand's breadth away from Vilkas, she searched his face for emotions. The hard lines of his face, his gaze, his silver eyes; she'd learned how to read him over time. "Vilkas." She stared into his eyes. "I know better than that. You," she gulped, "should know me better than that."

A muscle in his face twitched. "I just fear for what we're to become." His voice was raw.

Bereft from her anger, Falka felt sadness wash over her. "I am not Kodlak, Vilkas. I will never be."

"Red." He pulled her into his arms.

"Thank the gods," Aela whispered. "I thought they'd only stop after they'd torn the place apart."

Farkas reached out to give her a slap on the head.

"Ow! Even you have to admit they were close, icebrains."

Farkas shook his head, and emptied his freshly filled tankard. Vilkas returned to his vacated seat with Falka in tow, both of them looking fairly shaken.

"You know, I don't know who's the more insane of you two. You for bleeding Shouting at him or you for staring down a raging Dragonborn."

At least both of them had the decency to look ashamed. Farkas got up and refilled their tankards.

"You must be the only man in Skyrim bold enough to do that." He pressed a beer into Vilkas' free hand. "You're either a fool or a hero."

His brother's distress made Vilkas grin, and he raised his tankard towards Farkas in a toast.

Aela drank with the brothers, all the while studying Falka. She'd seen much in her time, but such an intense reaction was a first, even from their feisty Harbinger. "So, what is it with you and the Thalmor, then?"

For an instant, Falka stared at her over the rim of her tankard. Then, she nodded slowly. "I guess you deserve to know," she reasoned. She took another hearty gulp of her beer, then exhaled deeply. "I lost my family. Back when they besieged Hammerfell," she started. "Too much magic. They slaughtered my parents and branded me a mage." Her hand brushed over the tattooed side of her face. "Finally, I fled. But they caught up to me and I was imprisoned."

Falka drew a deep breath, pausing her narration for a few moments to study the faces of her loved ones. They were warriors, and they weren't unacquainted with human tragedies. Aela's face was grim, her eyes locked onto the Redguard's. Falka knew them well enough to discern the masked worry behind Farkas' face. And Vilkas… She knew his little tells, knew how to read his emotions between the hard lines of his face. She caught his gaze and held it, brown eyes against grey ones, and forced herself to continue. "I met Ulfric on our way to Helgen."

Yes, he'd heard of Helgen. Recognition widened his pupils. It pained her to see the shock on his face. "They shot the horse thief that tried to run away."

The muscles on his neck and shoulders tensed.

"The execution," Aela breathed.

"Aye."

If it was possible, Vilkas paled even more. His sinews protruded from under his skin. Falka placed her hand on his arm. "I am sorry. I never wanted you to learn it that way," she apologised. All Vilkas could do was nod.

Falka continued, forcing herself to relive these horrible moments of her life. "They did not bother to take my name. I wore the markings, that was enough. I mean, the crowd was already gathering, so why not give them a show?" She laughed bitterly. "I was… second in line." Despite her cynicism, she could feel the terror she'd felt back then flood through her body again. "They made a quick process of the first, and the block was wet with his blood. I was… I…" Tears stung in her eyes. Falka took another deep draught of her beer; another deep breath. "A dragon showed up. I literally… jumped off the block, the blood of my predecessor—"

"Stop it!" Farkas interrupted, his face as white as his brother's. "Stop it. Please."

Falka bit hard on her lower lip. It moved her to see how deeply her fate affected them. Sturdy Aela, who never was unsettled by anything. Farkas – huge and solid Farkas –, their tower of strength since Kodlak's demise. And Vilkas. Head-strong, hot-blooded and sarcastic Vilkas. She never had seen him so on the brink of shattering before.

"I could not let them have Skyrim," she whispered, taking their minds off her personal worries. Searching for support, she reached out for Vilkas' hand. "I could not," she repeated.

Vilkas pulled her close, squeezed her tight, almost crushing her in his embrace. He buried his face in her hair. "No," he admitted. "You couldn't."