The vicious group of werewolf hunters had been tormenting them for so long, but none of the Companions had imagined they would go this far. To deliberately ambush and capture a warrior just outside his own home when he was simply minding his own business was inconceivable and lacking all honor, but it didn't seem to matter to them. Farkas bore the mark of the Companions, and that had apparently been reason enough to attack him. It seemed unfair that it had been Farkas; who showed the least interest in the dispute between the two guilds, who only wanted to fight to protect his own, should be targeted by these savage bandits.
Everyone had thought the Silver Hand wouldn't be a problem anymore, after Kodlak's death when they had supposedly been wiped out. Vilkas had been uncharacteristically naïve in believing that he could destroy an entire league of warriors, and now it seems he would pay the price.
Three days had passed since Farkas had been caught and subdued in battle by a group of Silver Hand, just outside Whiterun's gates. Only three days ago Vilkas had dragged his brother's bruised and bloodied body into his quarters in Jorrvaskr, overwhelmed with emotion. He had been on many journeys that sometimes lasted weeks at a time, yet these three days seemed to be the most arduous of his entire life; refusing to leave his brother's bedside.
Of all the emotions Vilkas was feeling while he waited for Farkas to awaken, guilt was undoubtedly the most present. He knew that his brother's life wouldn't be in danger if only he had used the beast spirit to fend off his attackers, who were no match for such a mighty ability. The brothers had discussed their wolf spirit; they had concluded that it only served to poison their souls had had no place among the group of esteemed warriors. Vilkas had asked of his brother to be strong, to not give in to the beast or its sinful and depraved nature. Farkas, who had every reason to trust and respect his brother, swore to never give in to the beast. They had already sacrificed a part of their souls to Hircine, and they wouldn't give him the pleasure of consuming any more of them. One day they would be in Sovngarde together, free from the wolf and honored as true warriors, like every Nord should be. Now here he lied in his own bed, utterly defeated by the Silver Hand and skin as pale as death.
Vilkas had locked himself inside Farkas' room, ignoring the knocks on the door and pleas for him to come out and take care of himself. In only a year, both Kodlak and Skjor had been taken from them; the two men that he'd admired the most. If Farkas left this world as well, there was no way he would be able to go on. Farkas was everything… everything to him. They depended on each other in nearly every aspect; his brother had been all he truly had for as long as he had known. It was Farkas who motivated him to become a warrior, so he would always be able to protect his kin and it was Farkas who was always able to pull him from his darkest moments.
There was no way in Oblivion he would let his brother die here, like this. A Nord was meant to die alongside his fellow warriors, in battle and glory, fighting for honor. Besides, he had not yet been freed from the beast spirit, and if he were to die now then they would never feast together in Sovngarde as true warriors should. It was his duty, as Farkas' only family, to nurse him back to health so his brother's spirit could have the afterlife he should have. If anyone at all deserved eternal glory, it was Farkas.
Sitting by his brother's bedside, Vilkas scrutinized his brother. Farkas' sickly pallor was unsettling, doing nothing to put Vilkas' mind at ease. Luckily his fever was gone, though His skin was so pale that Vilkas could see all of his veins protruding through his skin. Lately he had taken to sharing his thoughts with Farkas while he slept; it seemed silly but it helped him relax and gave him hope that his brother would make a full recovery. Vilkas sighed deeply, studying his brother's face for any sign of a reaction or response to his words.
"Don't worry, brother…" Vilkas whispered quietly to the man beside him. "You'll be back in the training field in no time at all. You always were the quicker of the two of us to pull through ailments, so I know you can manage it again. " Farkas gave no physical indication that he had heard his words, but he simply continued to talk. "One of the whelps is still having trouble swinging his weapon in steel armor, which you are the best at out of all of us. Once you're healthy again I'll treat you to as much as that foul Honningbrew stuff as you want, even if I'll never like it as much as you." Still nothing.
Vilkas slumped in his chair, feeling slightly discouraged. He wasn't a healer, he had never cured an ailment in his life, so how could he cure his brother? Worst of all, Farkas never once responded to him or seen fit to wake from his slumber, which frustrated Vilkas to no end. To keep himself from snapping at his brother, Vilkas tried to show patience. Farkas had always encouraged him to be more patient and understanding but he had never been very successful, even now. To ward off the anger, he decided to recount childhood stories to his brother, as Farkas sometimes did the same for him when he was disgruntled. Vilkas told of when they had first met Lydia, when they were accepted into the ranks of the Companions, when Skjor had given them their first taste of mead, when they had snuck a dead hawk into the Court Mage's office and watched him go berserk.
Several more hours and whimsical stories later, Vilkas heard a faint knocking at the door. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to get him out of the room since he had isolated himself in here. He never budged from the bedside and eventually the knocking would cease. Sometimes whomever was on the other side would speak to him or his brother in quiet voices, but he didn't make any particular effort to hear what they were saying. Some of the voices he recognized, others he didn't, and he wasn't eager to let strangers near his brother in this state. Expecting the same thing to happen again, he ignored the knocking as always, though the relentless banging only seemed to grow louder.
"I know you're in there, Vilkas. You can't hide from this forever, you know."
He only faintly recognized Aela's voice, usually fierce and stern but now ridden with melancholy. Eyebrow twitching in irritation, he continued to ignore her. How rude it was of the woman to disturb his brother's rest and healing time, he thought to himself. His exasperation was brimming and finally peaked when the knocking turned to outright pounding and she raised her voice significantly.
"Vilkas, come out of there right this moment!"
Vilkas shot up from his chair for the first time in days, stomping over to the door and ready to give her a piece of his mind. His shaking fingers fumbled clumsily with the tight lock, and he swung the door open violently when the lock finally came undone. Leaning in the doorway and closing the door as far as he could, he rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes and gave the woman standing there a harsh look. Aela stood there, her arms half-raised in defense from his sudden entrance, looking almost as tired as he felt. It was strange, he had never seen her in any state of defeat, even when Skjor had fallen to the Silver Hand. Still, his eyes were drawn to the uncharacteristic dark circles under her eyes, the disheveled state of her hair, and the hazy, unfocused look in her eyes. "What do you want?" he mumbled angrily. "Leave us be." Aela raised an eyebrow at his words, straining to peer past him into the bedroom.
"You've been cooped up in there for days, now," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We're all so worried about you, Vilkas. Isolating yourself won't fix anything, you know that."
He scowled at this, astounded by her words. "I don't care," Vilkas hissed. "I'm not the one who needs your concern. It's my brother you should be worried about." Her brows rose slightly "Vilkas," she mumbled, not certain if he had even heard her.
"He's the one who needs saving, and I don't see any of your sorry hides doing anything about it. Leave us alone, Aela."
Dejected, she sighed deeply. It wasn't like she didn't understand where he was coming from; after Skjor, she had shut herself into his room, trying to savor every memory and not let a single thing slip away. It was normal, but she still had every reason to stand by his side at a time such as this.
"Let me come in, Vilkas. Please, we can help you." He groaned inwardly.
"I'll let you in for just a moment, then. Don't you dare touch him, I don't want you to make this worse," Vilkas spat, more than a little frustrated at her persistence.
As soon as the words left his mouth, she was frozen to the spot. She watched Vilkas with confusion as he turned to open the door just enough for Aela to slip in, which took several moments. Obviously Vilkas was acting strangely, which she had expected, though a voice in the back of her mind urged her to leave immediately. Not once in all her life had she felt the fear she did right then, of simply crossing that threshold and seeing the result of Vilkas' hysteria.
She slipped inside quickly and quietly, but she immediately reeled, jumping back outside the doorway with a gag. "What… what is that stench?" she exclaimed. Vilkas shrugged, slightly puzzled. He knew that neither he nor his brother had bathed in a few days, but that wasn't exactly a new development when it came to living with warriors. She shouldn't be so surprised. Perhaps it was a symptom of Farkas' illness that he simply hadn't noticed.
Aela looked up at him again, her mouth agape and eyes wide. She fully took in his crazed state, her feeling of fear from before only growing.
"What is in that room, Vilkas?" she asked him, praying to any gods that were listening that her suspicions were false. When he didn't answer, she pried again. "Vilkas, answer my question right this moment. What is in that room?" Her voice quivered; she had never felt such absolute horror in her life. As a warrior she was expected to deal with a gruesome scene, but this…
His face tightened into a cold glare. "You should leave, Aela. My brother is resting."
His hands were balled into fists and his feet planted firmly in the ground. Aela had been known by all she fought alongside as one of the strongest and most courageous women to step foot in Tamriel, but right at the moment she felt weaker than ever.
"Oh, Vilkas…" she breathed, trying and failing to avoid his icy gaze. "Your brother's funeral was three days ago. I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Vilkas, but he isn't here!"
Immediately his chest was full of rage, he could feel his entire body shaking in his anger. Aela is an ignorant fool, he thought to himself. How dare she such things about his brother? She knew nothing, nothing about what he was feeling right now. Before he could stop himself, Vilkas saw his raised fist and swung at her and would probably have been able to do considerable damage, had he not been in the state he was currently in.
With little effort, Aela dodged his fist and pinned his arm behind his back, forcing him into the wall. She could hear a flurry of movement from upstairs, likely a few of the others had overheard the shouting and would come investigating in a moment, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. She met his insane, icy eyes. All of a sudden he was very preoccupied with the room, and limply struggled against her tight grip. "Look at me, Vilkas… look at me."
"No!" he shouted, thrashing around violently like a sick child. "He needs my help, Aela! I can help him!"
"Farkas is dead now, Vilkas, and there's nothing we can do about that! I'm truly sorry about what happened but he is beyond our reach now!" Her voice was on the verge of shouting, and she was faintly aware of the swarm of Companions who had gathered around them, all of them coughing and choking from the foul odor that filled the air.
Vilkas shook his head madly. It wasn't true, he knew that she was lying. Farkas was sick. He was sick, and Vilkas was caring for him.
A piercing scream roused him from his thoughts as he struggled, a seeming newfound strength emerging when he noticed Athis and Ria approaching his brother's bedside. His vision blurred as some of the others helped to subdue him; his throat feeling very dry all of a sudden and tears threatening to spill. Everyone was shouting, though he couldn't make out what they were saying, only understood that he had let Farkas down in the end.
"Gods above! Someone needs to go fetch Andurs immediately!"
"How long has his body been missing from the Hall of the Dead?"
"Why did you do this to your brother's corpse, Vilkas?"
Aela took the scene around her in with revulsion. Vilkas' trembling and sobbing form, the filthy shovel lying in the corner of the room, the empty invisibility potions scattered about, the putrid stench that she should have recognized before now. Never did she suspect that his brother's death would drive Vilkas to do something like this, to steal his corpse and hide it where they all slept and lived. Every part of her wanted to be disgusted but as she stared at him, weeping and shouting nonsensically, she could only feel pity.