This is the first fanfiction I have published on this site. Reviews are welcome, and thank you for giving this a shot!

Gestalt

Chapter One: Reunion

A young Nord, clutching a teetering pile of books, slowly made her way out of the Blue Palace. Thanking the guard who opened the doors for her, she was almost out of the courtyard when she was stopped by a courier.

'For your mistress,' he panted. 'Urgent.'

'She's not-' Lydia of Whiterun read the first and only sentence on the parchment.

Later, she was seen riding from the stables- flicking a septim into a delivery boy's hand- in the direction of Markarth.

'I've no time for silly rumours, Lydia.' Cyrielle dropped the lavender into the bottle and added some water. 'Winterhold's got a new Archmage- Aren died, can you believe it- and some obscure fool's taken up the title. I want to know why.'

Vlindrel Hall was a comfortable enough abode: obviously not as grand as Proudspire Manor, but Cyrielle had a problem with inns. She had bought it after becoming a Thane of Markarth: as always, she had refused the housecarl. She only required Lydia, she had professed. This obviously made returning home after months of travelling rather awkward. Cyrielle had spent two days making the house hospitable again.

'The guards of Whiterun say that he killed a dragon,' Lydia pressed.

'Then I must believe that not only is there a Dragonborn to save us from dragons, but that there are now dragons that he must save us from. A most happy coincidence.'

'My Thane, please,' she sighed.

Cyrielle closed her book. 'I'm sorry, Lydia, truly. My patience has been stretched these past few days and I've no right to make you a victim. I ask for your forgiveness.'

'There is nothing to forgive.'

An awkward silence ensued. Lydia moved her hand closer to Cyrielle's, clenched it into a fist and spread it on the table, hurt. She was the one woman who Cyrielle had declared off limits to herself.

Cyrielle coughed. 'We shall travel to Whiterun, then. I'm sure the house requires some love.'

'What about your experiments?' Lydia's voice was small.

'They will keep.'

Whiterun was a small white city, pure in name and spirit. Or rather, gaining so much profit from trading that it shied away from the political stew that had already boiled over in parts of Skyrim.

'It is much unchanged since we have last been here.' Cyrielle squinted up at the walls, slowing her horse to a canter. 'Do you miss your city, Lydia?'

There was a silence has she considered the question.

'I have witnessed and experienced things that I would not have if I had been left in Whiterun. Now I am travelled, something many other housecarls cannot boast. I think I much prefer our adventures than to have waited at home for your return.' She laughed. 'Especially now that I know that you readily forsake a good honest hearth and a bed.'

Her Thane grinned, eager for the old, easy familiarity. She had been much vexed when Lydia had grown jealous of the many men and women that Cyrielle had flirted with, thinking herself unequal in beauty and power to all. Cyrielle simply had no wish to promise something to her housecarl that she could not sustain: Skyrim hath no fury like a housecarl scorned.

They dismounted, handing the reins over to the stable boy, and stepped through the gates. The Plains District was quiet, the torchlight throwing lunging shadows onto the grey houses. There was no living thing outside, and yet there was... something. Cyrielle cocked her head, listening intently. A guard, harried and sweating, ran down the steps, saw Cyrielle and stopped abruptly.

'Thank Arkay you are home, Thane Cyrielle! Jorrvaskr is under attack!'

Cyrielle immediately beckoned Lydia and the guard to follow, jogging up the stone stairs.

'Attack? By whom?'

The guard faltered, looking guilty. 'I do not know, my Thane. Mistress Aela refuses our help.'

'Refused? Are you just stood there?'

'Well, yes…'

'Dibella bless you-'

Jorrvaskr was a mess. Parts of the wooden structure had caved in, splinters hanging haphazardly: the noble doors were flung open, revealing the mess within. On the steps, Vilkas and Aela were repelling a group of attackers. Curious bystanders stood a little away from them, reined in by guards. Disgusted, Cyrielle pushed her way through the crowd, drawing her sword. Dragonbane, long, slim and hungry, glinted in the firelight: she charged, and swiftly beheaded one of Vilkas' opponents. He turned to berate her, then recognised her.

'Cyri!'

'No time for talk, Vilkas, we're fighting for an audience.' Cyrielle ducked, avoiding a sword, and punched a woman in the face. She noted that his mighty weapon swings were slow and heavy, and that Aela- nodding curtly to acknowledge her- was slick with blood.

Vilkas hissed under his breath. 'You must go inside: there are more within. They are Silver Hand, Cyri, and you know why they would come.'

Silver Hand, ardent defenders of Skyrim, bent on killing all werewolves. Cyrielle had been made acutely aware of the twins' decision that day. Lydia, from whom she kept no secrets, raised her eyebrows but said nothing, clashing swords with another.

'Cyri, hurry! Farkas- inside-' Vilkas was panting, but the panic in his voice was not for his predicament. He knew his brother's name would strike a chord.

'You must hold up here. I will find him. Lydia-'

'Go, my Thane!'

The banquet hall was cold and dark. The opposite doors hung heavy and impotent, and through them she could see Ria and Njada battle yet more Silver Hand, though they knew not what for. She ran to the stairs, noting that the doors here too were broken. However, she paused at the door when she heard… growling and an enraged roar. She entered slowly.

Farkas was stood in the middle of the hall, muzzle and elongated claws covered in blood, towering over Kodlak, who was not moving. His attackers had circled him, and even as he swatted one away, his head connecting with a table with a sharp crack, another slashed his side, cackling. Cyrielle's focused on her.

Two strides and she was bought close to the woman, Dragonbane spun once before being steadied by her right hand- for power and stability- neatly slicing her, left shoulder to right hip, in half. Her face froze in shock. But Cyrielle was already turning, ducking to dodge an attack. Dragonbane flew up, coming to rest in a man's stomach: he staggered, dropping his sword, inches away from stabbing Farkas. An angry yell sounded from her right and she spun, just blocking another sword. The awkward position dislocated two fingers on her left hand, which had borne the weight of the attack, causing her to loosen her grip on her sword. Her attacker disarmed her easily, lightly slicing her belly.

Sharp pain poured from the wound, causing Cyrielle to black out for just a second. Clutching it, she took a step back, trying to find her sword. She could just hear a deep-throated growl and the man clutched his face in horror, his cheeks in ribbons. He stumbled, and Farkas savagely bought a foot up and crushed his neck. In her peripheral vision, she saw the fourth and last Silver Hand crunch into the wall and slump there.

Large, furred hands held her- Cyrielle gritted her teeth, the shallow cut stinging- and Farkas fell to the floor, laying a hand on her stomach. She tried to turn, to see him better, and saw that he was covered in slashes. He whimpered, his red eyes yearning and hungry and angry, and she bought a maimed hand to his face, calming him as he shook with pain. How heady the smell of blood must be to him.

'Farkas. Kodlak... I'm sorry.'

He shuddered then, and reverted back to his human form, and his wounds were immediately more jarring. Stroking her maimed hand, he pulled her closer to him.

'Thanks for saving me... Cyri. Couldn't have picked... a better moment.' His streaked face was haggard.

'I came as soon as I could, my love. Thank you for waiting until I got home.'

He laughed, spluttering blood. His grip grew loose, and his eyes were heavy.

'Farkas! Stay, please!' He lay on the floor, closing his eyes. Cyrielle gulped back the panic rising in her throat. She too closed her eyes, trying to summon the magicka she had long forsaken, anything to heal Farkas. It would not come. Shakily standing upright, she lifted him, groaning at his weight. Staggering to the stairs, she almost missed his whisper.

'Yes, Farkas?'

His grin was weak. 'Now... you know... how it feels.'

Arcadia strode around the banquet hall, applying salves and tying off bandages, occasionally reaching into a deep pocket to offer a potion. Lydia stayed out of the way.

Silver Hand corpses lay loosely piled into a corner: no one but Arcadia had been allowed into the beer hall. The Companions lay huddled like, well, wolves. Farkas and Kodlak lay like patriarchs in the centre, near the fire, even Whitemane swaddled lovingly with blankets. Tilma fussed over the warriors like a mother hen, especially over Aela: her scantily clad body was tattoed with gashes.

She looked to her Thane, stood on the other side of the table with Vilkas and a young mage, dressed in simple robes. Tall, he hunched, trying to make himself seem as small as possible. His light blue eyes were focused squarely on the small Breton. Cyrielle's, Lydia noticed, continuously flickered to Farkas, and were as serious and hard as malachite.

Lydia had seen the Breton, watched her through a child's eyes as she had appeared in Whiterun, more often than now. She had known she was a traveller, a fierce warrior, and yet she was always friendly to all. Quick-witted, she could make children and adults laugh alike. Her favourite children though, had by far been Vilkas and Farkas. She had heard how Cyrielle had saved them from a burning home; how she, as an adventurer, had been unable to look after them herself and so had bought them to Jorrvaskr; how she could not keep herself away for more than a month; how she always had time for them, how she loved them. She remembered how they had stood at the gates at the decided time, scanning the horizon, and how she had never failed to come.

She remembered them growing into young men, how the girls could not avoid peeking at them from underneath eyelids. Vilkas was the smooth talker, the mischievous one: Farkas was open, kind hearted and, if she could admit it, a little slow.

Now that she knew Cyrielle, she could judge the love she had for the twins. In Solitude, Cyrielle had taken many lovers, casting them away before they were done with her. In Whiterun, she had taken no lover: she had no time for anyone else. None except Farkas. She could remember that argument they had in front of Jorrvaskr, too. How she had vehemently refused him, how he had kissed her. How she had stepped into his arms and cried. How she had left him the very next morning, and avoided Whiterun for half a year.

Cyrielle beckoned her over.

'This is Eyjolf, Archmage and Dragonborn extraordinaire.' She waved vaguely at him. 'Eyjolf, my housecarl and friend, Lydia.'

'I arrived too late to be of any help. This attack was my fault.' His voice was not so deep, but level.

'Nonsense.' Vilkas' face was pinched with worry. He too kept glancing over at his brother.

'You cannot stay long at Whiterun: who knows what danger still lies in wait for you. We leave in the morning for Ivarstead: you shall speak to the Greybeards.'

'Of course. I am honoured to travel with you, Thane Cyrielle. You are well written in books.'

She snorted. 'Don't believe everything you read, lad.'

Farkas stirred then, his bleary eyes focusing first on his brother and then finding the red-haired Breton. She looked up and immediately came to his side.

'Farkas.' She gently stroked his face. 'Arcadia. Farkas must go to his room.'

Arcadia pursed her lips, desperately trying not to smile. Even Farkas himself snorted. 'Very well. Just don't... strain him too hard. He's not fully healed just yet.'

'Of course. I am just concerned,' she finished lamely, 'for his comfort.'

'For your information, I am indeed comfortable.' Cyrielle smiled at him.

'I am glad.'

'Perhaps-'

'Farkas, no. Arcadia's orders.'

He grinned at her. 'Nothing that does me justice, love. Just,' he ran his knuckles lightly up her waist, 'something to welcome you home.'

'Lie on your front, my sweet.'

'Ah. Now that, love, I'm not particularly interested in…'

Cyrielle was grinning now. 'Farkas, pick your mind out of the gutter and do as I say.' She was rummaging in his drawers, trying to find a small bottle. Her hand closed around something small and sharp. Farkas watched her pull out an amulet of Talos.

'He watches over questing travellers, Cyri.' His dark eyes were sad. 'I had to.'

Cyrielle, glancing at the axe, tucked it into her pocket. Reaching into the cabinet again, she found what she was looking for. 'There is no need to pray for me, love. I am capable.'

'You are sometimes gone so long I worry that I will have to mourn without ever knowing where your body lies.'

She straddled him, hearing him sigh as her naked flesh touched his. She rubbed the oil on her hands and gently massaged him, exploring the broad planes of his back. She well knew that restoring the body was not enough: often the patient was riddled with aches and pains for days. Truth be told, she just wanted to touch Farkas again, to remind his body of hers. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear.

'I will always come back to you, Farkas. You are the man that I cannot leave, I swear.'

He turned, facing her again. His face was feebly illuminated by candlelight. It was always like this, the night before she had to leave. Neither of them wished to contemplate living without one another. She settled onto him, and he embraced her. She lay awake as he stroked her back, her shoulders, and she lay awake as she heard his breathing grow steady.