I found the beginnings of this sitting on my laptop, and decided to finish it. I'm so very sorry. The title is because I was listening to a song of the same name at the time.
Arthion is my male Bosmer assassin. He's the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, he wears the ancient shrouded armour set, and depending on my whims, he may or may not be the Dragonborn. This is set in an AU where Vilkas and Farkas become the joint Harbingers after the death of Kodlak and Skor.
He looked odd there, out of place in the dark, form-fitting ancient armour, and to many of the assembled it was as if he embodied the dark shadow of Kodlak's death that loomed over them all. Were he honest with himself, Arthion did not quite know why he had attended at all. Perhaps it was some misguided sense of respect to an old man who had never done anything but see a perceived excellence in some, or maybe it was just because of—well, perhaps it was just because. It certainly had little to do with the devastation of the two wolf twins, Arthion assured himself quietly. After all, Vilkas especially had always vehemently stated that he didn't need an elf's help with anything.
Yet Vilkas was undeniably the reason he was here, he supposed; the reason the wood elf's dark eyes kept straying from the pyre they had rested Kodlak on to the stony, cracked face of the Companion. There was no other thing that could have dragged Arthion here, away from the rebuilding of his own shattered family. The emperor of Skyrim may have been dead, after all, but Delvin's repair work would hardly be done in a day, and there were other things to consider. The Dark Brotherhood could not operate on three lone assassins, after all—not for long.
He did not stand with the rest of them. While the others lined up evenly on the Skyforge, their faces varying in their expressions of grief, he merely stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the rocks that marked the edge of the area, careful to keep himself at least partially concealed in the shadows, partly to deflect the mistrustful and outright hostile gazes, and partly to keep the others from questioning his being there. When the blacksmith and the hunter stepped forward, Arthion merely watched, keeping his body still the way only a practiced assassin could, like he was willing himself to vanish into the shadows. He had never been able to fool Vilkas completely, though, so he was hardly surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder, the grip too tight, but he did not wince.
"Why are you here?" Vilkas demanded of him, and Arthion lowered his head, the shadows of his shrouded hood hiding the rest of his face from view as he smirked.
"Why not?"
"The things you are and do are not welcome at such a solemn event."
Laughter bubbled from Arthion's chest next, and he turned his head, arching an eyebrow at the irate werewolf. Vilkas' comment didn't warrant a reply, and the wood elf wanted the man to know that. By the unpleasant twist in his mouth, Vilkas did, but before Vilkas could say anything more, Arthion reached up and rested a gloved hand against the man's cheek.
"I always did like it when you were halfway between scruffy and clean-shaven, Vilkas," Arthion murmured, even as he dropped his hand. Vilkas seemed to be visibly trying to regain composure, but the emotions in his eyes were mixed, anger fighting with something Arthion knew far more… intimately. But he also noticed, with a sigh, the moment Vilkas made his decision, and a wry smile twisted his own mouth then.
"After this, you will leave here," Vilkas said slowly. "You will leave, and you will not come back here."
Arthion smiled, but there was something unpleasant about it. "It will be my pleasure," he murmured, eyes flickering over to the other Companions, noticing their small flinches, and he feels satisfied in the knowledge that they had been watching, noticing, using their minds instead of their hands like the mindless battle machines Arthion so often dismissed them as. He watched from the shadows as Vilkas returned to his position, and when they all fell silent, Arthion tensed.
"Before the ancient flame, we grieve."
Not like them, Arthion's mind whispered traitorously, even as his eyes sought Vilkas in the crowd, an unpleasant twist to his mouth. It galled him, a little, that the grief he felt was grief for Vilkas' loss, because this was only a thing; it was never meant to last, and it wouldn't.
"At this loss, we weep."
This is no loss. I lived years without the loyalty of such wolves, and I will live many more.
"For the fallen, we shout."
But he did not.
"And for ourselves, we take our leave."
And without a word to anyone, he slipped into the darkness and vanished.