Chapter 1
Irony only began to describe it.
Silver seemed to be the only thing Silver Hands fought with, naturally. Vilkas never expected them to fight with magic. He never expected that he'd be cast head first into a terrifying, surreal adventure that would completely change his outlook on war, on trust, on love. He never expected to partner with a man that devoted his life to the thing that he despises most- magic.
But expectations seldom play out, he discovered while trying to navigate the chambers, subchambers, and passages of the ancient Nordic ruins. He was lost between the dank, unforgiving walls.
He'd notice a certain rock laying about, or protruding from a wall. Just keep going and you'll run into something, he told himself. Three rounds later to run into the same clammy rock. His heavy armor wasn't invented for redundant navigation.
Or carrying a volt of electricity. He'd thought he was struck by lightning. A stupid thought, he decided as he slowly rotated to face a maroon-black-robed figure.
Mages. Fucking. Mages.
He tried to whip around and jerk out his sword. His armor wasn't slowing him, though. It was worse than when he was encumbered. No, then he could at least walk.
This Silver Hand member had the power to carry more than a silver weapon. A black cloud streaked with purple shot out, accompanying a second shock from a partner. Vilkas struggled to face the coupled Hands in his burdened state. After about sixty treacherous seconds he managed to unsheathe his sword, but at this rate getting close enough to strike was out of the question.
He'd intended reverting to his beast form as a last resort, and it was. The transformation had taken at least thirty seconds-getting shocked to death would take roughly three seconds.
He stood, virtually motionless, and awaited the fatal strike.
The strike came, but not from where he expected. Black-robed weights puffed up a layer of dirt on the ground with two mute thuds. And from behind one fallen Hand stood a lanky yet comely brunette, ungarbed of the telltale robes of a Silver Hand mage.
Vilkas put one foot forward freely but hesitantly and then decided to swing.
"Whoa, slow down there! If I was with them your ass would be ashes by now." The man held up his hands defensively.
Vilkas furrowed his brows and took a closer look at the man, his orange robes. His long hair.
"Who are you?-why did you stop them from killing me?" he asked, lowering his sword warily.
"I don't mind helping those in need of my powers, but really it was more for the ruins."
When felt by Vilkas's confused eyes, he turned away and placed a hand along the crumbly rock wall. "I had to protect this beautiful piece of history from those imbeciles... and I saw that you were in trouble... why?"
His arm still resting on the wall, he turned his head to meet eyes with an ursine beast standing in Vilkas's place. First he jumped, but then-as realization dawned on him-smiled and tilted his head knowingly.
"...Well put. I'll get you out, my furry friend."
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The fact that Vilkas was aware of himself in his beast form didn't make things any less awkward when he reverted. His nude figure laying somewhere green outside the ruins, Vilkas was caught between wanting the man to bring him back clothes, and not wanting the man to see him at all.
He hated that the one thing that saved his life was magic. He hated the concept that nothing randomly appeared for no reason and that same nothing saved him when a lifetime of training, manual labor, and sweat could not. That nothing was the reason his life was endangered in the first place. That at this point, that nothing is the only way that he could kill the Silver Hand.
Well here came a Master of the Nothing with his armor. Vilkas hadn't even realized he was standing behind him until the mage cleared his throat, dropped his armor, and shyed his eyes away.
"I myself don't mind being naked, but really... put some clothes on." The mage teased.
He shivered slipping on his clothes, but the places held by the mage's large hands were still warm.
Fully clothed, Vilkas started on his way back to Jorrvaskr, when the other man stopped him.
"I suppose you'd like to at least know the name of your savior, aye? A name to spread around your home town?"
Vilkas turned back, one eye peering from beneath slathered layers of black war paint. "What?"
"I'm assuming the only reason you didn't thank me is that you forgot; thank the college that taught me that spell instead. But..." A simper played on lips.
"The name's Marcurio."
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Vilkas lay on his bed and traced the stone cieling with his eyes.
Having told Kodlak that he cleared out the ruins with ease, Vilkas found himself awake when his shield-siblings have been asleep all night and the small hours of morning. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged it. He wrinked his forehead, breathing heavily. He jerked out of bed and fumbled his way to the hall, where he set a chair by the window.
During day, every child playing tag was a Silver Hand come on the defensive. At night, every guard with a torch was a Silver Hand mage readying a firebolt. As the bags under his eyes grew deeper and more noticeable, so did his guilt. The last time he got a decent rest was immediately after he returned from the ruins, out of pure exhaustion.
At several times he considered going back to the ancient Nordic ruins and clearing it out. But that's as far as he went. Considering. It took a mage to kill a mage. AndMarcurio wouldn't be there to help him again. Unless...
Unless he was.
He couldn't stand being with the narcissist. But worse than Marcurio's excessive pride, worse than his avid belief in magic, was the overwhelming paranoia that burdened him. The rational fear that the Silver Hand was coming out of hiding.
But even if he were to meet Marcurio, if he found him, how could he ask for his help? Even if he needed it desperately, how could he take credit for another man's work? Such things, he decided, weren't as important than finishing what he started.
He remembered Marcurio mentioning a college.
There was only one college that could train a man to have as much skill as Marcurio: the College of Winterhold. It's dwindling reputation was all the more reason to keep his mission private.
Plan in mind, he loosened his tense, and collapsed into bed with the due sleep of a week.
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Vilkas's feet crunched the snow collected on the bridge to the College of Winterhold. He tried to calm his nerves, or at least stop the shaking. He couldn't.
In the distance he could see a courtyard with people in robes sauntering about.
One spotted him and came sprinting down the bridge. "Halt! State your business here."
"I'm looking for a man who goes by Marcurio. He attends this college, does he not?"
The boy gave him a once-over and his eyes turned wide.
He darted back to the courtyard and shouted something unintelligable to the others. Soon balls of flame and electricity encompassed their hands and they all sent a flurry of magic over the bridge.
Vilkas was fast enough to dodge them and smart enough to run. He felt a singe of fire on his ear as he set off. Though his clunky armor slowed him, he hurtled behind houses, then a wagon, and several crowds until he reached the end of the town. Nothing to hide behind anymore, he ran faster.
One detail recurred through his mind as he fled: the subtle maroon glow of the students' black robes. The same glow as the robes now coated in ancient Nordic dust.
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"I was ambushed by some college students today, ass." Vilkas heard a tetchy voice behind him.
Vilkas was sitting again by the window, waiting for the Hands to invade the nightfell plaza of Whiterun when he heard it. He turned to a tight-faced mage leaning against the table. The man's arms were crossed, and his muscles tensed.
Vilkas grabbed the battle axe off the wall with one hand. "I know the feeling. But why-" he grabbed the other man by the robes and pinned him on the wall, the shaft of the axe tight against Marcurio's neck.
"-would they come after one of their own?" He glared into the other man's face from a fixed understare.
"One of their- I'm not one of them. That was the first thing I ever told you!" He wheezed.
Vilkas pressed the shaft of the axe harder to his throat. "Then why did your college mates have the robes of Silver Hands?"
Tears welled in Marcurio's eyes, threatening to spill. "I can explain. Please..."
Vilkas paused, searching Marcurio's eyes for a moment before loosening his grip, sending Marcurio to the floor. "What?"
Marcurio lay two wet eyes on Vilkas. "I was a student. But that was before they collaborated with the Silver Hand. When I was learning there, the college didn't have a right reputation. Near the end of my course, the Silver Hand noticed that. They started training the students under their secret authority. And that was when I dropped out as part of a small group who refused to be Hand mages."
Vilkas dropped his tense and let out a deep sigh. "What were you really doing at the ruins with them?"
"They were holding me there. They can't let someone like me escape with their secret." He gestured to himself. "The two Hand mages I was stuck with saw you, and I seized the oppurtunity to strike. It only seemed fair that I got you out, too. You did save my life."
Vilkas held out a hand to him and lifted him from the dusty floor.
"I heard you were looking for me. They are, too. So... we really are in this together now, even if for different reasons," Marcurio let a slight smile slip, "...but still."
"I'll help you out as long as you do the same for me." Vilkas extended his hand again.
Marcurio shook it before saying, "I've got your back, friend. By the fur."
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Author's Notes / My editor in chief: captainPEDO