The Boy With The Crimson Eyes
Description: The only woman he'd ever wanted had left him standing at the altar without a backward glance. Now he was a cold and merciless killer, utterly unfeeling, and there was no way in hell Vilkas was ever going to allow anyone to hurt him again like she did. Six years ago she broke the heart of the man she loved. Leaving Vilkas was the hardest thing the Dragonborn ever had to do, but she had no choice. She never expected to see him again. In fact, she'd taken great measures to avoid him. She doesn't blame him for hating her. She knows he'll never be able to understand or forgive what she did. But now Vilkas was back in her life and it's the last place she wants him because being around him again will only lead to heartbreak. Because the Dragonborn has a secret she'll protect at all costs, especially from him.
Disclaimer: Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters. I just play with them.
Chapter 1 – The Wolf
Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse
- 9 Crimes by Damien Rice
In the city of Falkreath, a lone warrior walked down a dark and empty dirt road as the moonlight shined down upon the sleeping town. The Nord moved with long, determined strides through the darkness of the night, avoiding the wildly dancing light cast by the torches carried by the city guardsmen as they passed him by, eying him with suspicion and apprehension.
Wolf.
That's what they called him now. He was a predator of the highest caliber – lean and strong, a savage hunter with stony confidence, naturally adopting the role of pack leader and equally comfortable striking out on his own. He was dark and deadly in both looks and wit, handsome as the devil, exuding danger and feral intensity.
Demon.
That was another name for him. The Nord warrior was as ferocious in battle as he was ruthless. A vicious, unmerciful killer with a blade in his hand. Dangerous and heartless, his prowess unmatched. The coldly disciplined swordsman was feared by all. A once fiery spirit now turned cold, callous, and bitter.
Hero.
That was another name they used. The man was the Harbinger of the Companions, the Commander of the Blades, and a slayer of Alduin alongside the Dragonborn. Most people called him a legend because he could do what most could not, and with the great power and strength he held, he was a Nord warrior who's name would never be forgotten in Skyrim. Such was his reputation that his name alone could strike fear in the hearts of the greatest warriors and make strong men cower with just a single look.
Vilkas.
That was one name only a rare few were allowed to use. He couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand hearing the syllables in his ears. Hearing it reminded him too much of the man he once was.
The man he was with her.
But he wasn't that man anymore. Not after what she'd done to him. The feelings he'd once had for her were unlike anything he'd ever experienced with any other woman. She was the only woman he'd ever wanted and six years ago she had left him standing at the altar without a backward glance, shattering his heart without ever bothering to explain why.
Vilkas came to a stop and stared up at the sign for the Dead Man's Drink - the inn where he and his team were resting for the night before they continued on with their mission. The Nord warrior was well over six feet of sheer power and broad shoulders, all hard muscle and immense strength. He looked supremely dangerous dressed in his ebony Blades armor, which was made from small square armor plates connected to each other by chain armor and sewn to a black cloth backing.
His lean face was drawn in harsh angles, ruthlessly chiseled, a wild black beard obscuring much of his face. His hair was raven-black in color and shimmered in the moonlight above him. It was longer than it had ever been, hanging past his shoulders. Wisps of hair swept across his forehead and dangled in his haunted eyes that were no longer surrounded by black war paint. His eyes had once been a bright silver color due to the Beast Blood that had once coursed through his veins. But now that his lycanthropy was cured, his eyes had gone back to their natural shade of dark gray, like the color of slate in the middle of a thunderstorm. After a moment, the Nord lifted his hand and pushed open the front door of the inn and walked in.
The tavern was full of patrons and a bard was playing a lute beside the fireplace in the center of the room. Valga Vinicia, the owner of the Dead Man's Drink, lifted her head from the glass she was drying behind the bar as the front door opened and a dark stranger stepped inside. The bard's fingers fell dissonantly from the strings of his lute and an ominous silence fell upon the tavern as the door closed behind the formidable man wearing the imposing ebony heavy armor. A dangerous lethality coated the air around the infernal looking Nord and it caused an uneasy tension to fill the room.
The patrons scattered in fear as the stranger stalked into the room - a sleek predator of sinewy grace, underlying strength, and calculated movements. His intense and piercing gray eyes studied the room and the people in it with keen intelligence and a dark scowl on his face as he headed for the bar. Even doing nothing more dangerous than simply crossing the room, the Nord in the black Blades armor radiated danger. Everyone in the tavern could see in this man the carriage of a fighter, to the man's very core. The danger he exuded was menacing and intimidating and most of the patrons left immediately, terribly unsettled and frightened of the dark stranger.
Vilkas slid smoothly onto a bar stool at the bar and signaled to Valga for a tankard of mead. Along with his mead, Valga handed him a small, folded paper. Vilkas opened it immediately and read the charcoal letters sketched onto the parchment.
Wolf,
A resurrected dragon was spotted in the forest just outside of Dawnstar. Witnesses spotted a cloaked figure fleeing the forest and heading into the mountains. Paarthurnax wants you and your team to travel immediately to Dawnstar to investigate. He believes this cloaked figure is the one who absorbed the soul of Alduin and is now resurrecting dragons. The suspect is to be arrested and taken to the Blades Fortress for interrogation. If the suspect is ever determined to be the abomination harboring the soul of Alduin, then you and your team are to use any force necessary to destroy such evil.
- Delphine
Vilkas folded the paper and put it into his pocket before lifting the tankard of mead to his lips and taking a sip. His elite team was made up of ten of the most skilled, highly advanced, and specialized soldiers in the Blades. They were the best and therefore tasked with the most dangerous missions, which typically involved destroying any newly resurrected dragons and tracking the source. Vilkas was the leader of this special task force as he was the best damned killer in the Blades.
Vilkas' eyes caught the portrait hanging on the wall at the back of the tavern and the tankard paused at his lips, his chest tightening painfully at the sight of it. It was a portrait of the last Dragonborn - the slayer of Alduin. The young Breton woman used to be a member of the Companions and the Thieves Guild before she vanished from the face of the earth six years ago. Despite her sudden disappearance, she was still adored by the people of Skyrim as their savior.
A cold tide of bitterness and resentment washed over him as his eyes travelled over the woman in the portrait whose long flowing honeyed hair spilled in silken sheets of hand-spun gold over her slender shoulders down to her waist, her creamy sun-kissed skin that was smooth and flawless, and the greenest eyes he'd ever seen.
Vilkas tore his eyes away from the portrait, staring daggers into the wood of the bar, every fiber of his being soaked with fresh animosity and icy anger.
Faye.
He'd loved her. She was the only woman he'd ever loved. And she had ripped his heart out.
Losing her had been devastating. It had stripped him of everything. He'd had to claw his way out of the dark, bottomless pit of despair and depression she'd left him in. He'd had to strip his soul in order to survive the devastation she'd intentionally inflicted upon him, becoming nothing but a cold, cruel, empty shell of his former self. The man he'd been was dead. No trace of his former self remained - a man who could harbor genuine affection for another, a man who could smile and laugh, a man who was alive with happiness, a man who could feel something other than hate and despair.
The day she walked out on him was the day Vilkas vowed he would never love again, and he had not. He refused to risk the kind of loss and pain he'd already suffered. Of course, he had his fair share of women to keep his bed warm when he needed that, but no one ever compared to Faye. No one had stolen his heart like she'd done.
I love you… the Dragonborn's sweet, softly lilting voice washed over him, even though he had no wish to revisit the past.
Large, mesmerizing emerald eyes darkened, becoming dark ivy in color as a long silky strand of blonde hair fell into them.
"Forever," she breathed, tenderly touching his cheek, as he slid into her, becoming one with her. "I will love you forever."
She was smiling that smile that was like a breath of spring, making his chest tighten in response to it, her brightly shining eyes aglow with love.
Gods help him she looked so beautiful that it hurt.
His large hand gripped her slender, milky-white thigh and lifted her leg to hook around his hip. He soon found himself lost in the green of her eyes as he moved within her, wanting to fill every part of her until she couldn't survive without him. He could feel his soul colliding with hers. Connecting. Interlacing. Making any future separation insufferable, utterly inconceivable.
"Stay with me." His tone was hard and demanding mixed with a hint of fear, the words falling unbidden from his lips. "Always. Stay with me."
Her expression softened and her fingertips lightly traced his jawline. "Wherever you are, that's where I'll be."
Vilkas cursed harshly under his breath as he sat stiffly, unmoving on the bar stool, jaw clenched and scowling into his mead. He'd put a lot of effort into banishing her from his memory. So why did her memory haunt him now? Why was he thinking of the Dragonborn when she'd been as good as dead to him for the past six years?
Perhaps she was dead. He honestly had no idea. Vilkas expected to feel something at the thought of the Dragonborn dead – satisfaction, sorrow, indifference – but instead he felt… nothing. Only hollow, bitter, emptiness from her unforgivable betrayal.
"Faye Ashhart, you are the one thing I can't live without, and I never wish to be parted from you. I have, and will, love none but you." Vilkas' calloused hands grazed up her the sides of her neck and then reached up to curve along her cheeks. His forehead touched hers as he shut his eyes and deeply inhaled her sweet scent of wildflowers, the tips of his fingers curling into her silky golden locks. "Marry me."
The Dragonborn's small hands tangled in his thick midnight tresses, and brought his lips down to hers. His mouth slanted over hers in the most tender of kisses that held an aching sweetness. "Yes," she whispered, over and over into his mouth, as her tears came in full force, falling thickly down her cheeks. "You have my love and heart," the Dragonborn vowed in a broken voice as her slender body shook, shoulders jerking, clear trails rolling down her face. "By the gods, I give them to you freely, and with all that I am."
LIAR! Vilkas screamed internally, raging, hating how he couldn't erase the past that had once belonged to him, or the fiancée that had once been his, no matter how hard he tried. Vilkas lifted the tankard to his lips again and downed half of it in one gulp, the burning alcohol sustenance to his battered soul, his mind awash in the memories he'd tried so hard to forget, memories of wedding rings and broken promises.
He remembered being twenty-three years old again and standing at the altar at the temple of Mara wearing his new Harbinger armor while his twin brother and the rest of his Companion family, as well as his other friends, sat in the pews. He remembered standing up there, alone, in front of everyone he knew, the hour growing late, the whispers that the bride wasn't going to show rolling up and down the pews. He remembered staring unwaveringly at the front door, waiting, silently willing her to walk through them.
But she never did. It wasn't until he was standing in the room they'd rented at the Bee and Barb, holding her cruelly honest note saying she couldn't go through with the wedding clutched in his hand, his mother's wedding ring returned to him in the other, did it sink in that she'd left him. Even after everything they'd been through.
It seemed they had come full circle, Vilkas mused bitterly. He'd hated the Dragonborn the moment he met her - with her lack of skill and the way she always wore that dishonorable thieves guild armor - and now he hated her again. He'd thought that she was different from the disgraceful, manipulating thief he'd thought her when he first met her. But he was wrong. He should never have trusted her. The wench had exposed her true character. Her deceitful nature, treacherous ways, and heartlessness.
About a year after she'd joined the Companions, Vilkas and Faye had faced Alduin together - the last Dragonborn and the Harbinger of the Companions - and they had returned from Sovngarde alive and victorious with his mother's wedding ring on her finger. They'd gone immediately to Riften to be married the very next day.
Vilkas' fingers tightened on his tankard of mead. Gods, he'd believed her when she'd told him she loved him. He'd believed her when she swore forever when he'd put the ring on her finger.
Just proved what a fucking idiot he'd been.
A bitter little laugh escaped Vilkas' throat. He still had that damn note with those three damn sentences carved into it. Three lines. Three lines of hastily written words that had ripped out his heart, the depth of his heartbreak unfathomable.
I can't marry you.
Don't try to find me.
You'll never see me again.
The memory of those bone-chilling words, so long buried, hit Vilkas now like a dragon's tail to the gut as he stared with narrowed eyes into the tankard gripped tightly in his hand.
The night before she left, Faye seemed nervous, agitated, and slightly unbalanced. He knew now it was because she was planning to leave. Leave of her own damn free will. She clearly hadn't cared enough about him to tell him the reason for walking out on him the night before they were to be married. She clearly hadn't felt the same way he had.
She'd moved on quick enough, he thought resentfully. A month after she'd left him, Vilkas heard about how the Dragonborn had married Brynjolf, the Guild Master of the Thieves Guild. She had cut him out of her life with terrifying immediacy and precision. She'd disappeared after that, never to be heard of again. It was the last news he'd heard of her and it had been the final dagger to his heart, destroying what little was left. Her marriage had forced him to confront and accept the most painful truth of all. Faye had never loved him. If she had, she couldn't have married another man.
He'd gone on a year-long binge of self-pity and destruction after that - drinking non-stop until he couldn't see straight, getting into fights, and going through women like wind through the air. He refused to return to Whiterun and to Jorrvaskr. He refused to return to his responsibilities and obligations as Harbinger. He refused to return to a life without her. Not knowing when their Harbinger would return to them, his Companion family had elected his twin brother Farkas as acting Harbinger until Vilkas returned to Jorrvaskr, which he hadn't yet. Farkas was now married to a pretty Nord woman and had three children.
Back then he didn't know if he'd ever heal. The Dragonborn had become a part of his heart, his soul. When she left, it felt like something inside of him died. For one long, wasted year his anger, bitterness, and despair had turned into venomous resentment and loathing that festered like a poisoned wound until he was filled with nothing but disgust and hatred for her, an animosity that was so deep and consuming it corrupted him, turning him into something dark and cruel and vicious.
Delphine had found him then – found him at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and in a married tavern wench's bed - and had offered him a position with the Blades. The Blades were rebuilding their organization, turning it into a formidable army of soldiers that did one thing and one thing only - kill dragons. Vilkas had found it odd that a dragon was the leader of the Blades, but Delphine had told him that the Blades had made a deal with Paarthurnax.
Vilkas had gone to meet Paarthurnax at the Throat of the World. The ancient dragon had explained to him that while he and the Dragonborn had destroyed Alduin's physical form in Sovngarde, they had not destroyed his soul.
Vilkas didn't believe it at first. He saw Alduin's soul sink into the Dragonborn's skin after she made the killing strike. But Paarthurnax had showed him the newly resurrected dragons – dragons Vilkas had personally killed - and he knew then that it was true. Only Alduin had the power to resurrect dragons. Somehow the Nordic God of Destruction's soul had remained on this earth.
Vilkas knew Alduin's soul was strong. He was the First-Born of Akatosh, after all. A god. He knew that if Alduin was slain in battle that even though his physical body would be destroyed, his soul might not be if it was able to resist being consumed by the Dragonborn's soul. Alduin's soul might even be able to force itself into the body of another. Paarthurnax had told them that if Alduin were able to force his soul into another being besides the Dragonborn, then his soul would overpower the soul already housed in that being and would take on that physical form. That being would bear Alduin's soul and be tainted by it. It would become mutated, corrupted, and evil. Such an abomination could not be allowed to exist since Alduin would still be able to resurrect fallen dragons, still be able to try and take over the world and seek its annihilation, which meant his soul would still need to be destroyed.
Vilkas and Aela had joined the Blades then, willing to do whatever was necessary to destroy Alduin's soul. Their primary objective was to root out and fight ancient dragons while tracking down the creature that now housed Alduin's soul and was resurrecting fallen dragons. They'd moved from Jorrvaskr to the Sky Haven Temple and then to the newly constructed Blades Fortress in the Fall Forest located between Riften and Sunguard.
During his time with the Blades, Vilkas had developed a fierce reputation that left even the bravest men quaking in their boots. He had become renowned for his vaunted nerve and had proven his valor countless times over. His remarkable achievements in combat had allowed him to rise in rank to Commander of the Blades, earning him the title "The Wolf," a dreaded appellation that made his foes tremble. A ruthless warrior, the Wolf was known as a man of pronounced cruelty.
He'd made so many enemies that there was never a shortage of assassins sent after him from the Dark Brotherhood. Vilkas raised his hand to his throat to rub at the faint, thin, white scar across his throat beneath his long beard. During an assassination attempt, his throat had been cut, his voice permanently damaged after that. His voice had once been deep and smooth as honey, but now it was rough and guttural. Raw and damaged. Just like him.
So much about him had changed in the past six years. His flesh bore the scars of war, while his soul bore the scars of a woman's desertion. He wasn't Vilkas anymore. He was truly Wolf, because Wolf had made certain nothing of Vilkas existed. He was a cold, ice-eyed killer now, carrying out his assigned tasks with a ruthlessness that could rival even Alduin's brutality. He was also bigger and more powerful than ever before, rock hard with a will of steel. He used to offer mercy and only killed when he absolutely had to, but now… now he killed with merciless, unflinching efficiency. He was like a shark - cold-blooded, focused, and deadly.
Anger and bitterness now coated his veins making him cold, callous, and utterly unfeeling. And he preferred it that way. It was better than the alternative of feeling the pain she had caused. He'd ripped his own heart out long ago to never feel that pain. Despair, loneliness, hurt. Such pain was unlivable. He didn't feel the pain anymore, his anger was like an analgesic. Numb was what he did best these days. And kill.
He also flitted from woman to woman, something he never used to do. His sudden rakish behavior had become a way to temporarily fill the aching void Faye had left in his soul. But not even the consolation of warm female flesh could completely drive away her memory. Every time he touched another woman it was her body that he felt. Her long, silky golden hair that was tangled in his fingers. The feel of her was forever emblazoned upon his memory. Those other women meant nothing and only satisfied his body's natural ache, but never came close to his heart. Never again.
"You… Blade…" came a belligerent masculine voice from behind him, pulling him from his broody thoughts. Vilkas' body tensed on the bar stool he was perched on as he sensed danger at his back. "Get lost, dragon slayer. We don't want your kind around here. You'll bring us nothing but trouble and them fire breathers."
Vilkas' broad shoulders lifted and bunched as tension filled him, his senses heightened, his intelligent mind assessing and calculating. "The Blades have business here," Vilkas responded, his ruined voice scraping. "We leave at dawn."
"You leave now," the man barked as he shoved Vilkas' back.
Vilkas' jaw clenched, eyes narrowing dangerously. He didn't like being touched. The raven-haired Nord slowly turned around on his bar stool to face the man who'd shoved him. The man blanched at the sight of the stone cold face of the menacing Nord, his piercing dark grey orbs sharp and cutting as they sliced into him with barely leashed wrath. The man must have seen the promise of death there for he took a step back, recoiling instinctively while a shiver of fear ran cold down his spine.
Vilkas' mouth thinned into a dangerous line as his eyes shifted to the two men on either side of the man in front of him, dark grey orbs as sharp as knives cutting into their startled pairs. His scowl was black as he shifted his gaze back to the lout in front of him who was now pointing a sword at his chest.
"You are advised to walk away." Vilkas' ruined voice was a dark and foreboding rumble in his chest brimming with hostility and aggression. "I'll give you one warning."
"Y-You better leave now, m-mister, or I'll run you through with this here b-blade," the man threatened weakly, stammering in the face of such a violent and savage expression.
Vilkas moved fast, his hands a speeding blur as he snatched the sword pointed at his chest and flipped it in his hand, and in one deft motion, he shoved the point of the sword up and into the man's chin, going straight through the bottom and the roof of his mouth, piercing his brain. The man twitched slightly for a few moments, a slight gurgle of blood in the back of his throat, blood spilling out the corners of his mouth, before going limp, dead. Vilkas ripped the sword out and the man fell to the ground at his feet.
Vilkas spun fast and cut the second man's head clean off his shoulders while also grabbing the sword out of the beheaded man's hand. He flipped both weapons around while completing his turn-in-place, until he faced the third man. He held up the two swords and crisscrossed their blades beneath the man's chin. The two sharp weapons looked like a pair of scissors pressed against the third man's neck.
"Drop the sword or I take your head," Vilkas growled savagely at the man, his tone deadlier than the hard edge of steel pressed against the man's neck, his expression dark and fatal, the glare on his face sharp enough to cut bone.
The man did as he was told, shaking with fear as he dropped his sword to the ground.
Vilkas' eyes narrowed and shifted to the corner of his eye as his body tensed again. He spun around and threw one of the swords at the man silently creeping up behind him. The point of the sword was dead-on, sinking into the man's shoulder. The man let out a yell and fell back, the sword in his hand tumbling from his grasp and falling to the wooden floor with a loud clamor.
The third man lunged for the remaining sword in Vilkas' hand while his back was turned, but Vilkas spun swiftly, arm extended, his blade sinking into the man's ribs. He cried out in pain, clutching his stomach as he coughed up blood. Vilkas yanked the sword out and the man fell to the ground and lost his last gasp of air.
Vilkas stood in the middle of the room, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, the blade in his hand dripping with fresh blood onto the wooden floor. The four men who'd attacked him were either dead or bleeding to death on the ground at his feet, warm blood pooling around them.
Vilkas dropped the blood-soaked sword to the ground and turned to face Valga, his features savage and adrenaline still pumping through him. "Whiskey," he ordered, his damaged voice a rough scraping sound.
Wide-eyed and fearful, Valga tossed him the best whiskey she had. Vilkas deftly caught it before heading for the stairs. The stink of death and blood clung to him and his tension was so high it had become painful. His face impossibly set now, Vilkas took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his rented room at the end of the long hall.
An hour later, Vilkas sat alone on the wooden floor of his rented room, his back leaning against the door, the pommel of his sword - Dragonbane - resting against the bed's frame beside him. The room was dark and cold. Just how he liked it. He had no use for light or warmth anymore. He was staring blankly at the ground, reluctantly remembering the past as rain fell lightly on the roof above his head.
A single candle burned beside the nearby almost empty bottle of whiskey. For a long time he wavered between unparalleled fury and gut-wrenching sorrow. He'd suffered unbelievable agony while fighting for the Blades, even being captured and tortured by a cult of dragon worshippers that were currently at war with the Blades for killing their gods. But he'd never broken. He'd survived. He'd endured.
But he couldn't endure her. She'd broken him indefinitely.
When the Dragonborn's image came unbidden to his mind, he drank to push it away, to forget what he had felt with her so very long ago. The alcohol momentarily freed him of the emptiness, the horrible sense of absolute desertion and betrayal he felt when he thought of her. And when alcohol didn't work to shut her out, he gave himself up to a woman's willing embrace to try and drive away her memory.
Vilkas reached for the whiskey and took a long pull on the bottle, liking the burn of it, until there was no more.
By the Nine, he hated her. Vilkas hated Faye, and he always would. He hated her absolutely. He hated her because she was a liar. He hated her for betraying him. He hated her for the whore and the thief she was. But most of all he hated how he could not tell her how much he hated her. Frustration filled his heart and soul as he thought of the events six years ago. It made him want her dead, her flesh burned and her bones mashed.
Vilkas stood and stumbled drunkenly over to the bed. He removed his dirty and sweaty armor and boots. He pulled out the dagger he always kept in his boot and placed it under his pillow. He never slept without it. He'd been trained by Kodlak to always keep his guard up and that's what he'd always done. He had learned early on as a child that, if given the chance, people will strike first. Vilkas never gave them the opportunity to try and get the best of him. Never again.
Vilkas pulled back the covers and drunkenly climbed into the bed. The cool feel of the crisp linen sheets on his skin were a welcomed gift after the night's events of fighting, bloodshed, and death. Adjusting his pillow, Vilkas pulled the blankets up to his chest and closed his eyes. By the Nine, he was exhausted and the darkness and silence were exactly what he had been craving these last few hours. Sleep would be bliss to obtain. Trying to find a comfortable position, he rolled over onto his side, taking a deep breath, but then tensed as he heard the sound of breathing. Breathing?
Vilkas knitted his dark brow, his body immediately going on the offensive as he remembered the last assassin that had tried to kill him. The comely woman had taken him to bed and then dragged her blade across his throat while his back had been turned to her, nearly killing him and ruining his voice forever in the process. For one second the assassin had believed she'd accomplished her mission before the heel of Vilkas' hand had slammed into her nose followed by a quick snap of her neck.
Vilkas slipped his hand under the pillow and found the dagger. Gliding the cool steel out from its hiding place, he gained a better grip. Swiftly he sat up, dragging the dagger out from under his pillow and held it sideways in front of his bare chest, his tightly-corded muscles flexing and bunching with the movement. Vilkas' dark gray eyes narrowed, intently searching the darkness of his room as the rain beat against the roof. A flash of lightning lit the night sky from outside his window, illuminating Aela standing at the foot of his bed, watching him.
The huntress reached down and pulled her long tunic over her head, letting it fall to the floor. Auburn hair fell to her shoulders, her nude, voluptuous body laid bare for him. Vilkas' body relaxed and he slid the dagger back until his pillow. Though his head was pounding and he was not in the mood for this, he would not refuse her late-night visit to his bedside. He would not ask her to leave, though he was tempted too. It would be rude and pointlessly cruel to reject her after all she had done for him these past years.
Vilkas pulled back the covers to reveal his already nude form and rose to his knees. This was not the first time in the past five years Aela had slipped secretly into his bedchamber at night to indulge in a few stolen hours of lust. Out of all the women he took to bed, the huntress was the only woman he ever allowed to return, though never successively. That would be too intimate. It would give the wrong impression.
The huntress moved cautiously onto the bed, trying to read his face and determine his mood. His expression was neither welcoming nor disapproving. He seemed to be… waiting. She didn't try to kiss him, knew he wouldn't let her. The last lips Vilkas' had touched were Faye's, and Aela knew he wanted it that way, even if he wasn't aware of it. She truly believed that man wanted to die with that woman's lips being the last pair that had been on his.
Vilkas' lean, angular face was infernally handsome, even though it was covered by a thick black beard and framed by wavy raven locks. Aela's hands lifted and her fingers ran through his long hair that hung past his shoulders. Haunted, haunted eyes lifted to meet her steady gaze. Those dark, smoky-gray orbs were filled with unfathomable, deep-seated hurt and wretched anguish. He tried to hide so much behind his icy scowls and savage violence, but if you looked close enough you could see through them, see the crushing wretchedness and desolation that simmered beneath the surface.
"So much pain," Aela whispered as her fingers ran down his face and into his fully-grown beard that was immensely thick and untamed.
He brutally grabbed her wrists, halting her, and pulled her hands from his face. "Don't," Vilkas growled harshly in warning, uncomfortable with her touch and her words.
Wanting to get it over with, Vilkas pushed Aela back on the bed and her long, tanned legs opened for him. His hands began mechanically moving over her toned body, making her hotter until she was ready. As Vilkas moved over her, another flash of lightning lit the night sky, and it was Faye's softly featured face he saw gazing up at him. Something moved inside him, twisting his heart painfully as he saw long golden hair instead of short red, large doe-eyes the color of spring leaves instead of sharp silver, soft pink lips curving into a gentle smile instead of plumb red lips set in a sultry grin.
Vilkas cursed fiercely under his breath. She left him! So why did this feel like cheating?
With furrowed eyebrows, Vilkas pulled back and lifted Aela's long-limbed body up and flipped her onto her knees. He pushed the lower part of her back down with his hand, spread her legs apart with his knees and pulled her closer to him. He took her hard and without warning, driving into her, over and over again, as if he could exorcise the memory of the one who'd broken his heart.
Aela's body tensed as Vilkas whispered something so softly, so quietly, that it was almost inaudible. But she heard it. It was a name. Not hers, but another woman's. The woman who had destroyed the man he once was. Aela remembered the empathy she'd felt the first time Vilkas called out Faye's name – his voice rippling with so much passion, so much pain and regret.
When they collapsed on the bed, sated, neither spoke as Aela swiftly slipped from the bed and began dressing. They never cuddled and she never stayed the night because she knew Vilkas didn't want her to. She knew his wishes. He slept alone. His solitary slumber was a self-imposed rule.
The Dragonborn had changed him, Aela knew. He was darker than he was before, colder and distant, callous and unfeeling. He only ever took her from behind, unable and unwilling to experience anything more meaningful than a slaking of lust. Aela accepted these unspoken conditions because this way she at least got to have him. The man had an advanced degree of sexual prowess after all, and was a brilliant and fierce warrior, every woman's temptation. She would settle for what little he felt free to give. And even though she felt a pang of jealousy every time Vilkas called out Faye's name, Aela knew she shouldn't. He wasn't hers. Never would be. And she wasn't his either. There were other men in her life that she shared her bed with, Vilkas was just her favorite, the most skilled. Besides, Aela had her own ghosts after all. Skjor's memory prevented her from forming any serious relationship.
When he was alone once more, Vilkas lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the rain falling gently on the roof above him. The reprieve Aela had given him was only a temporary one - hollow and meaningless - and the memory of the Dragonborn and the hatred he harbored for her had already come back in full blazing force, a hatred that was a burning, roiling pain in his gut.
Vilkas' eyes narrowed in fury on the dark ceiling as his hands fisted in the sheets, his grip so tight it turned his knuckles white. He swore, he swore on Kodlak's grave that if he ever saw her again, if he ever saw that heartless, soulless shrew he would make her suffer. He would make her pay for her betrayal, make her hurt for all the pain that she had caused him.
Author's Note: If you've beaten the main quest of the game, you know that Alduin's soul is not absorbed by the Dragonborn. If you speak to Arngeir about it, he will say Alduin may not really be dead, that he may be permitted to return at the end of time to fulfill his destiny as the World-Eater. That dialogue prompted the idea that Alduin's physical form could be destroyed, but that his soul could still remain and possibly be absorbed by someone or something other than the Dragonborn. Oh, and in case you didn't know "Vilkas" means wolf in Lithuanian. Also, this chapter has a soundtrack: 9 Crimes by Damien Rice. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.