Chapter 2

"You're right. This is better than the ale we always drink."

Farkas commented on the bottle his older twin brought back to Jorvaskr, while watching the elder replica stayed still in his seat, hand gripping the goblet, eyes gazing deep in thoughts. It must have been the Elf that cause everyone to fuss up, including his brother. Farkas had already saw the Bosmer and the small look didn't impress him that much, but he could see that the elf was not any ordinary Bosmer. There was a certain aura from him that even not with the cursed instincts, he could feel it.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him like that. But you know, Farkas, I'm not good at saying sorries. Especially to people whom I don't know."

"Saw me this afternoon, he panicked and ran like a rabbit. Must had thought that I was you."

Vilkas growled in his palm. Fane was terrified at him then. The need to say sorry was growing large inside him along with the guilt. It wasn't the Bosmer the one at fault, and he did tried to offer help, and he deserved naught of those scornful words. But he was still so confused and ashamed to go and face the elf. He might had needed more time thinking. The impression he bore was bad enough.

"Some fight that Wood Elf could do! I'd wager Athis here would barely consious after that hit."

"Nay, I am stronger than I look! I say the Honningbrews are in deep trouble this time. They dared rousing attacks at their business rival that way, and that was no less than suicide for the whole company. Ah, humans sometimes are foolish… "

"But is he alright? He won the fight, but didn't look unharmed. The thugs were armed like they were going to kill a bear or something."

The not so private conversation of Torvar, Athis and Ria pulled Vilkas up from his heavy seat. He slammed the doors opened to catch the three, much to their surprise, to interogate them about the well-being of their current topic.

"Where is that elf now?"

"He left the inn already, and we saw him no more after that."

"And those troublemakers?"

"Guards have captured and sent them to the dungeons."

Several minutes later, Vilkas was running back and forth to the Temple of Kynareth, only to find the fully occupied healing wing without the Bosmer inside. Then he rushed to Arcadia in hope to find the elf buying healing potions from her, but was only able to inform the alchemist of ill news.

Fane Friduwulf was nowhere to be found in town, and there was only one place remaining Vilkas could think of. So he started running again.

By the time he was wiping the sweat away from his brows, Vilkas was standing in front of the Ciderhouse, its doors shut and windows broken, and the owner of the destroyed building was standing limply between the broken branches of the apple garden, one of his hands was holding on to a bruised fruit.

Fane Friduwulf was beaten up badly, his forehead and cheek swelled, his neck still having fingers marks of a choking attempt. One of his legs was having trouble keeping its master firm on the ground. The sky was dark, but Vilkas's vision could see hollows with dark eyes empty of feelings.

Vilkas finally saw how terrible business rivals could be by observing the situation: the house was destroyed, the fermenting tubes were broken, and the trees that bore the main ingredient for making cider, all were chopped down ruthlessly by some violent swings from an battle axe.

Vilkas swore he felt horrible before such a scene. He wanted to head back to Dragonsreadh dungeon and punish those who were responsible for all of Fane's mishaps, to shred them off into pieces. The inner wolf was reacting eagerly, sure it loved a chance to let off some steam, and though many times trying to hold himself back from the temptation, he had to agree with the blood-lusting self this time.

Fane finally saw Vilkas standing not very far away, strange fire was burning in those sharp silver eyes. As their eyes met, the fire died down and was replaced with something different. It was a mixture of sympathy and concern, something Fane received naught during the fight at the Bannered Mare. But he was clouded by the thoughts of something else, something unsettling that lingered inside his Ciderhouse, so he gave the man no attention when he painstakingly moved to the entrance with the man staring at him.

"You need treatment, elf. These wounds could kill off someone like you easily in a fortnight. Go to the Temple and get bandaged."

Vilkas felt like he was being ignored, so he finally spoke. The elf stopped in his slow, painful track to the door, to turn his head back and stare at the Companion in forced discomfort and defiance.

"… Leave immidieately. I don't need any kind of help… from you…"

Vilkas knew he hated this kind of reply the most from Elves. They always thought they are so superior, even though in times their situations were desperately calling out for help. Fane's face looked so ghostly pale, he was even whiter than the chef outfit he was wearing, his voice small and was out of breath, and the eyes… the horribly haunting eyes had lost their shine, were getting dim and unfocused. He looked like a ailing tree, ready to be broken in half by a gush of strong wind.

His teeth gritted into each other hard, the fire was fiery once again, only with a new anger unreasonably aimed at the elf.

"And I was trying to help you. But great, idiots like you die soon in real battles, and we Nords would have more space to live too!"

Fane ended their brief talk with a snicker on his bleeding lips, and then continued his way walking back to the house, as a mean to declare rejection. Vilkas was so shocked to the point he wanted to chase after and choke the damn traveler. Stuck-up long eared creatures. He cursed silently at the closed door, wondering to himself about what Acardia had said to him about the elf.

"So nice, she says huh… They are all the same, those ungrateful long-eared, creepy-eyed bastards. Next time I see an elf, I would chew his bones and hear some dying whims from those thin lips…"

He was walking back to Whiterun at first with stomps, but the anger died down as the cold breeze of the summer night cooled off his head, but worried him again by bring the faint metallic scent of the elf's blood back to his nostrils.

He had acted wrongly again, despite the unwelcoming attitude from Fane, he couldn't abandon a wounded innocent. He stopped on his track, turned to look at the now smaller sihoullete of the house for a short while before his heels were turned also. He was in need of a way to smooth talk the Elf to come with him to the Temple. He knew he could do it, since he had experience persuading kidnapped victims to trust him before, so he could lead them back to safety.

Persuasion was no longer needed when the air thickened by the scent of fresh blood flowing in it. By the time Vilkas returned, his smelling alarmed him of a mass of blood coming out from the tattered house, belonged to the Elf. He found the inside lock caused no trouble to break in, and was frantic before the unconscious cider brewer lying on the floor, on his own enlarging pool of blood.

Fane Friduwulf was lying face down, and had fell unconsious due to blood loss. Scattered around him were full of broken dishes and splinters of turned tables and chairs, and beside him was a large sword, even too big for his own size, with blood splattered on the deadly edge.

The blood on the blade wasn't Fane's, and Vilkas realized there was another intruder other than him inside the building. He didn't brought his greatsword with him, so he picked the strange, long blade on the ground up for substitution. By the time he gripped it in his hands, and his eyes were able to spot a figure, lurking in the darkness, with a gaping wound leaking out their covers. Exhausted, yes, but the attacker showed no fear.

"Come out here you coward! Come face someone who was ready for you!"

The figure dashed out of the darkness like a shadow, quick and deadly with the daggers on two sides. The masked creature only cared for Vilkas's death, so the hits were precisely aimed at his vitals. Vilkas was amazed by the speed, but he was quick to counter all the movements. He gained the upper hand in no time, for the enemy was injured and was getting slowed down by drained strengh, all he needed was a directional slash and his opponent's head already went flying to the floor.

He used the tip of the blade to flip the lifeless body of the enemy for examination. The outfit blended in with darkness and blood, for no doubt the intruder was one of the assassins from the Dark Brotherhood. Vilkas shuddered, and to find a letter mentioning someone's wish for the death of Fane Friduwulf, it was clear that the elf was targeted from the beginning of the fight.

It took him by that time to remember about the elf. He quickly came back to where Fane was lying, and with utmost carefulness, he held the blacked out elf to check on him.

The intense amount of blood pouring out of the smaller body and its smell made Vilkas cringe. There was so much it stained the elf's white shirt into crimson. He fell unconcious with his eyes opened widely in pain. It would be too late to run back and call for help, Vilkas thought, so he began his attempt trying to save the elf's life himself instead.

He ran into the kitchen, ransacked it to find water, luckily to have them full in barrels used to cool the cider. He also found dry and clean cloths inside the cabinets around the place and some towels in the upstairs bedroom, but unluckily, no potions.

After he was done gathering all necessities, Vilkas crouched besides Fane, put a half burnt candle near them, and start ripping off the elf's ruined shirt.

Vilkas was breathless, terrified by what he saw. He didn't even noticed this in daylight, and the elf was covering those under long sleeves and high collar, but at that moment, under the small light emitted from the candle, he couldn't dare to accept the sight bare to his eyes at that moment.

Besides the bruises and small cuts from his recent fight,Fane's body was covered in scars in all types that Vilkas could never have imagined. They were not battle scars, for those lines wasn't something a weapon would leave behind, but they belonged to gruesome tools of many types of torture. They ran up and down his torso, overlapping places with hardened lines. Some even wrapped around his neck and some cut so deep they disfigured the flesh under the skin.

" By the Nines,… "

Vilkas held the candle to looked at the marred Bosmer, not trying to discover more of those horrible marks, but to check if there was any other open wound.

There was no answer other than the leveled fluctuation of Fane's bandaged stomach, and it relieved Vilkas a bit from his worries. He stopped the blood fast enough, then bandaged the wound, and had carried the Bosmer upstairs to let him lie on his bed, and gave himself a duty to watch the wounded one all night, in fear that the assassins would return to finished up the botched mission. The cut was deep, but no organ was damaged, so the elf should be okay if he stayed as still as he could in a few weeks.

The killer never returned, and Vilkas found himself walking idly around the Ciderhouse by the early hours in the morning. He could slowly see the reason behind all the attacks. Fane was becoming a success brewer, and his reputation grew so quick the fame brought him enemies along. But to the extent he even got pursued by the Dark Brotherhood…

The rumor came back to his mind, about the small elf being the hero. It was quite a joke at first, but after what Vilkas had experience in a night, he was doubting about the possibilities.

He was uncorking a bottle of cider he found undamaged when he heard the grunting sounds of an awoken elf.