A/N: Next chapter is up, hopefully this will give a better picture of Eletta.
The dragon that attacked the Imperial Legion camp a day's travel from Riften was just too convenient. She stood over its body, huffing but triumphant, as she absorbed its soul. She hadn't had an opportunity to use her Shouts in a long while, needing stealth for all her missions—stealth, bah…—and it had felt so good to throw her anger into her voice. Her Unrelenting Force had stunned the dragon as it swooped down on her, actually knocking it out of the air until it plummeted face-first into the dirt. She had stressed her old wounds and added a few new ones. Once, the dragon's claws had slashed shallowly across her midriff, and its frost breath had sent shards of ice onto her left arm. She took quick stock of herself, downing a health potion that she knew would do nothing but stall the eventual medical help Lydia could provide in Breezehome. The camp's medic tried to inspect her, but she sent him away. There were soldiers with wounds fiercer than her own.
She paid the soldiers for one of their horses and rode west, ignoring the fact that she began to sway just slightly on the saddle. Night fell sooner than she'd hoped, wasting her second day of travel, and she cursed as she hopped off the steed. Her vision blackened for a second, and when she recovered she boiled water with which to clean her wounds.
Lydia is going to kill me for letting them go this long, she thought. She touched the areas gingerly, her skin red and inflamed around the injuries. A brisk cleaning and quick bandage gave her just enough comfort to allow for some sleep.
Sleep didn't come easy at nights in the Skyrim wilderness. She still remembered, very clearly, her first mission with the Companions. Farkas had left before her, arranging to meet her at Dustman's Cairn, and that first night she hadn't slept at all. There was something there, in the shadows, large and beastlike and—at least, she thought—circling her. If she attempted to sleep, if she so much as blinked, it would snatch her in its claws and Farkas would be alone at Dustman's Cairn, always wondering what had happened to that spunky little Companion wannabe—
Except, as she found out later, the beast had been Farkas. Farkas, in his werewolf form, had been guarding her, keeping a watchful eye on her so that she might get a wink of sleep before delving into the Nordic crypt. Eletta smiled. Even in that first mission, before he even really knew her, he had been so kind to her. When she had first witnessed his change, during the Silver Hand attack in one of the central chambers, she had been terrified he would turn on her and rip the ancient metal gate right out of the opening. Instead, he had run to the lever that freed her, morphed back, and then apologized profusely for scaring her.
Thoughts of Farkas, the other Companions, and even Vilkas filled her head. She wondered how they were now, after being separated from their wolfish curse. A sense of relaxation befell her as she remembered the nights she and the brothers joked with Kodlak over a drink by the fire. She tucked her sword under her arm, fingers curled lightly around the hilt, and closed her eyes.
She set out that morning at dawn, arriving midday at the familiar Whiterun gate. The guards eyed her new armor with caution, but at her weak smile—weak, for health potions were not helping her ailment anymore—they greeted her warmly and allowed her inside. Breezehome was just a few more paces from there.
She dropped her key on the table, shucking off her armor with a groan. Her weapons—dual-wielded ebony swords with fire enchantments, and of course her faithful soul-trapping bow—were deposited on the rack beside the bookshelf. Her muscles ached, her wounds throbbed, her skin was on fire, and she was starving.
"Your perception is awful."
She had sensed the presence in the room and had chosen to ignore it. More pressing matters to attend to. What, is he fucking stalking me now? she thought bitterly. She grabbed an apple off the table to settle her growling stomach, calling up the stairs for her Housecarl. "Lydia? I need bandages and hot water and…bring me some of that salve from Arcadia, will you? I think I may need that too."
Only now did she face the owner of the voice, biting a chunk out of the apple before tossing it to him. He caught it with ease. He always showed up where she didn't want him. Always. She watched his expression carefully. "I know I was half a day later than usual, but how'd you get here before me?"
"You tell me." His wry smile vanished, jaw nearly dropping. She thought at first it was because she was only in a chest binding and small linen skirt, a loincloth really, until he said, "By the gods, lass, what happened?"
She looked down at herself, seeing the angry tears in her flesh. Her midriff had swelled where it was sliced, scarlet with blood and infection. "Dragon," she answered shortly. Her Housecarl bounded down the stairs, put a pot of water of the fire pit in the center of the room, and took brief stock of the other woman before gently pushing Eletta into a chair. Brynjolf watched the Nord woman tending to her Thane with an unreadable expression.
"Why did you let it get this bad, Eletta?" Lydia murmured, dropping the formalities for a split second.
"Didn't have the inventory," Eletta mumbled back in response.
"I should have been with you."
"It was a blood dragon, Lydia, nothing difficult." When she saw her Housecarl's face, she changed her tone. "It would have been nice to have your assistance nonetheless, friend. Always better with you by my side in battle."
That appeased Lydia, and she nodded. Eletta's eyes closed soon after that, her head lolling to the side as she lost consciousness. Lydia directed her attention to Brynjolf, waving him over impatiently. "Make yourself useful instead of gawking," she said. "Take her upstairs and lay her down."
He did as the woman ordered, and Lydia prepared what was looking like surgical tools at the Dragonborn's bedside. Her eyes were soft as she watched her unconscious Thane. "She welded these herself, out of blacksmithing tools she was given by a friend in Riverwood. She doesn't actually smith much anymore. Never has the time for it. She was always getting hurt, having to ask me to sew up her deeper cuts, so she figured the tools would get more use this way."
"A friend in Riverwood?" Brynjolf asked.
"That's all she would say. Only mentioned his name once. Alvor, I think."
Brynjolf nodded as the woman heated and sanitized her tools in the boiling water. "You've known her longer than I," he said slowly. "Does she come home like this often?"
"Usually I'm with her, but if you're concerned about her injuries, these are shallow." She saw his doubtful expression. "Scratches, actually, when compared. She's had worse." Her face darkened considerably. "Much worse. She comes out of a battle, dragons especially, in a state so similar to this that it's become almost…routine."
She wiped sweat from the woman's brow, smoothed some salve from a ceramic jar onto the gashes on her stomach. "Infected," she muttered. "Always comes home infected. I wonder, Eletta, do you bathe in a marsh before you come home, just for me?" She sighed. "We have to wake her up. She needs to be awake and coherent so she can tell me if she feels any pain. If the area has gone numb, we'll need someone more experienced than I doing this surgery."
"I thought you said this was no big deal, just a scratch."
Lydia's eyes narrowed at being challenged. "The wound itself. Infection is another monster."
She lifted her Thane's head, slipping a corked concoction past her lips. The Imperial's eyes fluttered open and she began to retch. "Easy now," Lydia soothed. "Don't strain."
As her breathing began to even out, she was in danger of falling back into oblivion. Lydia turned quickly to Brynjolf. "You must keep her mind busy, keep her mildly alert. I want her at least a little distracted while I sew her up, but she has to feel it so I know we don't have a larger problem at hand."
The large man, immediately out of his element, cleared his throat.
"This is what you signed up for by storming into our home unannounced, demanding to speak with her," Lydia snapped. "Now get her attention."
"Lass?" Eletta's head drifted to him, her forehead furrowed and coated in sweat. She hissed in pain as Lydia pressed on her stomach lightly, but then again, the woman had told him pain was a good sign. "You remember that time in Solitude? The job from Delvin? I took you for a celebratory drink at the Winking Skeever after our minor heist and you spilled your mead on me."
Eletta released a breath that might have, under different circumstances, been a laugh. "I remember throwing it on you…because you said something cheeky. I also remember…you punching Sorex Vinius."
The tug and pull of Lydia's needle and the pain accompanying it was making breathing difficult. She held it each time any pressure was applied to her stomach, even mid-sentence.
"He was trying to kick us out."
"You, not us," she corrected wryly. "I wasn't the one drinking half…his father's supply of…liquor."
"You certainly helped, lass," he said, nudging her uninjured arm with a grin. This action earned him a stern glare from her acting doctor. "I paid for it, didn't I? Who cares how much I drink so long as I have the gold. Besides, Sorex was making wise cracks at you."
"Much like…you do." Her eyes finally opened to give him a look. Even half unconscious and in insurmountable amounts of pain, she had the energy to mock him.
"That's me, lass. Only I'm allowed to do that."
Brynjolf smoothed back the lass's hair, damp with sweat and water, and heaved an impatient sigh. He hadn't anticipated being stuck in Breezehome playing nurse. The Guild, Mercer especially, was probably getting anxious. Perhaps pissed, even. Yes, he would have quite the handful to deal with once he got back…
Every time he stood with the intention of leaving, Lydia would send him a glare he was sure would spark his clothes aflame, and he would promptly sit back down at Eletta's bedside. He'd been mopping the comatose young woman's brow for three days now as the infection first worsened and then began to gradually fade away. Lydia's normally calm façade showed the shadow of concern when her Thane still didn't awaken on that third day.
"It's your fault, you know," she snapped at him once.
"My fault?" His voice rose with tension and unease. "How is it my fault that the lass goes gallivanting around slaying dragons without a hint of caution or fear for her safety?"
"Intuition. She's reckless but not stupid. It's your fault."
He stopped his argument short, pausing to give it a moment's thought. Was it his fault? She was constantly trying to please him, striving for his approval. He hadn't been blind to the way she pushed herself around him, and the other members of the Guild had noticed how much harder she worked at a job when it was for him instead of Delvin or Mercer. He stood up again from his chair, rubbing his temples, and when Lydia directed her gaze at him, he said quickly, "Just stretching my legs."
He wandered slowly through the halls of the house. It was small, furnished modestly, but it was cozy. He knew there were grander, larger houses—Proudspire Manor in Solitude was for sale, along with Vlindrel Hall in Markarth, Hjerim in Windhelm, even Honeyside in Riften—and he knew she could afford such houses. So why she had chosen Breezehome, Whiterun, as her one and only residence, especially with the way she traveled…
"Is that a Companion shield?" asked Brynjolf, pointing at the shield on the wall. It stood proudly above the stairwell.
Lydia, who was polishing her Thane's swords, simply nodded.
"The lass never told me she's a Companion."
"She's not, not anymore," said Lydia. Her expression changed, the battle-drawn lines on her face filling with melancholia foreign to the woman's look. "There are a lot of things I'm sure Eletta hasn't told you."
A/N: Thoughts?
