VERY IMPORTANT:Okay, so, funny story. Beyond the Sea was supposed to be a one-shot! I accidentally forgot to mark it as complete when I published it, and then I started getting all these wonderful emails about reviews asking for more, and I said to myself, "How can I say no to that?"

So. I am working on a second chapter, but since I had no plans at all to continue, it is slow going. What I have here for you all is a sort of consolation prize to tide you over; a separate one-shot I had stored somewhere for ages but never shared. It occurs in the same universe as Beyond the Sea, but far beyond the scope of that story; a year or two in the future, I would say.

Once the next chapter is finished, I'll replace this with it, possibly publishing it as a separate story. Or maybe an epilogue. We'll see what happens.

So. Thank you so, so much for all the favorites and alerts! I truly did not expect that, and this is living proof that reviews really do cause inspiration.

Burning Death

Elismyra is whistling, very nearly skipping as she makes her way up the winding path of Dayspring Canyon to Fort Dawnguard. Her mood is light and airy, brought on by the troop of Thalmor soldiers who had attacked her right outside in the forests. Elenwen was surely depleting her stock of mage-fodder with the idiots she kept throwing at her; this was the third time this week, and the third execution order she had found. Elismyra finds it funny; she thinks she might frame them, in a fit of gleeful defiance.

The she-elf draws near the massive iron-wrought doors of the castle and sees Ingjard standing outside with Celann. It is not an unusual sight, for they are the gate-keepers and the eagle-eyes of the bunch, but their pinched brows and tight frowns certainly are.

She walks nearer and opens her mouth to voice the question burning on her tongue, but the Breton beats her to it. "Florentius is looking for you," he says quickly, "And I wouldn't wait to see him; it's very important."

"Almost nothing that comes out of his mouth is important," Elismyra answers, but not unkindly; the eccentric priest is her dearest friend among the otherwise-stoic group of vampire hunters, Serana notwithstanding. "What does he want?"

Ingjard appears severely disturbed, and Elismyra becomes well and truly worried when she sees pity in the Nord's blue eyes. "Just go talk to him."

She is confused, but Elismyra nods all the same and hurries inside, her good mood forgotten. The main foyer is freezing and massive and entirely deserted-even Dexion is nowhere in sight. Ice settles in her gut when she flares her nostrils and smells the anger, the disbelief, the grief, polluting the air.

Everyone is beside themselves. Her hackles rise along with her alarm.

Florentius is where he always is, but he is not experimenting at the alchemy station or even pretending to try and enchant anything. Instead, he is slumped over against a bookshelf, head in his hands. Gunmar and Sorine are by his side, their hands on his shoulders. Isran stares, his brow furrowed as he frowns heavily.

It is not until someone collides with her does she find the strength to look away. She does not even know what has happened yet and already she feels the blood draining from her face.

The High Elf staggers and sees the black braids of Serana. The last of the Volkihar vampires has thrown her arms around her neck, her hands cold and hard. "Oh, Elismyra," she moans. "I'm so sorry."

"What?" Her voice is flat, lifeless, and entirely not her own. Serana draws back, her glowing eyes flaming with a guilt and an anger turned inward. She bites her bottom lip, fangs protruding.

"Florentius…"

"What happened?" Elismyra is all but begging now, uncaring at how desperate she sounds. "What's going on? Why is everyone-"

"It's your husband."

Florentius has finally spoken, and his voice is hollow and his eyes are dark. Sorine cannot help but flinch, and when the elf meets her eyes the woman does not hold her gaze.

There is a stone lodged in her belly, heavy and impossible to ignore. Her breath is frozen in her lungs and suddenly the golden band on her left index finger is burning against her skin. It does not take an Archmage to deduce what has happened.

What little blood there is left in her cheeks vanishes, and Elismyra staggers, throwing a steadying hand out for Serana. "No," she groans. "No, it can't be."

Vilkas. He is too strong, too smart. Impossible.

Elismyra lurches forward and falls in front of the priest of Arkay. She grasps his shoulders and shakes him, demanding, "He's not dead. He can't be dead, tell me he's not dead, Florentius. He's too strong for that, he's a Companion for Hircine's sake. Florentius!" She shrieks, and does not notice how her watery voice booms through the castle. "Answer me, damn it!'

The Imperial meets her crazed gaze, his dark eyes distant. She thinks he is listening, listening to whatever his foul god is telling him, and if not for his remarkable claims come true in the past she would not believe a word of what he has said.

"He's alive," he murmurs, and Elismyra is so relieved she nearly weeps, right there, on the floor, in front of them all. "He's still alive. Barely."

"Where?" she barks, her voice having gone hard. She will kill them all, rip them limb from limb for this. How dare they. "Tell me where he is."

"Gallows Rock."

Gallows Rock. Where they lost Skjor, where she had seen the horrific depravity and perversion of life that was the Silver Hand. Where Aela had wailed her unending grief over the Skinner's still-steaming corpse, where she had begun her secret war for revenge. Where she had seen werewolves forced halfway between human and beast, pelts half-hanging from their bodies as they writhed in unimaginable agony. She would laugh at the irony if it weren't so cruel.

Another thought slams into her. He has been cured. He is not safe from-

"Are they vampires?" She knows the question is redundant-she is standing in Fort Dawnguard, for crying out loud-but she has to know. This could be the one time the Eight have taken pity on her since coming to Skyrim and are not letting her husband-

"Yes."

She rips away from him, vaguely noticing she is so forceful he slams into the shelf, and shoves through the crowd that has gathered, the wolf howling in her head and demanding to be set free. She tells it not yet, not here, wait for the ones who deserve its ferocity.

They call to her but she does not listen. Her vision is tunneling, her senses so alert it is nearly painful. She smells everything, hears everything, and the rasp of her armor against her skin is almost abrasive. Someone is yelling for her to slow down, but she will not, not when Vilkas is in that place with some of the most savage creatures she has ever known.

Shadowmere is waiting for her, his red eyes glowing as they find her. He flicks his tail and does not wait for her to tell him to go-as soon as she is in his saddle he lunges, flying through the forests of the Rift. "Gallows Rock," she roars into his black ear, and he gives a snort in acknowledgement. She has never met a horse as intelligent and wrathful as her own; he will carry her there, wind tearing past them, until foam flecks his hide and his heart pounds in his chest.

She pretends the tears blurring her vision are from the wind.

The crumbling fort is nearly invisible in the snow, and she might have ridden right past it if not for the scent of undead. It is thick and cloying, so much like decay, creeping up through the snow and seeping into the wood of the surrounding pines. She leaps from Shadowmere and he stands, quivering, breathing so hard he is almost wheezing. She slides the saddle from his back and stashes it behind a tree. "Stay here," she breathes to him, stroking his strong face. "I will return." He whickers and nuzzles her cheek. She almost smiles.

Elismyra sheds her armor, feeling the enchantments of Ahzidal's skill draining away from her. She misses them momentarily but dismisses the emptiness in the next: the beast is ready, enraged and burning for vengeance.

She is happy to oblige.

When she is bare, shivering in the whirling wind and snow, she sets it free. Shadowmere watches as black, coarse fur sprouts from her golden skin and fangs jut from her gums. The Altmer hunches, biting back the cry of pain as her bones and organs swell. But it is over quickly; she listens to the final snap of her bones locking into place and spins, loping toward the fort.

The Silver Hand have long since abandoned the place; they have learned it is cursed, haunted by the wolves they so hate but cannot possibly defeat. Two vampires wait by the door, and she relishes their shock before she tears into them.

The female is the first to fall; Elismyra takes her gray arm in her hand and rips it from her body, roaring in her face as she does it. Spectrals erupt on either side of her, howling in response and they pounce on her partner. She listens to his screams in cold approval.

The woman is still alive, gasping and writhing, and the she-wolf takes her thin neck in her jaws and tears her ugly head from her equally hideous body. It comes free with the sound of tearing parchment and she spits it out, hating the taste of poison ashes on her tongue.

She does not waste time to spare the corpses a glance; they do not deserve it. Undeath is unnatural, evil, perverted. Serana is the only exception, for her voice is warm in her cold body and her heart is pure, but these foul beings are not Serana. They are everything she isn't and they will pay.

Elismyra nearly tears the door off its hinges as she bursts inside. The entrance is empty but she expected that; she has been through this old fort many times and she knows where they are cowering. And if they aren't, she will make them. She will haunt them, terrorize them until they beg for death. And then she will rip their dead hearts from their bodies and crush them in her palm as they watch, the glow leaving their eyes for the last time.

Her spirits follow her as she tears through the halls, ducking and weaving through the narrow passages. She does not even pause as she throws herself around the corner where three are sitting, their bloodied feast still twitching at their feet. It would repulse her, if she were not so crazed with bloodlust. She engulfs the nearest one's head in her palm and pierces his neck with her claws as she slams him into a pillar with all the force she can muster. He dies wailing.

The other two stand and hiss, baring their white fangs and she roars in response, spittle flying from her jaws but she does not care. These wretches have taken what is hers, defiled him, bit and fed off of him and she will burn them alive.

The thought grants her pause, and she stops in the midst of her kill: the vampire beneath her sinks her fangs into her forearm and Elismyra howls; another lands on her back and forces a dagger into her shoulder before her spectrals can rip him off. She kills the woman in her paws by sinking her talons into her chest and ripping her still heart from her body. That one dies too quickly.

The she-wolf glances about the room before making her decision; she knows she has been impulsive, driven by rage. They are dying too easily, too painlessly. The wolf may be terrifying and powerful and savage but it is not what they truly fear.

She lets the beast go, watching her hands as her skin appears and her paws shrink to long golden fingers. The wound in her shoulder flares in agony as she shifts, blood sheeting down her back, and she heals it with gritted teeth.

She stands bare in the room with the dying man, whom she has nearly forgotten about. For one horrifying moment she thinks it is Vilkas, but his face is clean-shaven and his eyes are brown. She kneels by him without a word, knowing she has to kill him. She is a powerful mage but she cannot cure this.

"Please," he begs, gripping her hand with what little strength he has left. "End me, please."

Elismyra bows her head before meeting his fevered eyes. She has no weapons, no armor-Foolish girl-but she does not need them. Instead, she places her hand on his bloodied body, over his heart. "I'm so sorry," she whispers to him, and holds his hand as she sends a shock into his fluttering chest. He sighs, and closes his eyes.

She stands and looks about for clothing. She is stark naked, and she wishes desperately for her armor, left out in the snow with Shadowmere. The only things available are the tattered leathers from a dead vampire but Hircine will drag her to the Hunting Grounds, kicking and screaming, before she so much as touches it. Instead, she sighs, and resigns herself, casting her best mage armor and hoping there are clothes lying about ahead.

Fire fills both her hands as she tears through the halls. She can still smell everything, her nostrils clogged with the scent of the walking dead and it is so disgusting it turns her stomach. Words are on the tips of her lips as she hurtles up a staircase. A fledgling is waiting for her at the top and laughs at the sight of her, and Elismyra flings a white-hot fireball into his face.

The way he shrieks and flails is so darkly satisfying that for a moment she scares herself. But then she thinks of Vilkas, bound and gagged and used as fodder, and then she thinks it too easy. She fires another, setting his clothes alight, and does not stay to see him burn to ashes. His screams are so loud they grate against her sensitive ears but at the same time she welcomes them. Let the others hear, let them know what is coming for them. She wants to see the terror in their eyes before she burns them in their sockets.

There is a dead thrall in a cell, unbloodied and as best as she can smell, unturned. He is wearing hides for armor and while she knows they will not fit properly, she takes them anyway. They are better than storming a fort in nothing but her skin.

Once she is situated, she continues on. The room at the end of the hallway is downright oozing with the vampire stench, so she readies her spell and flings the door out of her way.

Four pairs of red eyes glare back at her.

"Yol…"

They recognize what is happening but they are too slow.

"TOOR SHUL!" Fire erupts from her open mouth and for a moment she imagines what she must look like to them: a dragon, swathed in elven skin, breathing fire and smoke and death.

The one closest to her dies screaming, disintegrating into a pile of smoldering ashes. She regrets that he ends quickly.

The others are not so lucky. Two are set alight and they wail and snarl, their skin blackening and peeling. She weaves her spell as they stumble toward her, the third only slightly smoldering. This is her most powerful spell, one gifted to her by Tolfdir as she had ascended to the rank of Mistress of Destruction.

She releases it, slamming her palms to the stones underfoot as an enraged cry rips from her throat. Fire, so hot is appears white, explodes under her feet and swirls outward, devouring everything it touches. The vampires stare at her for the small fleeting moment of when they are standing in their own pyres, and then they are gone.

Whatever nightwalkers she comes across die in the same manner. She is so enraged, so desperately afraid she is too late that her spells are all the more powerful for it. The dagger at her hip remains unused as she channels her highborn powers, fueling and feeding her magic so she can watch them burn. She has never favored fire but now, she finds its unrepentant, uncontrollable hunger immensely satisfying.

When Elismyra reaches the final room, where Skjor perished and where the Skinner got a taste of his own medicine, she forces herself to pause and collect herself. She is panting and dripping with sweat, her lungs heaving, and her head is throbbing with the force of her anger. Her hands are blistered and raw from the heat of her spells, and she spares a moment to heal them quickly. Her ill-fitting armor is nearly falling off her shoulders and she straightens it before throwing the door out of her way.

Vilkas is kneeling on the center platform, and there is a vampire latched onto his neck.

The sound that escapes her mouth frightens even herself. It is half-howl, half-bellow, half-sob and it is so loud dirt crumbles from the stones overhead. The leech tears away and Vilkas grunts in pain, his blood dripping from her fangs and trickling down his neck, and Elismyra is so impossibly furious she cannot even move.

"Ah," the creature drawls, and threads her hands through his hair. Vilkas stares at his wife with half-lidded eyes, shoulders heaving. His hands are tied so tightly behind him his back is arched, and there is a strip of cloth between his teeth. One of his eyes is black and swollen shut and his lip is split, and even from where she stands she can see the purpling bruises and angry slashes across his torso. Elismyra makes an inarticulate noise of hate and fury and grief as it says, "He said you would come."

Fire erupts in her palms and she is trembling, she is so unbelievably furious. "Take your filthy hands off him!" She bellows as she advances, but she cannot look at the creature as it laughs. Vilkas is watching her, his pale blue eyes cloudy and his skin brittle and white. And then she sees the bites in his neck, on his arms, and her vision bleeds to red.

"He tasted good," the thing says, "Saltier than most, but that's alright. I like them like that."

With an enraged cry, she gathers a ball of flame as large as a watermelon and hot as the sun between her two palms. The vampire springs away from her husband, hissing, and Elismyra flings it toward her pale form with every ounce of strength she has left. The nightmaster ignites and staggers back, shrieking, and the she-elf breathes fire again, advancing closer. She is wreathed in flame, her entire body cloaked in its heat. She sprays it on the ground, watching it stick to the stones and encircle the thrashing bloodsucker. It flows from her hands and her mouth in an unrelenting torrent, dousing the creature as it screams. The sound is music to the elf's ears.

Elismyra, when she has expended all her magic and the leech still stands, black and charred and moaning but still alive, rips the dagger from its sheath and buries it in the monster's eye. There is no spray of blood, but there is a squelch as the blade digs into brain matter, and in one final burst she claps her hand over its face and burns a hole through its skull.

She does not watch it die. Instead she whips to Vilkas, who is watching her with wide eyes. His breathing is raspy and rattling in his chest and she does not need her nose to know he is infected.

"Oh gods," she groans as she falls to his side. She reaches for him and carefully unties his gag, easing it from his mouth, and he gives a great gasp and dry cough. His bindings come loose in her hands, and then she pulls him into her embrace, tears burning in her eyes. He winces in pain but does not let her pull away, instead clutching her to him and burying his face in her hair. "Oh gods, Vilkas, I'm so sorry. I didn't know, I tried to get here as fast as I could-"

"I knew you'd come," he gasps in her ear, and slides a large hand into her hair. She breathes him in, taking as many gulps of his scent as she possibly can. She pretends not to notice as her tears of relief and guilt leak from the corners of her eyes. He is alive, she tells herself, he is alive and he's going to be okay. She got there in time.

She pulls away reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to wrap herself around him and never let go. But he is hurt, and infected, and she has no idea how far the disease has progressed. They have to leave and get him help before he is turned.

"Hold still," she whispers to him, and he does, letting her draw him into her lap. She swallows a mouthful of blue potion she finds on the filth's body, and her hands glow gold where before they cupped red. When she passes them over his broken skin they leave a trail of warmth in their wake, healing and breathing life, energy, back into him. The bruises fade, and he sighs when a rib, broken, rights itself. The wounds from wicked blades shrink and disappear, and she shudders as she watches the punctures on his arms and neck melt away. Unbidden, the image of the nightmaster vampire, teeth locked into him, rushes to the forefront of her mind and it is all she can do not to be sick.

When she is done, she bends and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. It is cool now, the fever chased away, and his rough hand takes her chin and guides her mouth to his. It is quick and sweet, for they both know what has to be done, and soon she forces herself to draw away a hair's breadth. "We have to get out of here. I don't have any potions for disease, and-"

Vilkas nods, and she helps him to his feet. He is wobbly at first but soon regains his balance, and she draws his arm across her shoulders. "I can walk," he grumbles, "I'm not quite as weak as you seem to think."

"Shut up," she tells him gently, pressing close to him. She is not about to let him go, not again. Not after this. "I am helping you walk out of here, just so I can say I did. Let's go."

He does not argue as she hustles him through the silent fort. When they emerge into the first room through the barred door, he stops and stares in open-mouthed awe at the remains of the fledglings she and her beast left behind. "You did this?"

She watches him, waiting to see if he is disgusted. He has rid himself of his own beast, but she is woven too closely to hers to let it go. "Yes."

"...This one is cracked in half." He kicks the corpse, then spits on it. "Good riddance."

She hides her pleased smile.

"You were amazing, by the way," he tells her as they leave the fort. Dawn is breaking and the snow has stopped. "I've not had the chance to see your Voice before. Damn impressive. I liked the bit where you actually burned a hole through her face."

"Thank you," she chirps, preening. "I thought it was rather inventive, myself." She turns to him then, and traces the line of his strong jaw, brushes a thumb over his stubble. He turns to look at her, eyebrow raised. "I...I'm so-"

"Don't apologize," he says, surly. "It's not your fault."

"I know. But even still." She kisses his chin. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

He says nothing, for Shadowmere has come into view and the horse is watching them with something akin to relief in his glowing red eyes. Elismyra releases her husband and begins to unbuckle the borrowed armor. Vilkas watches, leering at her from beside her horse, and she grins impishly when she catches his eye. "This stuff is awful. There is no way I'm keeping it."

"Please, don't stop on my account."

"You're awfully eager for a man who's just been violated by bloodsucking leeches."

She realizes what she has said too late and flinches, pausing with her feet and legs bare in the wind. "Hircine's ass," she curses, "Vilkas-"

He holds up a hand to stop her, his face unreadable. "I'm not a child, Elismyra," he tells her, his voice stiff and withdrawn. She hates to hear it, hates to see the stony mask behind his eyes. "I don't need coddling."

"But-"

"No coddling. Please. It's worse than your big mouth."

She knows he is trying for her sake, but she also knows neither of them will be sleeping well at all tonight. "I'll try. No promises." She rips the rest of the hides off and stands before him, stripped to nothing, and cocks a hip. "But if you really don't want me to, I guess I can keep my hands off."

"Hmph."

Her smile is smug as she digs her beloved Ahzidal's armor out from beneath the snow. "That's what I thought."

When she is dressed, the enchantments wrapping around her so she feels protected and safe, she tosses Shadowmere's saddle across his back and hauls herself up. Vilkas clambers up behind her, pressed tight to her back in the seat and his arms looped around her waist. She thinks for a moment, trying to decide which city they are closest to, before turning and spurring the black stallion into a ground-eating lope toward Whiterun.

Vilkas will feel safer there, surrounded by people he knows, and the healers at the temple are the best in Skyrim.

They ride in silence, both reflecting on the events of today. Elismyra fights down the shudder that threatens to rise as she remembers the panic, the absolute desperation and the all-consuming rage of her wild ride and her equally wild rescue. She had nearly been too late, had been so close to watching him die before her eyes. She does not want to think about what it would have been like, to see him slump over, still and translucent, his life literally sucked out of him.

She reassures herself by losing her thoughts in his embrace. He is still alive. She got there in time. There is no reason to dwell on what-ifs.

But it had been so incredibly close.

He tasted good.

She knows she will hear that woman's voice in her nightmares for weeks to come. Knows she will see her fangs sunk into the skin of his neck, her throat working as she drank from him. His gasps, his feeble struggles, the punctures on his skin. She will never forget them.

Vilkas forces her to stop and make camp. She wants to keep going, ride until they reach Whiterun and its safety, but he tells her there was another there with him, that he was bitten the first time only that morning and they still have time. Shadowmere is exhausted, having slowed to a plodding walk, and she closes her eyes in guilt at having pushed him so hard.

They stop at Valtheim Towers, which are empty from the last sweep of the city guard. The wind will not reach them there and there is an open ceiling for a fire.

Elismyra untacks Shadowmere and leads him through the large doorway, closing the gate behind him. The first floor is small, but it will do to keep him off the road and out of a thief's paws. She hands Vilkas her gear and packs and he takes them up the stairs in silence. She watches him go, the line of his shoulders stiff under the thin tunic he wears, and knows he is deeply troubled. He reeks of death and blood.

When she is finished with Shadowmere, she follows him. There is already a fire going, crackling in the middle of the room. Vilkas sits by it, chin on his fists as he stares at the flames. Their bedrolls are not far from him.

She notices there are two, when they normally share on the road. She doesn't question it.

She sheds her armor, unbuckling the pauldrons and bracers and dropping them wearily on the floor. He does not react to the noise, does not look up at her even when she changes into sleeping clothes. She knows where his thoughts have gone and she wants so desperately to pull him out of them, into the present, where he is safe and healed and with her.

The she-elf settles beside him gently, careful not to touch. He is wound tight, his jaw clenched and she knows her caresses would be unwelcome. Instead, she asks, "What do you want to eat?"

"I am not hungry."

"Vilkas," she says gently. "You need to eat. I have dried fruit and jerky in my bag, but I can go hunting if you'd rather have venison." Her eyes trace the filthy rags he is still in, notices the holes and the tears and adds, "I have some extra clothes, too. I couldn't find your armor in the fort."

"I'm fine."

She heaves a sigh, frustrated and trying not to show it. He has been through a terrible horror, and he is allowed to be frightened and disturbed. If only he knew such a thing; she knows he knows she can smell the fear on him, but he is still stubbornly trying to ignore it.

"Change," she orders him as she stands, and reaches for her bow. The dragonbone is smooth and warm in her palm, the string freshly waxed. "I'll go find us a deer. Would you like to come?" She offers out of comfort, not necessity; he is a terrible sneak and could not hide from a blind mammoth if he tried, but she is certain the last thing he wants is to be left alone in the dark.

She knows his answer before he utters it. "No," he says, darkly, "I'll stay here."

And because she also knows he does not want her tenderness, she only nods, leaving him to his thoughts against her better judgement. He will talk when he is ready; Vilkas is a Nord man through and through. He does not like failure, loathes relying on someone else to come to his rescue. He is blaming himself for his weakness, for his complacency, and even though it boggles her mind, the things he believes a man should be capable of, she understands she cannot convince him otherwise.

Elismyra looks slyly over her shoulder as she goes. He is still hunched, half his face cast into shadow by the writhing flames, and it hurts her to see him brought so low. She shakes her head, and slips into the night, unseen.

She returns not an hour later, dragging a large buck behind her. She mutters to herself, irritated at her ineptitude at Alteration; telekinesis would be extraordinarily handy.

Shadowmere whinnies a laugh as she hauls it up the stairs. She glares poisonously at him, and he shows her his teeth in a dark grin.

"Vilkas," she grunts as she staggers into the room. "I forgot my skinning knife. Help me carve it up."

He comes to her side silently, his face stoic and no hint of mirth at her ridiculous struggle in his features. She frowns, and tentatively reaches out to touch his shoulder. He has changed clothes, she notices, and she brushes her fingertips over the cloth.

He flinches away before he can stop himself. She meets his eyes, and sees the anger at himself, and the fear he is trying so desperately to hide.

"Hey," she says to him, keeping close but careful not to brush his skin with hers. "Let's skin it and eat, okay? Give your hands something to do." She gives him her knife, a thin blade with a fox bone handle. He goes to work without a word, refusing to meet her eyes. She narrows them at his back, vowing to get him to talk after their meal. She scrounges around until she finds a bent iron spit, tossed in a corner. She grunts as she painstakingly straightens it, and sets it over their dwindling fire. She stokes it with her own flames, and for a fraction of a second she sees a flailing vampire in the snapping heat.

She blinks, and it is gone.

She waits for Vilkas to finish, watching him work. His jaw is still tight and his brow furrowed, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He is going to break all his teeth if he grinds them any harder.

They cook and eat in silence. The food does not taste of anything but ashes and dust.

It is not until they are completely done that he finally breaks their tense silence. "How did you find me?"

Elismyra reminds herself to tread carefully. "I was with the Dawnguard, in the Rift. They have a priest there, Florentius Baenius. I think he might be mad, because he says Arkay talks to him all the time." She shifts beside him, clenching her hands on her knees. "He told me where to find you. For a moment I thought...I thought-"

"I was dead?"

She nods, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. It shimmers in the firelight, its enchantment giving it a slightly greenish glow. "I rode like mad; it's why Shadowmere can't go any further."

"I suppose I should thank you."

"Vilkas," she whispers, "I'll always come for you."

He looks away, and she is so fed up with seeing the cursed mask of indifference on his face. "Don't do that," she tells him sharply. "Don't shut me out." She wants so badly to touch him, but he looks too much like a cornered animal for it to be welcome. "I want to help you, Vilkas. Please, talk to me. Tell me what happened." The last thing she wants is to make him relive it, but if he doesn't get it off his chest it will build and build there until he can scarcely think for the weight of it.

His jaw works and he will not look at her. She grits her own teeth and waits in impatient silence, knowing how hard this is for him and trying to tell herself that he is not trying to be an ass.

"I was out," he says, "With Ria. Balgruuf was complaining about a giant near Secunda's Kiss that was causing problems for the farmers. We went to kill it. She wanted to stop and camp there for the night when we were done but I wanted to go home. So we left, and they attacked."

Elismyra waits, careful to keep her features schooled into detached interest. He does not want her sympathy or pity. "I don't think they got her. I told her to run when I saw there were six; she did. We weren't far from Whiterun. She should have made it." He swallows. "If I were still a wolf, I could have escaped. But there were just too many, and they had those damned spells that sap your strength." She pretends she doesn't notice him shudder, despite wanting nothing more than to lean into him, whisper in his ear.

Instead, she scoots closer. She does not need her nose to feel the fear radiating off him in waves. It breaks her heart, to see her strong husband so beaten down, so entirely broken and angry at himself for it.

She hates to pry into his pain, but she has to know. Has to hear how long the creatures had him, how long he waited for her, hoping and praying for the moment she appeared. "How long?" she says, and takes his hand, and he does not pull away.

"Three days."

She cannot help it; she sucks in sharply through her teeth, so hard it whistles. They both tense and he moves to pull away from her, but she will not let him, not anymore. She clutches his large hand, rough with callouses, in both of her own.

Elismyra forces him to look at her, ducking in front of his face so his eyes meet hers. "They will never touch you again," she swears to him, fire burning in her voice. She interrupts him when he opens his mouth, no doubt meaning to tell her he does not need her protection. "Not while I still live." Gently, she releases his hand and sits astride him, curling into his lap even though they are of the same height. She takes his face in her hands, delicate and smooth, so unlike his own, and brushes his cheekbones with her thumbs.

He shudders beneath her, and she sees the walls shatter and crumble behind his eyes.

Vilkas does not cry. He is not that kind of man, not the type to indulge in such weakness. Instead, he bows his head, screwing his eyes shut and accepting her embrace, pulling her tightly to him. His knees come up behind her back to pin her against his chest and she lets them, wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers through his thick hair. He shivers again, and she holds him tighter, feeling his thundering heart beat against her own chest.

They do not speak. Elismyra listens to his breathing, hears the great gasping breaths he takes. Her fingers stroke through his hair and down his neck, and she croons and elvish song in his ear. He does not know what it means but that doesn't matter.

They sit by the dying flames for an immeasurable amount of time, her giving him the comfort he will not admit he needs and he letting her do so. It is not something that happens often at all, and many times their positions are reversed. But they are husband and wife, bound together more tightly than anyone could ever hope to understand.

"When we are through in Whiterun," she finally says, her voice quiet and soothing, "I want you to come back with me to Fort Dawnguard. They cannot reach you there."

"No," he says, and she knows he will not change his mind. "I'm no coward. I will not run and hide from creatures in the shadows."

"I know," she says, "I'm not saying you are. But they can teach you things, show you how to best defend yourself should they...come back."

He pulls back to look at her, a dark eyebrow quirked. His face is still troubled but his eyes are clear, and she is so relieved to see it. "You talk as if I don't know my way around a blade."

She snorts indelicately. "Can you shoot a crossbow? No? Didn't think so. Sorine has a few that have been modified by the dwemer; fascinating things. Some of the bolts even explode." She grins at him, and leans in until her lips brush against his as she says, "I can teach you to use them, if you'll come with me."

He tries to scowl but fails. "You don't play fair."

"No," she agrees. "At least visit. Just to see the place; it'll be like a vacation. Or something."

"A vacation with the Dragonborn to a forgotten anti-vampire stronghold in some obscure corner of the Rift. Should be interesting," he drawls. "I'll go, but I cannot stay. I am a Companion first."

"I know." She brushes her fingertips along his jaw and slides away from him. "Sleep," she commands. "I will take first watch."

Vilkas scoffs. "You rode what should have been two days in one night, Elismyra."

"And I'm still pumping with adrenaline. I'll wake you when it's your turn." She has no intention of doing so; the man looks like he hasn't slept in the three days they had had him.

The Nord glowers at her but for once does what he is told. He slides into his bedroll quietly, and within moments she hears his breathing deepen and his heartbeat slow. He is truly exhausted, and she prays Vaermina will leave him well enough alone. Molag Bal and his ilk have tortured him enough already.

She feeds the flames once more and draws her sword into her lap, casting a magelight toward the stairs. It will be a long night.