Hello again, friends! This is where I start to deviate from the game's story line just a little, mostly so as not to weigh the narrative down too much. Also, hooray for JessicaJ, who figured out that I'm poaching all my chapter titles from a wonderful Portuguese metal band called Moonspell. Run out and listen to them immediately!
Finally the moon lost its furthest sliver, and the fever in his blood broke.
Normally at this time of the lunar cycle he would seek out new jobs; travel afield without needing to wonder where he'd be when the urge to crawl out of his own skin inevitably hit him. But there wasn't much work to be had lately-surprising considering the state Skyrim was in. Even Ulfric had seemed to pause in his conquest. The whole land seemed to be holding its breath.
Vilkas spent most of his time in the yard, generally with his brother, sparring.
"...And then I swung my warhammer, and the stupid man ran right into it! With Talos as my witness, I swear he flew through the air like a kerchief on a strong breeze, then hit the far wall with this horrible sound-"
Vilkas held up a hand, grimacing.
"I believe you. No need to go on." He said, hoping that his brother was not about to describe this sound.
"-it sounded like when Tilda tenderizes tough meat, and she hits it with that wooden mallet-"
"Please, Farkas." Vilkas said mildly. "Less talking, more fighting."
Farkas was not, by nature, a boaster. Generally he only started telling tales when there was a lack of genuine fighting to be done. He drove his greatsword into the ground and sighed, wiping his brow.
"Eh, I'm tired of this." Farkas declared. "Maybe I'll go to the Huntsman."
Vilkas rolled his eyes, pushing his own sword into the ground and leaning on it.
"Just make sure you return from the Huntsman under your own power. I strained my back carrying your drunken carcass home last time."
Farkas pulled his sword out of the ground and stalked off, waving dismissively.
"That was a special occasion." He said, his voice coming back to Vilkas on the wind.
And with that, he was more or less alone. Kodlak was somewhere, probably in the library downstairs. Ria was, last he'd seen her, helping Tilma in the kitchen. Aela, Skjor, and Freya were out on some secret business of Aela's devising. Njada and Athis had stopped trying to kill each other for long enough to escort some nobleman's teenaged son to Winterhold. Torvar had joined Vignar in Dragonskeep.
Vilkas retrieved his sword, sighing. It was as good a time as any to catch up on his reading.
He crossed the yard, his footfalls silent on the soft grass. Night was just falling, and the wind that rustled his hair smelled cold and clean. Tilma would doubtless be gathering up ingredients for cider soon, as she generally did at this time of year. The air would turn colder soon, Skyrim balanced in that perfect spot between the sometimes overbearing summer and the brutal winter. Lost in thought, he pushed open the door, and the smile that had just started to form on his face dissolved.
Aela was on the ground, sitting against the door, hands in her hair. Remants of dried blood stood out against her gleaming armor, and covered her bare forearms to the elbows. Her hair looked singed in places, and a dark bruise was forming in one eye socket.
Freya stood over her, leaning into the wall with one hand, the other on her ribs. She was breathing hard and her cheeks were flushed, but her lips were pale. Her eyes snapped over to him.
They'd left with three and returned with two.
"By the Divines! What happened? Where's Skjor?" He demanded, running to Aela's side. When her eyes found him, he knew the answer to at least one of his questions. He slid onto his knees, taking one of her hands in his. It was cold. Her eyes closed, her head falling back to rest against the door.
"Let's get her downstairs." Freya said from above, her voice a little rough. He looked up at her, searching her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed, her breath still coming between parted lips.
Finally he nodded, and together they carefully hauled Aela to her feet, then looped her arms over their shoulders.
They nearly carried her down the stairs. Vilkas pushed the doors open with his boot.
The hallway was silent and darkened, lit only by a few candles that cast long, sputtering shadows.
"Quickly." Freya gasped, her face too pale. She was close to fainting herself. What in Nine Hells had happened?
They drug Aela into her chambers, and he closed the door behind them. They lowered her slowly onto her bed. Freya carefully helped her slump over onto one side.
"It's her left leg." She said.
He nodded, very carefully grasping both of Aela's ankles and moving her legs onto the bed. She rolled onto her back slowly, hissing.
"We found a Silver Hand encampment." She said tautly as he pulled off her right boot. "Skjor went ahead, scouting."
His hands went to her left boot. Her eyes flickered over to him, and she nodded.
"I thought he was just inside but-oh, gods-dammit!" He slid the boot off successfully, and was not very happy with what he found inside it. Her lower leg was swollen and so bruised that it was almost uniformly purple.
"There were so many of them. More than I ever would have thought. Thirty, maybe forty. We spent two days routing them, and every moment I expected to see Skjor melt out of the darkness. But..."
No tears appeared, but Aela's face flushed, her jaw tightened.
"But he was already dead." She said, voice flat. "Had been for some time."
There had always been rumors that Skjor and Aela were lovers. At that moment, he knew that it was true.
He turned to Freya, who'd been silent this whole time. She didn't meet his eyes.
"I'll get her something for the pain. Then I'll go for the healer. Are you alright?" He asked her.
She nodded, still avoiding his glance.
He returned with the Priestess of Kyne. Freya was gone. He left Aela's rooms as the healer started to reset her broken bones. Then he went out into the woods and gave himself to Hircine and the Moon.
When Vilkas came back to himself, two days had passed, and the sun was just setting on a third. He scrambled, naked, through the damp brush and thorn bushes until he found where he'd stashed his armor.
He didn't feel remorse for breaking his oath yet. That would come later, after the rawer emotions had burnt off of him.
As he approached the walls of the city he saw her, sitting by the road, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. A tiny fire burned by her side. The shoulder plates of her armor and her long pale hair picked up the light. When Freya saw him she stood, kicking out the fire.
"We found documents in Gallows Rock. There's Silver Hand in a cavern called Redoran's Retreat. Do you know it?"
He hadn't been sure about her when she appeared at Jorrvaskr. He'd wondered about her motivations. He wondered how a woman who'd never even heard of the Companions could understand their society. He didn't think she would feel the call of Ysgrammor and a hundred generations of his warriors the way he did.
He had apparently been wrong.
"I know it." He said.
They walked in silence, their footfalls silenced by the soft earth, a cold breeze moving past them, carrying the smell of loamy soil and, more distantly, blood.
"We're getting close." He murmured.
Little bands of those with the Blood were scattered all over Skyrim. Some of them were cultists, devotees of Hircine, who had passed the Blood down generation to generation. Others were warriors who craved the power of it. Still others were merely victims, survivors of attacks by the other groups, who had been forced into seclusion by their curse.
The Silver Hand hunted them all. He could smell their blood on the wind as they approached the hillside.
When the moon was high in the sky, he found the door.
They exchanged glances. Freya nodded, grey eyes narrowed. They drew their weapons, and he opened the door.
A wave of cold, damp, fetid air hit them as they stepped inside. Vilkas, his senses still so painfully sharp, almost wretched. The chamber was lit only by guttering torches, but he could see the indistinct forms of what had created that smell-corpses, some in their wolfen forms, some human. Some were laid out on stone slabs, others simply in heaps. The cavern reeked of pain and fear and death on a plane he could only seem to access in the few days after he changed, a place just on the edge of conscious perception.
"What is this place?" Freya whispered, and an arrow whistled past his ear.
They were in motion instantaneously. Freya fell away, ducking behind a stone slab and moving toward the archer. Another Silver Hand appeared out of the darkness beyond, roaring, greatsword raised. Vilkas met him, their blades crossing, hoping fervently that Freya had already taken out the archer.
"Your left!" She cried.
He looked up just to time see a Dunmer slide out of the shadows. He ducked under the Nord's greatsword and the Dunmer's dagger missed him by the barest margin. Falling, he drove his booted foot into the side of the Nord's knee with as much strength as he could, just as Freya's blade found the Dunmer. The Human dropped, howling, and he made quick work of him, but of course there were more.
Wheeling around, Freya met the first one head on, her sword raised. Vilkas scrambled back onto his feet and covered her flank, their backs touching. Two more fell on him. Two more appeared from the dark cavern beyond.
Everything dropped away except for Freya at his back, and their enemies' onslaught. His pulse sang in his ears.
Thirty years of training and instinct took him over completely. There was no fear, no anger, not any more.
Freya roared and another Silver Hand fell, no longer a danger to the Companions, or anyone else. They fought together, falling into a primal rhythm. She covered his slower movements with her agility, he countered when she could not match their opponents' strength.
And before he knew it, the cavern was silent again.
"Godsdammit." Freya said, panting, bent almost double, clutching her ribs again. She pulled her helmet off, dropping it. It hit the floor of the cavern with a hollow sound.
"Shield-sister?"
"I'm alright." She gulped, straightening up.
Vilkas wasn't so sure, but at the moment there were more pressing concerns.
"I'm going to search the cavern."
She nodded.
A cursory look around revealed no hidden enemies, but also no further correspondence from other Silver Hand cells. Only piles of the dead.
When he returned Freya was at the door, her sword cleaned and sheathed, her helmet slung across her back.
They stepped together out into the cold, clean air. After the damp stench of the cavern it felt like a blessing. He pulled off his helmet, so that the breeze could rustle his sweaty hair. Cicadas sang. From somewhere, an owl hooted. Overhead, the nearly-full moon presided over all.
"I saw a clearing just over this rise." He said, pointing. Freya seemed to know what he was getting at, and didn't object to stopping. That was not a good sign.
When they entered the clearing she sat hard on the ground, ashen-faced. She pushed sweaty hair off her brow.
"It's only bruising." She said, moving to unbuckle her cuirass.
Vilkas knelt beside her silently and helped her peel the chestplate off.
"I took a tincture and bound them, but..."
He rolled up the linen tunic as far as modesty would allow, then carefully untied the cloth wrappings that encased her torso.
"You really don't have to nurse-maid me. I'll be fine in a moment." She said.
Vilkas looked up at her, one eyebrow raised.
"Really?"
"No." She conceded. He snorted.
Freya hissed in pain, wincing at his barest touch. He whispered an apology, working the last of the bindings free. The whole half of her ribcage was green and purple, and when he touched her, as gingerly as he could, her skin was burning hot.
"Nine Hells, shield-sister, your ribs are in pieces. What were you thinking, coming out here tonight?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"I did what needed to be done, did I not? We had to move quickly, before they heard what happened at Gallows Rock."
"That's not what I meant. You could have sent Farkas, or Njada-"
She shook her head, leaning back against the trunk of the tree.
Sighing, he unbuckled his sword belt, unthreading his scabbard and pouch. He dug around for a vial of the healer's tincture. He should have been frustrated by her stubbornness, he instead he found himself understanding the desire to see things put right. He would never have let another Companion avenge Skjor.
"Kyne Herself couldn't help you if you won't rest and let this tincture re-knit your bones. We'll stay here for awhile, and when we get back to Jorrvaskr, I don't want to see you doing anything more strenuous than lifting a flagon to your mouth. For at least a week."
Freya gulped down the tincture, wincing at the taste. She regarded him evenly, a half-smile pulling one corner of her lips up.
"You have a very practiced scolding voice, shield-brother." She said.
He smiled, laughing quietly under his breath.
"Well, you've met Farkas. He requires a lot of scolding."
Her eyes fluttered closed as the tincture settled into her, and he set back to work, rebinding her torso.
"Has Kodlak caught wind of any of this?" He asked conversationally.
"I don't think so." She said. "He knows Skjor was killed and Aela was injured, both by the Silver Hand. I don't think he knows where I've gone. And he probably thinks you're still in the woods."
"And so I am." He sighed, carefully repositioning her cuirass and buckling her back into it. "I don't like deceiving the old man, but sometimes...well, Skjor needed avenged. And so did Aela."
He wrapped his sword belt around her, just under her breasts and again a hand's width further down. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold her together for the journey back to Whiterun.
He leaned back against the tree with her, their shoulders touching.
They walked back together along the road. He told her of the time Farkas attempted to get into a bar brawl with most of the Battle-Born clan and Skjor had to save him from (in his own words) having "the stuffing beaten out of him". Then, the time that Skjor convinced Kodlak to bail Njada out of jail when she'd been caught poaching the Jarl's deer. And all the months and years Skjor spent with his awkward, gangly younger self, patiently teaching him how to not impale himself on his own greatsword.
They climbed the steps to Jorrvaskr as dawn was threatening. Inside, the hall was silent and empty, the fire having burned down to the coals. Downstairs, not even Tilma's door was open. It seemed that they'd successfully avoided detection.
"Thank you, Vilkas." She said, as they stood outside the Whelps' Quarters. She reached out her hand and he took it, nodding.
"Thank you..." He said, "...Freya. You've done the Companions a service."
She gave him a genuine smile, then, albeit a tired one, and disappeared into the darkness of the room beyond.