Voices in the Night

by ludivine loves rain

Vilkas is a man of few words, and as a bard, Harjid has plenty.

4. Chapter 4

His body radiated heat all around her, his hands on either side of her head, their chests heaving in time, faces a whisper's breadth apart.

"Who have you told?"

Harjid wanted to back away, but she already pressed against the wall. "What? No one, of course! Why would I?"

"Secrets are Septims," Vilkas sneered.

She scoffed. "You would be killed, and so would everyone else in the Circle. You know I don't believe in that."

"How long have you known?"

"Since Mikael." It's why I still can't sleep on my back, bloody ingrate.

He lowered his face, almost grazing her chest with his forehead, then looked her in the eye. "Explain."

She wanted to tell him to move, but just in case he was close to losing his grip on his humanity, she obliged; she owed him that much, at least. "The letters contained nothing of my suspicions. I only asked a fellow Guildmember for the book and the location of the fragments of Wuuth—"

"So you admit you sent it."

"Would you let me—look, the Guild has bigger problems right now than acting on archives' leads. Vekel sent me the location thinking I'd sell you the pieces after I went in and got them myself, okay? I thought I'd let your people get them instead. Cut out the middle man and I keep my dress clean."

Vilkas looked up in exasperation. "Why would a thief pass up gold?"

"Because maybe I felt that I owed you after the mess at the meadery. The book and Vekel's directions came the day you were asleep. All I had to do was deliver the directions somehow."

"The caravan."

"Six drakes. Hardly a deal."

"Why all the secrecy? You could've just given us the directions to Wuuthrad."

Harjid couldn't help her head tilting with her disbelief. "And how would that have looked if the place was booby-trapped, or as it was, with the ambush? Besides, if you don't know who gave you the lead, you wouldn't have to repay me another favor."

Vilkas removed one hand from the wall—her cheek felt almost cold without it—and pointed right in her face as he spoke: "If you ever come to Jorrvaskr again, I'll kill you."

And he was gone, the hearth yawning cold and empty beside her. She shut her door just as Vilkas slammed the one downstairs. Harjid shakily drew a log from the pile, then threw against the bricks inside the fireplace, then another, and another, and another, until she was hot again and crying. Saadia called from out on the stairs, and Harjid's voice went back, but weakly. The door opened, and Harjid saw the girl suppress the urge to rush over to her, but she came after a moment, anyway.

"Did he hurt you?"

"What? No, of course not. That wouldn't be honorable."

Saadia nodded but pursed her lips. "I know how you feel. Don't ask, but I do."

Harjid doubted that very much; being groped by drunken patrons was hardly the same thing, but she couldn't say as much. "Thank you."

Saadia continued, Harjid mentally kicking herself for not giving her something else to work with. "Makes me wonder how they treat the females of their order. Horribly, right?"

Harjid shook her head. "No, they . . . no." She almost smiled. "Saadia, thank you for sitting with me. I need to be alone now."

#

Farkas grinned when he saw her come into the great hall, and Harjid greeted him cautiously, but he treated her like an old friend.

"I didn't think you were allowed to talk to me," she explained after he released her.

"Oh. How come?"

He didn't tell anyone. Harjid didn't know if that meant he was protecting her or himself. "Just because I brought you some trouble at the tavern not long ago."

"Wasn't too much." He had a lovely smile, and she thought how strange it'd be to see it on his brother.

"I know big men like you can handle a great deal. Is your Harbinger around?"

"Yeah."

Sweet boy's nothing like his twin. "May I speak with him?"

"Sure. You joining the Companions, Harjid?" he asked as he led her to the staircase.

"Do you think I could?"

He stared ahead for a moment when they entered the hall. "I think you could," he said finally.

"Thanks, Farkas."

As they approached the end of the corridor, Harjid was distressed to see Vilkas snarling at her from beside Kodlak Whitemane. You expected as much, idiot, she told herself. Confrontation was part of the plan. She found herself holding Farkas' forearm, though she was certain he hadn't offered it.

Kodlak finished saying something to Vilkas, but Harjid was sure he heard even less of it than she had. "Good morning, Farkas," said Kodlak. "And welcome back to Jorrvaskr, my dear."

He doesn't remember my name. She began to address him, but Vilkas interrupted her.

"What are you doing here?"

"Vilkas, have patience. What can the Companions do for you, young lady?"

"Harjid wants to join us." This interruption from Farkas.

Kodlak looked like he had to take away her doll. "If that's so, she should have strength enough to say it herself."

Harjid untangled herself from Farkas. "Thank you for your gallantry." Speaking those words were merely a habit and therefore no proof that she had the strength the Harbinger awaited. Blue eyes boring into either side of her head didn't help. "I know I may not look like much," she began, stepping away from the bigger of the brothers, "but I can handle myself."

"You required my escort for a visit to Rorikstead," Vilkas said.

"That was a journey to Markarth, and if you recall, we passed quite a few camps of Forsworn. But you're not the Harbinger, are you? So stay out of this."

Kodlak chortled. "My dear, I'm afraid putting Vilkas in his place, though its own kind of bravery, is not quite what the Companions are looking for. I'm sorry."

And there goes the plan. "You've never seen me fight." She hadn't meant to blurt that; anyone who had seen her fight would suggest she stick to songs.

"I didn't know you could fight," Farkas said in all earnestness, his brother's muffled laughter all too audible beside her.

"But you're desperate for members," Harjid said, and Kodlak shrugged.

"We may not have five hundred, but the honor of the men and women we do have leads the bravest to our doors when Ysgramor sees fit."

She felt that frantic energy bubbling up her throat again, but she didn't want to eviscerate Kodlak or even Vilkas the way she had the madman in the meadery's tunnels. She inhaled and spoke with her own voice: "I am the Dragonborn."

Kodlak was inclined to smile at first, but Vilkas' grip tightening on his tankard seemed to do the trick. "Is this true?"

Vilkas nodded. "But she's Thieves Guild."

"You are?" Farkas asked.

"Yes," said Harjid as Kodlak leaned back in his chair, "I rely on my anonymity. Companions rely on their reputation. I would love for everything pertaining to the Dragonborn to lay with the Companions, not with me. You would boost membership, and I can continue to live my life."

Kodlak, his chin on his thumb and fingers grazing his temple, seemed to watch her for a long time; Harjid had nothing more to offer, and any insistence of her previous points she knew would only make her look more desperate and, therefore, weak.

"Sir, you aren't seriously considering this jumped-up bandit—"

"It's never too late to change one's ways," Kodlak snapped, and Vilkas glowered. "Understand," the Harbinger continued, "you are not to steal or perform the business of your Guild while on our jobs or any Dragonborn business."

Harjid could only nod; any speech would probably betray her relief.

"Will you be able to help yourself?" sneered Vilkas.

"I'm not the one with the temper of an animal," she spat back, though a bit startled by herself.

Kodlak called for quiet. "You were summoned to High Hrothgar, miss. Do you know what that means?"

"I do."

Vilkas tutted, and Farkas broke his silence. "Vilkas knows all about Hrothgar. And the Greybeards." He put a hand on Harjid's arm. "You should have him take you to them. He's a good teacher, aren't you, brother?"

"Farkas—"

"I don't think your brother wants to g—"

Vilkas and Harjid were interrupted by Kodlak's single knock on his table. "A fine idea," he said to their bewilderment. "You'll teach her about the legends, show her a few things, toughen her up. Climbing the Seven Thousand Steps as a trial—truly singular."

"Skjor is due for a whelp," said Vilkas. "I have Ria."

"Yeah, but Skjor hates climbing mountains," said Farkas. "And you read those Tiber Septim books all the time."

"Spending time with an order of silent pacifists may do you good, boy," Kodlak pointed out. "Besides, as Farkas said, you're the historian around here."

#

They were three days from Whiterun, and no matter how close they came to Riften, the shadow of the Throat of the World could still reach them.

He, of course, hadn't spoken to her since they'd reached the Rift, which suited her; when he had spoken, it was to tell her how cowardly she was for not just going to High Hrothgar alone, and to belittle her for what, in his grumbled opinion, was direct disobedience to the Harbinger; no matter that she was going to the Ragged Flagon to quit a heist job, and forget that it may be her last chance to say goodbye to her family, or as good as. Not that Vilkas could see; to him, only the Companions were worthy of someone's regard.

Vilkas dismounted Chestnut, handing the reins to a stable boy and rounding on Harjid for the hundredth time that morning. "This entire hold smells of rot. And the flies! Why did anyone ever come here?"

"Charming as always," said Harjid as Vilkas steadied Honeysuckle for her to dismount, too. She ignored his hand, which he absently held aloft for her to balance with as she came down. "You must know that the Guild chose Riften only to displease you."

"Aye, and the gods chose a woman like you to save us all, but we have to wait for you to ask permission of a few cutpurses." He led the way to the city gates, but the guards didn't let them pass.

"What's your business here?"

Vilkas raised his brows. "I thought you lived here, little miss."

"Aye, she does," the guard replied. "But you don't."

Harjid began to recite the story she'd preemptively crafted for this very situation, but Vilkas lowered his face to meet the guard at eye level.

"You'll open the door, boy," he growled, "or I'll make your arms stop working."

Harjid sputtered. "They don't respond well to thr—"

The doors opened, and Vilkas went through, haughty as a Black-Briar.

"That doesn't usually happen," Harjid said behind him.

"I doubt it."

"No, I mean—of course the hazing happens, but usually they beat people who disregard them."

Vilkas spat. "Vermin."

Harjid didn't like to agree, so she kept it to herself. "It's this way," she said, leading Vilkas down the street; Maul gave them his best glare, Vilkas not bothering to acknowledge it. Mjoll waved at her from the bridge, Aerin beside her

"Are you heading to your prayers, Lady Harjid?"

"Of course," Harjid called, Vilkas' judgment burning her face. "The gods need a daily reminder of their own greatness, you know!"

Vilkas followed her through the temple's walkway and out to the mausoleum in the cemetery. "This is it, isn't it?"

"Well, it's a secret, of course."

"I'm not going in."

"Don't be ridiculous." Harjid bent to push the button, but Vilkas grabbed her arm and yanked her back, pulling her as close as he'd been to the guard at the gate.

"I will not defile these graves with your underhanded business," he seethed.

Harjid caught in her periphery the priestess wandering about Talos' shrine, and hurriedly held to Vilkas' waist and turned her face away to speak, tensing up her shoulders in an imitation of sobbing. "I can't let you just wait out here, now that she's about. She'll get suspicious."

Vilkas pushed her back by the shoulders. "I'll not do it."

A huff escaped her. "Fine. We'll just have to use the visitors' way."

"Harjid, my daughter."

Damn. "Lady Drifa, good morning!"

The Dunmer smiled, though pity kept it dim. "No need to put on a brave face, child. Weeping for the dead is natural, though a little naïve."

"Yes, you are right. Praise Mara! I am only human."

Vilkas snorted, and Harjid almost rolled her eyes at him—now that he'd caught Drifa's attention, they would be here awhile.

"And who is this handsome gentleman?"

"He is Vilkas, Lady Drifa. Quite the writer."

Drifa pressed a kiss to his forehead, though the beads of sweat were visible even to Harjid, standing a little away. Vilkas handled the breech in Nordic custom deftly, at least, with a blush and mumbled thanks.

"Welcome to Riften, Vilkas. What brings 'quite a writer' to our city?"

"The tint of sunrise on copper leaves, Drifa! I knew Vilkas had to see the beauty of the Rift at this time of year. It's inspired a song or two in me, so he'll certainly find something to capture as well."

If he looked displeased the first time she called him a writer, he grew positively murderous the second.

"Our home is a lovely place. Though it saddens the gods that the Thieves Guild has so suddenly chosen it as their base of operation." Harjid bit her tongue. "Do be careful if you must venture to the Ratway, Harjid. Though I daresay if I were going there, I would be happy to be doing so with someone carrying such a large sword!"

Harjid forced a laugh, inching ever away from the priestess. Vilkas didn't catch the hint, and instead offered the Companions for hire to rid the Ratway of its unsavory characters. Harjid shot him a look, but before one of the filthy things in her head could triumph over the others to reach her mouth first, Drifa replied.

"Must even the gods pay for the services of the Companions if they have seen fit to give you life?"

Harjid hid her exhale, thanking those same gods for choosing cheap servants.

"Tell you what," said Vilkas, and Harjid tried—and due to his hand over her mouth, failed—to interrupt. "I'll head down that way to see how rough it is, and if I can afford to give you a discount, I will send word to you."

Drifa grinned more fully than Harjid had ever seen her. "Finding such devout souls makes me—and Mara—very happy. You know, Harjid is one of our most devout young ladies here in Riften. And you wouldn't think it, but that loud fellow in the marketplace, Brynjolf? He's very devout too. He and Harjid are always out here, praying and praising the names of the Divines. It is nice to see that she has found a man as religious as she."

Harjid was yessing her along, putting her arm through Vilkas' to turn him toward the square.

"People don't realize how much I see in this cemetery, do they, Harjid?"

"No, certainly n—"

"But I see quite a lot! Oh, and you two—Mara smiles upon you both."

Vilkas tried to object, but Harjid only thanked Lady Drifa and gave an overzealous goodbye. She zipped down the grassy path back to the main street when Vilkas turned her around and pinned her to the wall of Aerin's house. "What was that about?" he hissed.

"Why do you always touch me?" Harjid smacked his hand away just to get in his face. "Next time you forget propriety, I'll cleave off one of your meaty fingers."

"Propriety? I didn't just lie through my teeth to a servant of the Divines!"

"What did I lie about? And since when do you care about any god beyond Talos?"

Vilkas counted off from his little finger. "You lied about why we're here, who I am, our—" He scoffed. "Our familiarity, and your own devotion to the gods."

"Well, how about you? You offered to kill my entire Guild! For a discount!"

His nose wrinkled. "Priests never order a job from us because they never want to pay! I was crafting an alibi for us so she doesn't think I'm part of your band of criminals."

"So that's allowed, but letting her assume you're a writer is completely distasteful?"

"To tell her I'm a writer undercuts my reputation as a swordsman. You yourself recognize that my work depends on my reputation. And to suggest that two Companions are . . . it's disgusting."

"Is it? Your brother doesn't think so. And in any case, I'm sure she was talking about Brynjolf, not you."

Vilkas put his tongue on a molar. "My brother? You're unbelievable, you know that? Not everyone likes you as much as you like yourself."

"Not me, you idiot! Ria." She watched as he cycled through memories and the truth finally dawned on his face. "Are we done with this? We could've been leaving the city by now, but you had to correct the implications of your reputation with someone you'll likely never see again." She turned onto the street, and Vilkas followed her out.

"I just explained to y—"

"Yes, yes, I know. Reputation. We have too hard a journey ahead of us to be having this much trouble already."

They descended the stairs by the orphanage, and Harjid went to the barrel beside the Ratway entrance; she was sure there had been a torch in there when she first came to find the Ragged Flagon; someone must've had to use it. Thinking of them made her pause before she opened the door. "Vilkas? You know that if anyone took a job to hurt the people I love here, I'll tell everyone your secret."

He rolled his eyes. "I know that."

Harjid nodded, and in they went. She certainly didn't remember it being so dark, but it had been years since she used this way; at least whoever took the torch hadn't gone far. At the bottom of the steps, it wasn't Brynjolf holding it, nor Delvin, nor anyone she knew; there were two of them, and one drew a sword, the other a bow, and she stumbled against the wall on their right—had he pushed her?—and Vilkas pressed the flat of the hoodlum's blade against the wall on their left and punched him in the jaw. As that one fell, he drew his sword to engage the bowman.

The mugger on the ground failed to reach the sword he dropped, so he drew a dagger and pushed himself up, and Harjid picked up the sword from behind him to shove it through his back before he could fully stand.

With Vilkas to dispatch him, the bowman died quickly; the other had gurgled bloody slobber all down his front as he clawed at the dripping blade through his chest. He reached for Vilkas, who slit his throat, and the bandit fell a final time.

"The heart is here."

Harjid started, looking up from the blood to Vilkas, standing before her again. "What?"

Vilkas pointed to his own chest. "The heart. They die quicker if you puncture it."

"Oh."

He looked over his shoulder at the two of them, who were alive only a moment ago. "You were quick. Good job, missy."

She nodded, and he led her down the corridor and through the muggers' camp—where no one would sleep tonight—and once Vilkas bashed in the skull of a skeever and grumbled about that too-familiar smell, Harjid nearly let him lead her the long way around.

"No," was all she could get out, managing to point with trembling fingers to the locked doorway on the left.

"Your time to shine, aye?"

She was still nodding when she pulled her pack into her lap; the knot was loose on her rolled kit, at least, and the lock itself not terribly complex. The first two tumblers held, then her pick broke. Vilkas snorted.

The next pick didn't make it past the first tumbler, and the snap jarred her over the edge, and she put her head in her hand.

"Not quite shining, little miss?"

"Shut up! Just shut up, Vilkas!" She wiped tears off her cheeks, taking heaving, shuddering breaths.

Vilkas just furrowed his brow.

Drawing up her knees, Harjid hooded her eyes with her hand and let the tears leave her. She jumped at the sound of Vilkas' armor scraping against the stone floor; before he could put an arm around her, he caught himself, which made her snort. I'll cleave off one of your meaty fingers.

Tucking hair behind her ear, she looked up at him; he was scowling, but in the way he did when he didn't understand a particular phrase of Ancient Nordic, not in the way he had when she'd come to join the Companions.

"You've never killed anyone."

She shook her head.

"Aye. You'll always remember your first."

Harjid sniffed. "Yours must have been a long time ago."

He stood, holding his hand out to her. "Come on. I'll break the damn lock if I have to." He half-smiled at her, and she took his hand.

The flexible lockpick did the trick. Vilkas drew his sword again, but the skooma addict who usually drank in front of the Ragged Flagon door wasn't there.

"Praise Mara indeed," Harjid said, not insincerely. She paused again before a door, turning back to him. "Don't, uh . . . try not to talk to anyone." He crossed his arms. "Right. Well then."

Inside, they turned left, passing a couple of dark alcoves on her way to the last, lit with lanterns and lined with bookshelves. She withdrew Herbane's Bestiary: Werewolves and put it up on a shelf; the notes Vilkas had given her regarding The First Five Hundred went into the chest, which she had to unlock.

"Harjid's back, Vekel."

Harjid smiled up at Tonilia, who was never more than cordial with her. "Has he been whining?"

Between Brynjolf and Rune at the bar, Vekel waved her over. "Harjid! What did those cutthroats in Whiterun give you for that axe fragment?"

Brynjolf laughed, Harjid tensed up, and Vilkas scoffed.

"Ask him, mate," said Delvin from a table. "He's that swordsman from Jorrvaskr."

Vekel eyed him. "You brought a glorified city guard to my pub?"

"Would you stop? I got a good deal for that."

"That so, lass? I could've found you a more generous buyer."

Vilkas snarled at Brynjolf. "Who'd you have in mind?"

Harjid stood between him and her Guildmaster. "A bodyguard was part of the prize!"

"What else you get for it?" Vex barked, the entire Flagon filling with laughter.

Vilkas rolled his eyes. "Would you make this quick? Hey, she needs to talk with you."

Brynjolf sobered quickly enough. "That so, lass?" When she nodded, he gestured to Delvin's table, where they followed him.

Vilkas, instead of taking the chair beside Harjid, stood at her back. "Shouldn't this be private?"

"No one here would think to—"

"Not yet. Things will change."

Harjid asked if they could have privacy with Brynjolf and Delvin; Vex was the first to ask if she was serious, and Vekel kept sweeping.

"Oi! The lot of you best leave for the Cistern," said Delvin to a roomful of muttering and eye-rolling.

Vilkas' hands were heavy on the back of her chair; sensing her discomfort, Brynjolf asked him to sit between him and Harjid, but Vilkas shook his head.

"Relax, lad," Delvin said. "Have a drink."

Brynjolf was done waiting. "Now, lass," he said, folding his hands on the table, "what've we to talk about?"

She almost came right out with it, but realized she had no way of proving it; suddenly, with the threat of their laughing at her looming over her, her stomach twisted. "It may come as a shock to you, but I'm the one the Greybeards summoned."

Brynjolf shared a look with Delvin, but leaned forward again all the same. "You aren't joking, but I'm not like to believe without some proof."

Harjid shrugged. "I don't have any."

"Yeah you do." Delvin tapped his throat. "He means that, ah—Shouting."

"Aye." Brynjolf slapped the table. "Like Ulfric Stormcloak. The Thu'um."

"No."

Harjid followed the Guildmaster's eyes up to Vilkas, whose hands wound around the back of her chair.

"I'll give orders to my own people, lad."

"Harjid you may," Vilkas offered, "but the Dragonborn belongs to the Companions."

Brynjolf sat back from the table, eyeing Harjid like a purse full of pebbles. "Will you not deny it, lass? We're your family."

His voice faltered at the last, and Harjid's eyes filled again with hot tears. "I haven't been able to do it but once."

"And she eviscerated the man who got in the way." Vilkas ground a fingertip into the tabletop. "The Greybeards can't use their Thu'um but once a day. And they train decades for the privilege."

Delvin crossed his arms. "You're that booky one I've heard tell about, ain't ya?"

"He is," Harjid sniffled, and Delvin pointed at her and lowered his voice, all seriousness.

"Remember I told you when you took this job—I said, 'Don't work with anyone outside who's smart.' What'd I say about it? Hm?"

"That it's the smart ones who betray you."

"Aye. And you're going up the Throat, where no one can help you but 'im—a mercenary." Delvin shook his head. "I thought you was smart, girl."

"Brave words for a sewer rat," Vilkas sneered.

"Don't you start wi' me, boy."

Harjid put her hand on Vilkas' arm; a werewolf and a former assassin need not come to blows. "I trust Vilkas, and he's the best swordsman in all of Tamriel. But he's a scholar who knows more about the history of the Greybeards than even me. There is no one better suited to guide me to them."

Brynjolf put his elbows on the table. "But think about the library you've built here, lass. Do you really want to leave it? It's your passion, you've always said."

"Of course I don't! But I can't . . . I have to go." She felt even Vilkas' eyes on her. "I've spent my whole life collecting histories and songs—the stories of other people." She laughed as the tears came. "It's time I begin my own."

#

After Harjid and Vilkas slept a night in the Cistern, Brynjolf gave her a bottle of Argonian wine and a slap on the back, and Delvin made sure Vekel packed a basket full of meat pies, red apples, and waxed cheeses. Even Vilkas was gracious, though curt about it. He shook hands with Delvin when he said, "If she don't come back, you better be deader." It was something, anyway.

Harjid was thankful he was silent all the way to Treva's Watch, where they camped the next night, the most recent inhabitants having been flushed out by Riften guards, just as Vex had said. They dined on a pie each, but Vilkas wanted no apple after, claiming it would only settle wrong for him at this hour and he wanted to be well rested for another early departure. Vilkas had let the fire go out before falling asleep, which suited her not at all; she was still accustomed to the relative heat of the Rift in daytime, but he had whined the whole way down to Riften about the smell and the temperature. He stank the next morning, which she told him, so as she packed up, he took a dip in the river, walking back up the bank to where she stood with their horses looking somewhat wild in his loose undershirt.

"What?" he grumbled, shaking his hair with a bare hand.

She recovered quickly, though. "I've just never seen a man who looked more natural shaking himself dry."

"Lucky you didn't see more of me," he said, shattering her pride at having, she thought, covered her daze.

"I didn't see any of you." She couldn't keep herself from saying, when Vilkas' mouth lifted in that annoying half-grin of his, that now he smelled like a wet dog.

He snorted in reply, eyeing her up and down, which happened too often for it to still bother her so much. Giving her a leg up, he then mounted his own horse and kicked it into a gallop.

Before long, Vilkas had sweated through his shirt, and she could trace his shoulder blades as he rode, working in rhythm with the sound of the hooves on the cobblestones. Something Sapphire said rang in her ears, and she felt her face heat up, though the wind was cold.

"He's quite handsome for an up-jumped thug."

But she told her that he was no such thing, and that the Companions were quite traditional, if not always in a good way.

"Might be that it's about honor for some," Brynjolf had replied, watching Vilkas demonstrate a balanced overhead swing for Rune and the others. "But him? It's gold."

Sapphire had smiled. "Doesn't matter," she said. "Harjid didn't deny everything I said."

And why should she? Handsome didn't mean anything. If Vilkas were the most handsome man in Skyrim—in Tamriel—it could never outshine his scowl, or his eyes rolling every time she made a good point, or his general disdain for everything she held dear, save maybe history.

Honeysuckle slowed before Chestnut did, and Harjid felt a mild panic when she couldn't think of how to call to Vilkas, but he happened to glance over his shoulder and turned to trot back.

"Are you feeling unwell?" she called.

"Would you enjoy that?"

Harjid scoffed. "You're just sweating so much, even without your ar—"

"Aye, as I was on our way down here. But we've seen what this road has to offer, and unless bandits have seized our bridge in the last two days, I'm well suited for the dangers the Rift has to off—hey!"

Just then, a wild-eyed Nord tumbled out of the bushes at the roadside, his wrists clamped in chains and feet bare; he ducked around Vilkas' startled horse and sprinted south down the road.

"Shor's bones."A pair of Imperial soldiers made Chestnut rear up when they burst through the shrubs to chase their prisoner.

Harjid trotted over to Vilkas, who was watching whatever was happening behind her.

"He's a Stormcloak," he said, brow furrowing.

The soldiers had caught him and led him back up the road. Vilkas held his arm out to halt her when she tried to trot Honeysuckle over to the river, and as the soldiers passed, he spat at their feet. The Stormcloak prisoner hid a smile, and the soldiers looked too green to allow their insult to show, lest it incite a fight.

Harjid felt sorry for them; they were hardly old enough to leave home, and the Stormcloak and Vilkas both towered over them. She supposed it was good they were intimidated, considering Vilkas' lack of armor.

She tutted and dismounted, taking Honeysuckle to the water.

"I suppose you want me to ask why you're angry."

"It never makes a difference if you know why," Harjid said, "because you never apologize, anyway."

Vilkas scoffed. "Did I hurt the feelings of the mighty—the Imperial—Dragonborn?"

"Ha!" Harjid barked. "I just thought the Companions were above political alignments."

"We don't get involved," he said, "but we don't bury our heads in the snow."

"That's fine, Vilkas. But would you tell me why you had to spit at a pair of boys just doing their job?"

He was pulling his armor out of his pack. "Don't tell me you actually believe that story about the King! He accepted the duel."

"Because 'honor' dictated! He was hardly bigger than those boys you just insulted. Tell me, do you feel big and honorable after that? And you certainly didn't rescue your fellow Stormcloak—"

"Hey." Vilkas pointed up the road, where the soldiers had disappeared over a hill with their prisoner. "It isn't my place to fight their battles, and pouncing on two boys who couldn't hold a sword until a month ago was not going to happen. I'm surprised at you, Harjid."

She almost felt tears coming. "Why?"

"I thought you believed in a country's right to govern itself. You were inspired by the Nerevarine! Don't you believe in anything he's said?"

Harjid was crying now, and she felt absurdly childish for it. "I believe in order," she said shakily. "The rest of the Empire had no way of understanding their culture until we reached out to them."

"Reached out-? The Empire stamped out anyone who didn't welcome them with open arms," Vilkas seethed. "It wasn't until the Nerevarine helped the Dunmer drive out their oppressors that we even got hold of the oral histories-their real histories."

She palmed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "How can you be so naive about this? Because the Imperials settled Vvardenfell to make peace with the Almsivi Triad-"

"The False Gods."

"Yes, but listen, this is just like your book-"

"Aye, it is!" Vilkas was getting louder the more armor he donned. "You wanted the real thing, not some Imperial's interpretation of Ysgramor. If the Empire had never breached our borders, Skyrim would still speak the ancient tongue, and sing the old songs, and worship freely, and we never would have bent the knee to a king like Torygg or signed that damn White-Gold paper." He was standing right in front of her, but he must've been annoyed because jerked her face up by the chin. "You aren't writing a book of songs, are you? You only wanted to collect another culture's sacred past."

Harjid dug her nails into his palm as she pulled his hand off of her. "I started writing a song," she choked, "but I couldn't think of anything to rhyme with 'boorish.'" She mounted her horse without his chivalrous little leg-up and started down the lane once more.

"Don't be a child!" Vilkas called, then, after catching up with her, "Only the winners write history. How can you support a people losing its identity? Like it or not, missy, where you're from means something."

She scoffed. "Only if you know where that is."

"What don't you know? You're the Dragonborn."

Biting back the urge to ask-plead-why, Harjid only grumbled, "It's ridiculous."

Vilkas fell silent for a time. "You'll show them the proper respect, I trust?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Greybeards."

"Ha! Maybe if they agree with my politics."

#

Ivarstead greeted them with rain hissing in the river and on the road. There was only one place to stay, and Vilkas told her to go inside; when she dismounted, he took the horses to the stable and rejoined her when she was just settling at a table inside.

"What did you do?" he mumbled, watching the bard whisper with the innkeep.

"I walked to this table."

"They know who you are."

Harjid wrinkled her nose. "Who'd you tell?"

The bard approached them, holding a letter. "Good evening and welcome to Vilemyr Inn, I am Lynly. Wilhelm has a letter for a blonde woman traveling with a dark-haired swordsman."

"She's hardly a woman," said Vilkas.

Harjid scoffed. "And he's hardly a swordsman."

Lynly seemed to compose herself before she spoke. "Are you Harjid or not?"

Vilkas took the letter, inspected the seal, and, finding it worthy, handed it to her without thanking the girl. "You have two rooms for rent?"

"Yes, sir. Ten drakes apiece."

"How's the cooking here?"

"Doesn't matter, really, does it?" Lynly said.

He laughed. "Ale for me, and-what do you want, missy?"

Harjid noticed the horse of Whiterun on the letter's seal. "Oh, anything."

"Another ale, sir?"

"She won't drink ale," said Vilkas. "Wine."

Once the bard went off to fetch their food, Harjid stood and lifted her pack. "Tell her to bring my food to my room."

"Tell me what that's about."

"Obviously."

Harjid closed her door and let her pack drop on the dresser, then untied her vest and was about to peel off her wet frock when her food came. She looked at the tray the girl had set on her bed, but her mind only buzzed. Letter, undress, food, then bed, she decided. I won't want to report the letter to Vilkas in my nightdress.

She broke the seal, pulling her hair down as she read, then stormed out of her room and found Vilkas still sat at their table.

"What in Oblivion do you want?"

"You reported me!" She waved the letter in his face. "I told you I didn't steal anything. That's forty Septims I don't have, Vilkas!"

He stood and tried to hush her, which only made her more furious.

"You still owe me for your horse, don't forget, and I know you have it, too, because you like gold more than any thief-"

Vilkas lifted her over his shoulder, and after her initial squeal of surprise, she was quiet until he tossed her onto his bed and shut the door. "What are you screaming about?" he hissed, rounding on her.

Harjid held out the letter, and he had the nerve to snort at it.

"Don't be a child. I reported you when I found out about your little stunt with the book."

"So you admit it."

He started unhooking his cuirass. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Then you'll take care of this?"

"You broke the law," he scoffed, "not me."

Harjid stood and slapped him across the cheek. "I should've known. They were right that I shouldn't have trusted you. You hide behind your idea of honor, but you're a thief at heart—you love gold more than I do."

He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up to his face. "Worrying about gold has kept me alive since before you were born," he seethed. "I didn't have a plump little father to feed me sweetrolls."

"Oh, yes," she barked, "my life has been nothing but honeyed milk!"

"If you think death is the worst that can happen," he nodded, "aye."

"What about that boy you let Uthgerd kill? Think he'd agree with you? Maybe if he'd lived long enough to set down his sword."

Vilkas shook her by the shoulders, clenching his teeth, his breath rattling.

"Are you going to hurt me?" Harjid couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. "I think you are. Go ahead, Companion. Show me how honorable you are."

His fingers tightened on her arms, but he released her. "You aren't worth the effort of raising my hand. But you'd have enjoyed that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can smell the excitement on you. Every time you pretend to be insulted, your heart skips a beat and the blood rushes-" His eyes darted down her body, and he wrinkled his nose. "Vile creature. You let your Dragon blood earn you a place among the esteemed company of Jorrvaskr. That such an honor is bestowed on someone who doesn't even comprehend the concept-"

"Hey, I never asked for this responsibility!"

"And I never asked for mine! But you can either try to be worthy of it or bemoan the difficulties of life itself. Death looking a little better to you yet?"

Harjid folded her arms. "So how will you end, Vilkas?"

"Me? I never had a chance. What I am . . . but you have a chance. Might inspire as many as Ysgramor, or Talos himself."

"No." Harjid shook her head. "It's easy for someone like you to be honorable. For a Talos or an Ysgramor. But the rest of us have to make do, and get things done whatever way we can. Honor is a luxury for warriors. Not for people like me."

"That's an excuse, missy." He lifted her chin. "It isn't easy for anyone to be honorable."

Harjid's breath escaped her; Vilkas drew closer to her, and she crossed her arms. "You all just fix the game against us, and the only way we win is if we break the rules that keep you in power."

"You're just afraid you can't do it. Maybe you can't. But don't let anyone else see that but you, or they'll prove you right."

Her heart was thrumming. "You know what? Why don't you go up there? Tell them you're me—you're used to being the big hero, aren't you? Take the accolades for being chosen by a deified brute and your beloved monks. You rescue these people. I don't owe them anything."

Despite everything she'd said before in her attempts to hurt him, this one thing that she'd said in all earnestness seemed like it finally struck him. And it wasn't even about him.

"Get out," he whispered, lifting a bottle of mead to his lips.

Harjid threw open the door, her face hot, and went to her own room. She undressed and crawled into bed, but sleep surely would not come for a while. The refrain from Lynly's song passing through the cracks in her door didn't help:

Our hero, our hero

Claims a warrior's heart

I tell you, I tell you

The Dragonborn comes . . . .

#

The mountain.

Vilkas had sent the barmaid in to wake Harjid an hour before sunrise, and in the darkness, the Throat could have been simply a road; once the sun softened the indigos and violets into greys and greens, however, and they could see how much farther they had to climb, the mountain was too much. Harjid's thighs had been humming with her pulse for hours now. Vilkas had said nothing to her since she'd left him to drink alone in his room.

But he wasn't alone.

Harjid lifted her eyes to his back; he held a bow in his sword hand, at the ready for the wolves Klimmek assured them they'd find. How Vilkas could function on so little sleep . . . .

Harjid had awoken thrice in the night to the sound of rutting; Lynly was not a little smug when she'd hoarsely told her that Vilkas awaited her outside.

I don't care what he does, Harjid told herself. But when he keeps me awake the night before such a trial as this—

The road wound away from the sun again, and the shadow of the Throat, when she looked behind her, stretched over tundra for leagues. She paused, approximating the peak of the shadow at the horizon, and judging the time and speed required to travel the length—

"Keep up, little miss."

Harjid turned back to the rocky path, descending a set of ancient steps, only to have twice as many to ascend a moment later. "I seem to have barely slept, Shield-Brother."

She didn't know whether she imagined it, or if he truly hated when she called him that.

"Not talking, Vilkas? Just as well, because I was hoping we could pass this time in bitter silence."

"You should save that pretty little voice of yours for someone who wants to hear it."

Clouds gathered over the sun, paling all the world from gold to silver.

"It was kind of you to keep everyone awake with the loudest woman in the Rift," Harjid drawled.

"You are the loudest woman in the Rift."

"Pay me as much as you paid her, and I'll prove you right."

Vilkas threw down his bow and rounded on her; it was the first she'd actually seen his face since the night before. "I don't—not that it's your business, but I don't have to pay for . . . company."

"Well done!" Harjid forced a laugh. "You seduced a woman who sings to the same six people every night. Truly remarkable. I would write you a song, but I'm sure she will."

"Please!"

Harjid started; Vilkas rubbed his forehead, then pointed at the mountain, its peak shrouded in darkening wisps of cloud.

"Tonight is the full moon. If you'd read your damn book, you'd know how it affects people like—how it affects me. I will rise to your challenge, woman. Every other time, I will rise to it. But today, please. Keep your vitriol to yourself."

Harjid swallowed, trying to even out her breathing before he could sense the tightening of her throat.

"We may not be friends," he continued, proving she failed to hide her discomfort, "but I don't want to lose control and hurt you."

He needed that woman. Harjid nodded the smallest nod, and he turned away from her.

"I will guide you all the way," he threw over his shoulder, and drew his sword.

The day wore on, dragging as heavily as their feet, throwing the wind, rain, and finally sleet into their faces; darkness never quite descended, but rather mixed with the day to lengthen their suffering until Vilkas spotted shelter beyond a path between two walls of ice gleaming with moonlight.

"I'm so exhausted. Thank the Divines."

But Vilkas held out his arm. "There's something in there."

Harjid followed his glowing eyes to the cave; the moon lit everything beneath the rock ledge. "It's empty, Vilkas. Let's get in there and go to sleep."

"I can smell the goats rotting."

She whimpered. "I just want to rest, Vilkas. Please."

He had her cover him with her bow, though if he'd run into trouble, the wind would've made her efforts futile; but he returned to her to say the cave was empty, and he offered his arm, then to carry her. It took as much effort to refuse the offer than to wade through the mounting snow to their campsite. She watched Vilkas build a fire, but it wasn't much more than a spark before she fell asleep.

A roar woke her.

The fire was out, the moon showing fully, Vilkas was nowhere to be found, and she stood, the roar louder.

Moonlight gleamed along a blade over on Vilkas' mat beside his armor. Harjid's breath came in short, shaking moans. The muscles in her legs and buttocks were tight as she crouched to pick up his sword, which was too heavy even if her arms hadn't been shaking with exhaustion and terror. She dropped it, the clanking echoing from the cave and down the path between the walls of ice. Her hands covered her mouth, but she'd already made too much noise.

Behind her came the drawing of a snarling breath, and as she turned, something pushed her to the ground and clashed with the other creature, one growl challenging the other. Harjid gasped at the battle before her—a frost troll held up the neck of the biggest wolf she'd ever seen as it snapped down toward it with its massive teeth. The wolf's growl died in its throat, and with its other arm, the troll knocked it away, the wolf whimpering like a pup as it slid toward her, blue eyes dimming.

Harjid scuttled backward into the dead fire; she threw a handful of cold ashes into the troll's eyes, only delaying it a moment while she drew a dagger from her pack—a bow was too much for her body now. Her short reach could never match that of the beast, even if it couldn't see her coming; approaching it was suicide. Harjid held the dagger by the blade and flung it with as much as she had, though it only stuck the troll in the underarm.

It roared again, a terrible screech that shook her very bones and made her hands cover her ears, weak as her arms were. The troll drew the blade out and let it drop in the snow, banged its fists on the ground, and made for her again.

Vilkas—nude and wild-eyed—was on him then, but the troll only rolled forward, slamming him into the frozen logs from the fire. Harjid screamed, and the troll remembered her, and crawled over Vilkas and ran on all fours at her. She tried to use her Shout, but the beast swung and cracked her in the rib, and she coughed and couldn't inhale enough to try again before it knocked her into the cave wall, and just before it lifted its claws to disembowel her, its throat split open and threw hot blood all over her face.

Vilkas let the troll fall to the side, and once his eyes met hers, he fell, too.

Harjid screamed his name until her voice just made hissing noises. Her pulse rang in her ears, and Vilkas was not awaking. She pulled him up into a sitting position and patted his cheek.

"You have to stand up, Vilkas, so we can go on—Vilkas, wake up, please!" Her pathetic little hisses shouldn't have done it, but he opened his eyes, and she began to cry and tried to get his armor from his bedroll, but he said no, and a shadow as big as the Throat passed over them and blew a plume of fire into the sky.

"We have to go." He pushed himself off the ground and they stumbled through the snow down stairs and up more and around ledges only as wide as Harjid's arm was long; Vilkas splattered droplets of blood with every step he made, and at the top of steps they had to descend, he finally lost consciousness and tumbled down them, Harjid very nearly going with him in her hurry to assure herself he was alive.

He was cold, dying. His eyes fluttered open and his rattling breath hit her neck. "Leave me."

"Vilkas."

But he was unconscious again. Harjid tried to lift him, but her strength was nothing to his. The dragon roared overhead, and Harjid's lungs burned.

Through a blast of fire in the sky, a spire shone in the clouds—Hrothgar. She had to Shout again, and if she only managed to lure the dragon to them, well . . .

They were dead anyway.

#

I'm so sorry it took as long as it did, but I tried to make it worth it—behold, 8,000 words! To the poor soul who was hoping for an update before death by suspense, RIP.

I worry that I make Farkas out to be dumb, but that is not my aim. He speaks simply, and always earnestly, and I love him for it. Just…not as much as I love his brother for his scowls and muttering. #swoon

I do not own Skyrim, nor the lyrics from its song about the Dragonborn.

The next chapter will be from Vilkas' point of view in Sovngarde.