The woman was incredible with a sword. She was lithe and graceful. It was an extension of her as she moved. And she was so quick. He watched as she danced around a training dummy. Watched as she rained a dozen blows upon it before a man would even have time to lift his sword in response.
He could hear her breathing become labored. Could smell her sweat. A dark part of his brain imagined other causes for her exertion. He imagined running his hands along her skin. Imagined seizing her lips with his own.
"Vilkas?" She stood before him, her tunic damp with sweat and clinging to her slight curves.
"Yes?" He'd forced his gaze upward, met her eyes. She'd beamed at him, and he'd had to suppress the urge to beam back at her.
He wondered if she did it deliberately, or if that simple manipulation came to her naturally.
"Can I join you?" She gestured to the seat beside him. He looked at it, and her, then nodded his reluctant assent. He hadn't known it could happen, but her smile grew.
Silence stretched between them. He wondered if it would grow awkward, and make her leave. Was that what he really wanted?
"What does it mean to be a Companion?" Her voice had broken the silence. She'd sounded earnest, like she really cared about his response. So he'd answered.
"Depends on who you ask. You'll hear some of the brighter faces around her speak of honor and glory." That was usually enough for the new-bloods, the whelps who hadn't yet earned their rank. They wanted an idealized image of the Companions, which was fine with him. It had become his standard answer. The one he gave everyone, because it cast them in the best possible light without requiring much thought on his part.
"But what does it mean to you?"
Her question was astute, and gave him pause. Should he claim to ascribe to honor? To glory? Or should he tell her the hard truth? That he was stuck. That the Companions meant family when he'd had none but Farkas. That the Companions were a way of life, a way of surviving, and that he had never known anything else.
"I've got nothing against it, but for me, the promise of coin is what feeds my blade." It wasn't entirely untrue.
"Oh." She seemed to be turning the words over in her mind. Contemplating. He could see the wheels turning in her head, like some huge Dwemer gears. He wondered what she had expected him to say, what she thought of him. Did she think him cold and uncaring? Would it matter if she did? "Is it just the coin?"
"No." The word seemed to escape. He didn't want to prolong this conversation. But he did. He shouldn't, but he was. "Wherever someone in Skyrim doesn't feel up to defending their own honor, we'll take up their burden."
"Good. Everyone needs help, sometimes."
She'd left him then, with those words. Left him to contemplate their meaning. Her intent. Her. To contemplate her.