She pushes herself too hard. Why does she always push herself so far?

The unconscious woman in his arms felt far too delicate, too fragile, to be a dragonslayer. He knew of her status, he'd been reminded of her skill and her strength time and time again, but at this moment it was the most difficult for him to grasp.

The gods have an unusual sense of humor.

It concerned him that she had faded from consciousness so easily. Each enemy within the crypt had seemed so unchallenging for her. She had descended further into the depths in search of the Word Wall and Ra'jiir, as casual as if she were taking a stroll.

To think that this would affect her so much...

Vilkas had managed, after everything had happened, to get her back to Morthal and back into the Moorside Inn. She was covered in blood–he couldn't tell which was hers and which was...She stirred at the warmth of the inn, and a strange emotion in his chest flared to life.

He would never forget the look on her face when she found the dying bandit leader in the crypt. The amount of conflict he could see in her eyes at having slaughtered his men, the regret at having failed to save Eisa. She had sat silently by the bandit's side as he died, listening to his final words. Still, when she stood, he found for any conflicting emotions she might have, she never faltered in her resolve. She entered the final chamber with a stoic expression; he knew it must have taken some effort for that expression to stay in place when they were confronted by the Pale Lady.

Vilkas removed her bloodied armor and laid her flat on the bed, preparing a wet washcloth to clean her. She groaned, returning to the world of the conscious, as he dragged the cloth over her closed eyes to remove the red liquid from her lids.

Her hoarse cry echoed in his mind–she had shouted for Ra'jiir as he fell at the wispmother's hand. She picked up his sword, the Pale Blade, dripping with his own blood, and let loose a Dragon Shout that made the walls of the crypt tremble. She killed the Pale Lady with the force of her rage, and her eyes flashed gold before closing. Then the wall just in front of her, covered in strange markings that looked similar to the engraving on her sword, began to glow. She swayed on her feet as some invisible force was pulled from the wall into her body–Vilkas swore he heard the roar of a dragon in her exhale. Then she had collapsed, utterly spent, her body still trembling from the force of the Word Wall.

His hand shook as he cleaned her. So that was what happened each time she learned a new Shout. Did it truly take so much out of her?

Does she pass out every time? She's gone on every mission alone...Stupid girl! Doesn't she know how dangerous that is? What if that happened while there were still enemies?

She groaned again and moved to sit up; he pushed back on her shoulder. "Don't move."

"I'm not hurt," she insisted, sitting upright with only a slight wince. He had cleaned a majority of the blood from her, and she was right–physically, she wasn't hurt.

"You passed out. Healthy people tend not to do that." He couldn't help his biting tone. He was angry with her. Angry for being so unbreakable every other time, for seeming so inhuman, and angry for making him worry this time.

"I see your wit survived the battle."

Back to our old banter already? How quick we are to revert...

"Does that happen every time?" He surprised himself by asking the question, biting his lip.

"No," she said, letting her head fall into her palms. "I've only fainted from it once before, when I first learned a Shout."

He was relieved to know learning the Shouts didn't put her in any immediate danger, but he desperately wanted to know why this time. What was different? He stopped half a dozen questions from leaving his lips, dropping his gaze from her and asking instead, "Are you hungry?"

"No." She reached out to where Vilkas had leaned the Pale Blade against the wall. She grabbed it, drawing it near her. "You brought it."

"You were holding it pretty tightly," he said.

She nodded absently, her thumb stroking the hilt. "What a thing to die for...Those bandits...their leader...Eisa, Ra'jiir..." Her grip tightened fractionally and then released. "We're in the Moorside, then."

"Yes."

She nodded again. "You carried me all the way back here from the crypt."

He didn't respond–it hadn't been a question. She tightened her hold again on the sword, her body trembling again, and when he saw the first tear trickle down her cheek he honestly believed it to be an illusion.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Can you...Will you leave me, for just a moment?"

He was about to decline, still worried for her condition, when another tear slid from her eyes. This was unmistakable; he shot to his feet, feeling insanely uncomfortable, and fled the room without a word. He stood outside the door in a state of shock. She had actually cried, for bandits nonetheless. He wracked his brain, trying to remember if he had ever seen her cry, and came up empty. Not when Skjor or Kodlak had died, not when–His brain stuck on that. She hadn't cried when Kodlak had died, but here she was weeping over a group of good-for-nothing–!

He gritted his teeth and shoved through the door of the room. Her head shot up to stare at him, tear tracks down her cheeks, and he slammed the door closed.

"Vilkas, please, I asked you–" She didn't wipe the tears from her face but instead bowed her head and covered her eyes with her hand.

"No, don't cover it." He grabbed wildly at her wrist, pulling at her body until she was taut before him. Her back arched in an attempt to compensate as he lifted her arm high above her. "Tell me why. Why are you crying for them, bandits you didn't even know, when you couldn't even shed tears over your own Harbinger?"

Her face immediately hardened, doing away with any vulnerability she may have shown and she growled out, "What could you possibly know of my emotions following Kodlak's death?" He opened his mouth but she spoke over him. "You blamed me, if you recall. It was all Aveline's fault he had died, that cold-hearted bitch. I might as well have picked up a knife and slit his throat myself for how you treated me in the weeks once he died. Even when you learned that I had been fulfilling his wishes, that I was trying to send his soul to Sovngarde, you gave no apology for your actions until I had cured you and Farkas as well. You never asked, Vilkas, if I cried over Kodlak. You never cared."

Vilkas felt a muscle in his face twitch as she called him out. It was true he had treated her unfairly in that time, but he had apologized–at Farkas' urging, but an apology was an apology. That was years ago, why was she still bitter over it?

"Just because I wasn't public in my mourning," she hissed, "doesn't mean I felt nothing."

He suddenly felt very foolish in his accusation, and he did what he always did when he felt foolish–he barged on. "Why cry over the bandits? Why run to that woman's rescue?" I don't understand you, Aveline, why can't you just make sense?

"They were attacking one of their own, Vilkas." Her hand clenched and unclenched in his grip. "Not everyone is as loyal to each other to the Companions. I have seen treachery within groups. What the Companions have is unique. It...angers me to see betrayal." She looked away from him. "As to why I wept, Vilkas, if you must know, it's simply because I failed."

"Failed?"

She glared at him wholeheartedly, tugging her arm out of his grasp. "If we're going to keep talking, can you let go? This isn't comfortable, husband."

He dropped her arm, and she rubbed at her shoulder. "How did you fail? Fail at what?"

"At everything," she snapped. After a pause, she sighed. "Failed to save Eisa, failed to save Ra'jiir, I just failed. In the end all I could do was banish the Pale Lady." She barked out a hollow laugh. "That's all I'm good for, anyway. I battle the monsters, but I never save anyone."

She had been staring at the sword, when she suddenly turned over her hand and looked at her palm. Vilkas could see the faint line of a scar where she had cut her hand on the shield that second night of their time together, after the marriage, after she had returned.

"Mother would be livid," she whispered. "You can tell a woman's worth..."

"By her hands, I remember." Vilkas eyed her oddly. "You haven't been wearing your gloves in battle recently.

"Yes." She closed her hand into a fist. "I've been careless."

Vilkas was taken aback to see her eyes glistening again.

"I wonder what Mother would say now," she said. Her voice was almost dead, lifeless and emotionless as if a switch had flipped in her brain. "She'd probably agree that I'm a failure." A strange smile overtook her lips. "I would have made a terrible noblewoman." She looked up at him. "I apologize if you've found my answers unsatisfactory, husband."

He was stunned at the shift in her. He wanted–What did he want? He had wanted answers, had wanted explanations, had wanted emotions; and when she gave that to him, he had responded in anger that she hadn't shown it earlier. That was no good. What was the point of getting her to open up to him if he just got upset she hadn't done it before?

"I'm sorry."

Aveline blinked up at him, at the hand he extended towards her to help her up.

"Would you like to get a drink with me, Aveline?"

She took his hand, a wariness visible in her eyes–he couldn't blame her, really. Her actions were just a reaction to him; if he wanted her to change, he had to approach her differently. There was simply no other option. With a lingering look, Aveline placed the sword on the bed and allowed him to offer any support she needed as she got to her feet.

"Let me dress, husband," she said quietly. "Then I'll join you."

Vilkas nodded, feeling the slight squeeze she gave his hand just before she let go.

A/N: More characterization of Aveline. I opted out of detailed questing–tiresome to go through all of that when Vilkas' perceptions are the only things that matter about it.