AN: There's a warning for this chapter!
Like all future warnings you'll find it in the notes at the bottom. I will mention whenever there is one and then you can decide for yourselves if you want to ignore it or read it (and possible small spoilers) by scrolling to the bottom of the page.

The door to him room was thrown shut with a loud bang, but Vilkas paid neither it nor his leaving shield-brother any heed. Skjor could stew in Oblivion for all he cared. The Companion was seething. He had to hold on to the anger. It made him go on, gave him strength where his body failed him. It kept the other emotions at bay. The incomprehension of what had happened to him, of why Wulf had attacked, and the frustration and despair, because now their carefully crafted plans for his brother's rescue had been shattered. The shards were all around him and no matter that he grasped after them; there was nobody to save Farkas now. Nobody but him.

Vilkas clenched his teeth and undid the last clasps that held the bandages around his arm in place. He had already shrugged off the sling that had been loped loosely around his neck – the left side, because the right was bandaged as well. He was not sure what he would find underneath, but he felt a painful throb, timed with the beating of his heart. It was getting worse by the second, too. He knew that his arm was broken, probably in more places than one and undoubtedly badly mangled from the werewolf's long teeth and powerful jaws. It was still attached to his body though, and so he prayed that the damage wasn't too bad. The Companion did not know what he actually would do if he ever lost a limb.

The linen bandage fell away first, followed by a layer of cotton wool for cushioning and, finally, gauze. Cold air hit his arm and Vilkas shuddered at the feeling, because his entire hand felt cold and clammy now that the warmth of the bindings was no longer there. As if the smell that hit him wasn't bad enough, the process also hurt. More than a simple bite should have and he did not dare to look at first. The Companion was not squeamish, he had seen his share of battle wounds. It was different, however, when he was the one harmed. His body was what he needed to work, to be a warrior, and every injury threatened to rob him of that life.

Vilkas took a deep breath and glanced down – and then he was fighting a battle against throwing up what little soup he had eaten earlier. He was aware that he was losing against his heaving stomach and quickly leaned out of the bed and retched right on the rug that stood in front of it. It wasn't much, but the mass stank enough to cover up the reek of raw meat that emanated from the Companion's ruined arm. The sour tang of vomit perfectly matched the feeling of horror that swept through him. Now that he had seen the extent of the damage, Vilkas could not tear his eyes away.

Pieces of gauze stuck to his arm, glued to it by congealed blood and other fluids that seeped from the wounds. The entire limb was covered in dark violet, almost blackish bruises and only where the raw flesh was uncovered it was red in colour. A stark contrast to it were the silky black stitches that held together his flesh. Vilkas' arm was swollen to almost twice its normal size, but far worse was his hand. He did not even remember the werewolf getting hold of it, but then he had been pumped up on adrenaline and fighting for his life; he had simply not felt anything after his arm had broken.

Three of his fingers were splintered and his thumb had stitches all around it, looking by all means like it had been sewn back on. Here the swelling was so bad that his hand resembled a deformed lump of meat more than anything else and in spite of that, Vilkas could see through it in two places, through holes the size of copper coins.

In an act of desperation, the warrior tried to wriggle his fingers or his wrist – anything – but the tiniest fraction of a motion sent a bolt of agony through his arm that raced up, almost to his shoulder. Vilkas fell back against the pillows, panting and covered in cold sweat.

Without anybody telling him he nonetheless knew that he would never hold a sword again. Not without...magic. The Companion almost shuddered at the thought, another wave of nausea passing through him, but he also figured that nothing could be worse than...this.

He was reluctant to admit that magic scared him. Vilkas had read several books on the topic, tried to look at it in a reasonable way, and yet he could not understand magic. Where it came from. How it could be shaped by the ones casting it, how that great a power could be used to either heal or destroy and how mages did not confuse the two. Supposedly, almost every person was capable of casting spells, weak ones, but some races had a special affinity towards it. That it was the bloody elves did not help Vilkas' disposition one bit.

But Danica was no elf and he trusted her. She probably could have healed him, but Vilkas had made his opinions on magic very clear once. He did not want it performed on him or his brother, unless absolutely necessary. The traditional way of treating wounds with salves, poultices and catgut were good enough for him. Danica had respected his wish and though Vilkas had been healed since then, Farkas never had any magic performed on him.

The Companion knew that they both had been extremely lucky in that regard. None of them had ever been badly wounded so far. Grazes, cuts and abrasions they had suffered along with a few broken bones, but nothing life threatening. Ever.

Nothing like the ruin of his arm that Vilkas was staring at.

He needed healing. A potion would do for now, it would dull the pain and then thinking would be so much easier. The warrior turned and let his legs hang over the bed's edge, avoiding the pool of vomit, and stood up. His vision was clouded by spots at once and he lost his balance. Vilkas fell back, knocked his head against the wall and somehow managed to tilt sideways and land on his injured arm. He blacked out before he could as much as scream.

When the Companion's eyes opened again, the entire room was bathed in orange light that came from a setting sun. Somebody else was sitting on his bed, but he couldn't see who because he was facing the wall. There was the rapid click of needles and a soft humming and Vilkas slowly rolled on his back, having identified the person next to him.

A slender hand gently ran through his hair when Tilma realized that he was awake. "Oh, my dear boy", the old woman said, voice quivering.

Vilkas briefly wondered why she sounded so upset. He was sorry for making her sad and felt very young again all of a sudden. His vision was fuzzy and there was a strange pressure in his ears.

"Am I drugged?", the Companion rasped.

"Yes, dear." Tilma kept stroking his hair until he drifted off again.

He woke up some indeterminable time later. The light had changed, it was sharp and harsh and hurt his eyes, but Tilma was still or once more there, knitting. For a while Vilkas was content to just lie there and doze, but he eventually became jittery as he became conscious of the fact that he had no idea how long he had been asleep. And he never slept this much, his insomnia just did not allow him to.

"Did you drug me?" It was the only explanation he could think of.

If Tilma was surprised at the sudden question, she did not show it. "Yes, dear", she answered with a small smile.

Vilkas had a vague sense of having heard this before.

"I've asked already, haven't I?", he enquired. His memory was hazy.

"You have", Tilma replied with a small chuckle. "Several times."

Huh. The Companion did not remember any of those. The thought made him rather uncomfortable. "What happened?", he wanted to know, because that was one more thing that he could not recall.

"You probably know better than we do", the old lady responded. "Kodlak found you unconscious when he decided to check on you after your argument with Skjor."

"I tried to get up", Vilkas mumbled remembering suddenly, feeling heat rise to his face and avoiding the topic of Skjor altogether.

"You shouldn't have", Tilma scolded him gently. "You lost over one third of your blood when you were wounded. By the time Danica arrived, your chest had stopped rising. Skjor had to breathe life into you", she told him, quickly followed by "I was worried sick!"

Vilkas felt a stab of guilt through his gut at the old woman's words. And he had no idea that the grizzled warrior he had so horribly insulted had actually saved his life. He had to find him. But first he had to get healed.

Tilma saw a shudder pass through the Companion's strong body and hastily asked with all the care of a mother "Are you cold?" She held something green in front of his face "Here, I made this for you."

A woollen vest with short sleeves that he could pull over his head and injured arm without having much difficulty landed in Vilkas' lap. She must have worked tirelessly to have it finished already. Or – and here a terrible thought struck the Companion – he had been unconscious for much longer than he had assumed.

Vilkas shot upright, fright written all over his face.

Tilma watched his reaction and did not hesitate to rebuke him "Just what do you think you're doing?", she asked "First ripping your bandages off like that and now -", she gave him a push that was astonishingly firm for a lady of her age and frail statue "– lie down!"

"I have to get up", Vilkas protested, struggling to support himself on his uninjured elbow. "I have to see Danica."

"You are not going anywhere, young man!" Tilma's tone brooked no argument.

"I have to help Farkas." He wondered how much she had guessed already, but then he absolutely could not tell her the truth. It was enough that one of them was worried sick.

"I know, dear."

There used to be a time when the twins actually had believed that Tilma knew everything, after all she always knew when they were planning any mischief or when they had done something they shouldn't have. In addition to mastering the skill of reading minds, the old lady possessed eyes at the back of her head, of that Farkas was sure to this day and Vilkas felt half-inclined to agree with his brother. It was uncanny.

The Companion did not enquire how much she had found out and how. "And to do so I need Danica to heal my hand", he persisted. It was all that mattered right now.

"Yes." That Tilma did not disagree stunned Vilkas into silence. "And I'll go get the healers. You stay here." She got up and patted the covers, but quickly added "Don't you dare to leave the bed."

It was embarrassing that a woman who called Skjor young was in better shape than he was, but the last time he had tried to get up it hadn't gotten him far, Vilkas had to admit. Once she was gone though he sat up nonetheless, noticing that the rug he had thrown up on was gone. He could wait for a while. Besides, whatever they had used to dull his pain would have to wear off before long and he needed his thoughts to be clear if he was to set out on a rescue mission. The Companion only hoped that there was a potion that really was capable of setting his arm right.

He had read as much about alchemy as he had about magic and though the latter was necessary to practice the former, for some reason he trusted the small vials as he did no spellcaster. To make a healing potion one had to be capable of casting healing spells. Alchemy was a magical art, not something anybody could lean like herbal lore or field medicine or he would have mastered that particular skill long ago. The ingredients had to be prepared right and mixed just so, but that was the easy part. From what Vilkas had learned the alchemist then channelled his magic into the not-yet potion; different blends of ingredients allowed different types of magic to take hold.

Wulf probably knew more about it. The Companion wondered why he wasted his thoughts on the man who was responsible for him being in this state and shook his head, frustrated. Potions were a much safer subject to occupy his mind with.

The smallest ones required few ingredients and were relatively easy to make. They accelerated the natural healing process, drawing on the energy of the one who drank it. Usually they could close fatal wounds to the point where the injured person would not die immediately, but if that person was too weak, they could kill. Jorrvaskr had enough of those, but soldiers often saved up for months to buy one.

Funny, that he would remember this tidbit now, when he had not wasted any thoughts on the common people before. Permanent damage and maiming happened quite often, but usually to others. The Companions had the means and funds to keep their warriors from suffering such a fate. The fate that would also be his, were he anybody else, who in time of need could not guzzle healing potions like mead.

Vilkas felt vaguely sick with the realization. It seemed that the knock to his head had opened eyes.

His chances of recovery were quite good, for better potions could cure more severe wounds. They supplied the one who drank them with their own energy which meant that at some point the alchemist had channelled his own life force into them. For normal people those were as unaffordable as magical healing. A great part of Jorrvaskr's income was spent on healing, Vilkas knew that well from being responsible for the ledgers and finances.

Usually, Danica just used magic to prevent her patients from dying; everything else she patched up manually, like any common medic would. Being a Nord, her magical powers were limited. She had to ration them in a way so that they would suffice for everybody.

The Companion very much hoped that she would be willing to make an exception for him, who unlike most had not considered healing to be a luxury up till now, but something that he could fall back on anytime. He hung his head, staring at the floor between his feet. He felt ashamed suddenly for refusing that gift before.

But maybe that way Danica had had more energy for other patients.

The healer arrived a short while later, while Vilkas was still sitting slumped on the bed and stared dejectedly at the opposite wall.

"I have come here far too often of late", she greeted the Companion, but her small smile took most of the sting out of her words.

She wasn't happy though, that much Vilkas could tell. He greeted her courteously, but before he could explain why he called on her, Danica spoke up again.

"I assume you want me to heal your arm."

The Companion nodded his head, silent.

"I'm sorry", Danica replied, crushing all his hopes. "I did all I can. I asked Kynareth for a blessing but it's up to Her whether she grants it. A mage specializing in Restoration might set your arm right again, but you'd have to visit the College for that."

It was not the answer Vilkas had expected. "Please", he rasped, feeling dizzy and that had nothing to do with his loss of blood. "There must be something..."

"There is", Danica agreed "Potions we keep for special occasions and people, like the Jarl. They were made by masters of the trade, arch-mages with decades if not hundreds of years of experience. There are few of those potions, but my temple possesses two such vials. I'll have to ask Balgruuf for his consent before I hand one out and since it will have to be replaced, well, let's say it does not come cheaply." She sounded apologetic, but also unyielding and Vilkas knew immediately that there was no point in arguing.

"Name your price."

She did and Vilkas swallowed. He was not what most would call rich, but he was rather well off nonetheless. In spite of years of saving up the money he got for going on jobs and no real expenses, he did not have that amount of gold. It was more than Jorrvaskr made in two years. He'd plunge the Companions into debt.

'It's for Farkas', he thought and agreed with a single nod of his head. "Done."

Danica too inclined her head, her shawl hiding her features as she did so. "I will see the Jarl straight away", the priestess said. "Once I have his assent I will have to pull the stitches first or your arm will heal around them." With those words she left.

Tilma came in with a plate of food once the other woman was gone and Vilkas ate more because it gave him something to do than because he was hungry, although he should be.

"You did the right thing", the old woman told the Companion, her words making him rise his head.

"The others might not see it this way." Now it was him going behind his shield-siblings' backs. Divines, but he was sick of it all. Vilkas wished they could go back to being the way they had been before. Before what? So many conflicts had never been addressed, had been left to simmer and were never resolved. Kodlak was there to give advice, but he never did unless asked. He did not tell anybody how to live their lives. Maybe he should have. Things had seemed so much easier before Wulf had come to Jorrvaskr. All those issues had boiled up after his arrival, the Companion could not think of a single whelp who had caused such a stir.

Vilkas wondered whether Aela had shot him by now as was the course of action with rogue werewolves and felt another wave of nausea pass through him. He knew that his wounds were not the dark haired warrior's fault. He had succumbed to the blood of the beast. It had been the Companion who had not listened to Aela's shouted warning.

There wasn't much that could be said right now to cheer him up, but somehow Tilma found just the thing to lift his spirit, if only a little bit. "And what's some gold in comparison to your brother's life?", she asked.

oooo

Vilkas looked at the tiny, decorative vial in his hand. It was difficult to believe that such a small thing contained such power.

"It's for Farkas." Only after speaking did Vilkas realize that he had in fact said those words out loud. Balgruuf had agreed that he should be given the potion and Danica had pulled the stitches and now his wounds were held together by only the bandages wrapped tightly around them.

The vial's content did not taste like anything when Vilkas downed it in a few gulps, not even like water from a clear mountain spring, but the effects were instantaneous. The Companion's arm was swathed in a warm golden light and he watched in fascination as the wounds closed and the pain first receded and soon after faded entirely. The swelling went down, bruises disappearing before his eyes and the holes in his damaged hand filled out.

A wave of energy coursed through his body. Vilkas had never experienced anything like this before. A few seconds before he had been bone weary, and now he was strong as an ox. He shouldn't be, considering how badly he had been wounded and the length of time he had spent passed out, but just as Danica had assured him, he was healed now. The Companion gasped when he saw that he did not even have a scar.

The warrior moved his fingers with great care, but there was no pain this time. Nothing. Like the injury had never happened. The potion had practically undone all the damage and Vilkas admired the results. He stood up. There was no weakness this time, no dizziness. He searched the room for clothes and began to dress. There was a mission he had to go on. He had to pack, get a horse or two from Skulvar – thank the gods that they had paid in advance for the animals - and take his leave from Kodlak.

Vilkas had learned that almost four days had passed since he had been wounded. Too much time. Time that slipped away like sand through his fingers. His heart told him that Farkas was still alive.

He'd know if his twin was dead. He'd know.

A knock interrupted the warrior's dark thoughts. The Companion opened the door, all the other whelps were training in the yard. Kodlak kept them busy and Vilkas had avoided his shield-siblings. There were questions he couldn't answer.

A courier was standing in front of the door, fumbling through a heavy leather bag. Vilkas did not recognize him and he was familiar with all of Whiterun's messengers. It wasn't unusual though for strangers to come by, clients from far away often asked for the Companions to help them. The man's words were very odd though.

"I have a letter", the courier stated the obvious "For...Farkas", he read out and looked at the tall warrior with expectation.

Who in Oblivion wrote a letter to Farkas? Farkas, not the Companions. It hadn't happened was fishy. "That's alright, I'll take it", Vilkas answered cooly, holding out his hand. "I'm his brother."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir." The courier made to put the letter away. "I have received very clear instructions that this letter is for Farkas' hands only."

Vilkas' eyes narrowed with suspicion. He ripped the letter out of the shocked man's hand before he had had a chance to protest.

"Hey, you can't just –", the courier began but fell silent when he saw the look on Vilkas' face. "Uh...you'll make sure that he gets it, right?", the man stammered.

"Right." Vilkas shut the door and leaning against it he ripped open the letter, hands shaking.

A lock of dark brown hair fell out of the envelope. Vilkas stared at it, the letter's words blurring in front of his eyes.

xxxx

"Do we have an explanation why the Thane of Whiterun looks like a hermit who's been living in the woods?", Wulf asked tiredly, less because he was interested in an actual answer and more to break up Lydia and Aela's bickering. It was giving him quite a headache and he had put up with it for two days already. He was tired and grouchy, hungry and cold.

The effects of his turning into a werewolf had worn off after a day of riding, the horse's swaying gait was probably responsible. Whatever it was, his side now hurt like hell. Not the sharp pain of a fresh wound, but rather a deep ache, like somebody had punched him in the guts over and over again. With a mace.

He only wished for a moment of peace and quiet, but apparently that was something the gods were not willing to grant him. Wulf tucked his chin against his chest, looking as miserable as he felt. One more hour and they would reach Whiterun. It was a great comfort that a warm meal, a bath and a bed were this close. Of course, neither Lydia nor Aela seemed to take notice of his words. He had long ago stopped trying to make out what their argument was about. Some things womanly that men did not understand. They had actually spat that at him, the only time when they had not been disagreeing and he hadn't asked since.

Wulf began to whistle a tune off-key just to drown out the sound of his friends' voices. 'Only a little further', he consoled himself.

Predictably, the guards were suspicious when they approached the gates. Two armed women and a man who looked like a beggar certainly were odd travel mates. "Stop right there", one guard shouted, soon followed by "Who comes riding?" and "What's your business in Whiterun?"

"This is the Thane of Whiterun you are speaking to!", Lydia shouted at him in a strong, but shrill voice that made everybody close to her flinch. "Show some respect!"

Wulf waved at the man.

"And a member of the Circle of the Companions", Aela muttered, talking more about herself than Wulfryk.

"My Thane!?" The soldier's eyes went wide. He either recognised the rider or the housecarl, but it did not matter which, because he opened the gate to let them in. His fellow guard though couldn't resist asking "What happened to your clothes?"

"The werewolf tore them apart", Wulf lied quickly. "Gnawed on my boots, too. Now they have holes on the toes and one is missing the sole; I had to throw them away. Quite a shame, really. They were a lovely piece of leatherwork."

The guard blinked, looking dazed and nodded his head, probably because he was at a loss for words. "Did you get the beast?", he finally enquired in a half-whisper.

"Of course", Wulf declared in his most arrogant tone. "Struck its hideous read right from its shoulders. I would have taken its pelt as a prize but sadly upon dying they turn back into humans. And the ugly bastard this one turned into really didn't merit a place on my trophy wall."

"You could have brought back the corpse", the soldier offered slyly.

"A bear came and ate it", Wulf snapped at the man in annoyance, not in a mood to trade more words. "Are you always this nosy?"

No more questions followed after this and the three warriors continued onwards. Wulf was not paying much attention to where they were going; by now he was familiar with Whiterun, but that didn't stop him from feeling overwhelmed by the city. By the Nine, it was loud! And he could smell the people. Not something that was very pleasant and he could do without it, as well as some other things like the gutter or the fish in one of the market stalls. But there were other things, the scent of wood and smoke and baked goods, raw meats and a faintly herbal odour that must have come from Arcadia's shop.

It was fascinating and he'd appreciate it a lot more if the overwhelming intensity and the racket all around him didn't make his head hurt even worse.

It was no wonder that he overlooked the single warrior heading their way. The other though noticed them straight away.

Vilkas stopped and like everybody else he gawked at the two riders and the housecarl, Lydia, accompanying them. Of the three Aela noticed him first and quickly pointed him out to Wulf. They halted right there, in the middle of the road and the traffic parted for them like water around rocks.

"You're alive", Vilkas said to the other Nord, the words only half of a question. He had in all honesty believed that he wouldn't see the man again. He couldn't make much sense of the chaos of emotions that whirled inside him. There was relief and joy, but mixed with hurt and a feeling of betrayal. Sadness, because another had gambled his soul away for a power that was not worth it in the least.

"I think so", Wulf replied, uncomfortably. Aela had claimed that he'd almost ripped off the Companion's arm, but Vilkas seemed to be fine. He was carrying packs, full armour and his sword. "I'm sorry", he apologized. "Aela told me what I'd done. I – I don't remember any of it." It was lame as apologies went and he knew it, but at the moment he couldn't feel sorry for anybody but himself.

"You bloody idiot!", the big warrior growled. He was still reeling from this encounter. "Do you know what you've done!? Why, oh why did he care what the guy did with his soul? It was none of his business. It drove him mad.

"I know." Wulf didn't sound half as upset as the situation warranted.

"Why?" Why would anybody choose this cursed existence?

"Because it seemed like a good idea at the time", Wulf admitted with a shrug.

"You're going somewhere", Aela remarked, quickly ending their talk.

"I'm going to Gallow's Rock."

"Alone?", the Huntress enquired with disbelief. "Where is Skjor?"

"He has taken off several days ago", Vilkas responded, not looking her in the eye and she knew there was more to it than he let on. "I don't know where to."

The Companion pulled out something out of the breast pocket of his mantle. "This arrived today", he said, suddenly sounding hoarse. It was a letter of ransom and attached to it was a lock of dark hair.

"At least it means that Farkas is alive, if they mean to use him as bait", Aela said with misplaced optimism.

Wulf winced, but Vilkas beat him to the answer. "It doesn't mean anything!", the Companion cried with anguish. "Only that they have had gotten hold of some of my brother's hair at some time! He could be -"

He never finished the sentence, but instead he muttered "I need to get there as fast as possible", running a hand over his face.

"If we're to travel swiftly we'll need spare horses." Aela disliked the prospect of any more riding, but it was unavoidable. She could run fast and far as a wolf, but the transformations did not last long enough and even if they did she doubted she could outdistance a horse. Not for a second did she hesitate in joining her shield-brother.

"Jorrvaskr is broke", the Companion admitted. "We can't afford horses." There. It was out.

"What? How can that be?"

Vilkas told her. No more lies. No more secrets. They had done too much harm already.

"You used all our money to have your arm healed!?"

"I did it so I could help Farkas." He dared her to say otherwise. It was Aela who looked away first.

"So what do we do now?", the Huntress wanted to know.

"Actually." Wulf thought it was high time for his input. "I've got gold", he said. "Enough to buy horses. It's in Jorrvaskr though. Give me a bit and I'll be ready. You're not going alone", he told Vilkas and kicked his horse into motion, riding past the stunned Companion. Lydia followed her Thane, not having said a word since entering Whiterun.

Once they were far enough away that not even the ears of a werewolf could pick up their talk, Vilkas turned to Aela. "You didn't kill him", he stated, indicating Wulfryk with his chin. The Circle's protocol dictated that wild wolves should be put down. He had not expected the Huntress to break the rules.

"Wulf's a friend", she replied. "And before you say it, yes, it's partly my fault. Can we argue later?"

Vilkas gave a stiff nod. He was loathe to admit it, but a huge weight lifted off his shoulders. Four had a decidedly better chance than one. "Hang on, Farkas", he thought. Help was finally coming.

xxxx

Roughly an hour later they were ready to leave, this time for real.

Wulf was quite unhappy because his armour had holes in it, but there was no time to repair it and so he left it the way it was. The lamellar plates of his mail usually did a fine job of stopping arrows, all but the needle bodkins fired from a powerful bow. He had tested it by shooting at it – part of the reason why the forging had taken so long.

One plate must have had some weakness though and that Silver Hand archer had had more luck than skill in hitting it. Maybe it was time to consider having a matching set made of Skyforge Steel. Wulf had the money. Come to think of it, the leather cuirass wasn't in pristine condition, either.

Also, he was not getting the bed he had been dreaming of, though as always there was food in Jorrvaskr and he even managed to squeeze in a brief bath in cold water. And he was wearing clothes again which was a huge improvement over how things had been before.

Upstairs, he could hear Vilkas and Kodlak talking silently. He shouldn't be able to make out a single word, but he did. Wulf wondered how many 'private' conversations the other members of the Circle had listened to 'by accident'. A most useful trait, that hearing.

If only everything wasn't so loud!

Sighing, the Nord ascended the steps to the main room. He met Lydia there who had been outfitted with the Companions' own things, after she confessed that she couldn't return to the barracks and why. Wulf sank in a chair next to her, glad that for once she was not chatting away. It allowed him to listen in on the conversation his fellow warriors had with the Harbinger.

"I should not have said those things." Vilkas hung his head in shame. He had always respected his elders. Always. "I don't know what came over me", he moaned. It had been a madness, a sickness of the mind. It had been the anger, the beast. He no longer knew which one he was speaking of, but it did not matter.

Aela was raging when Kodlak told them that Skjor had left to save Farkas single-handedly, shouting "You let him!?"

"I did not know his intentions, Aela", Kodlak sighed and continued "Or I would have tried to discourage him from such foolishness. Unfortunately, I found out once he was already gone. Skjor left a note", the Harbinger explained. Wulf noticed the sideways glance the old man shot at Vilkas, who was busy looking away.

"He felt guilty for Wulfryk's transformation going wrong, which resulted in Vilkas being hurt. Quite badly, I might add", he put in with a piercing look. "I believe he wanted to set things right again."

Vilkas swallowed visibly, but then his features hardened and he got up, his intentions clear.

"You go now", Kodlak urged, not wanting to hold them back longer "And may the gods be with you."

Tilma had come upstairs to see them off as well, though almost all her words were for Vilkas. "Just be careful", the old woman implored, a hand on the big warrior's cheek. "I do not want to lose the two of you."

They left almost immediately after, heading for the stables where Skulvar had readied their eight horses and Wulf mounted the black steed he had stolen in Helgen once more, for first time since Andel had escaped the Western Watchtower on its back.

They stayed silent as they set out, except for Lydia asking once "My Thane, are you feeling unwell?"

Wulf grunted in answer. He was sore, but he'd be damned if he lagged behind. Farkas was his friend and that was all there was to it. "I'll be fine, Lydia", he answered. "Just...shut up? Please? My head feels like it's going to explode."

Nobody said a word after that, everybody lost in his own thoughts.

xxxx

That night, long after everybody else had gone to sleep, Kodlak was sitting upstairs, thinking.

So many things had gone wrong lately. He had not even noticed when they had begun to drift off the right path, but maybe that was because it was something that had built up over the past few years. It still made him wonder whether he was still fit to be the Harbinger. He should have seen it coming, the trap, the Silver Hand's plans, Aela and Skjor's deceit.

On their own those things would have been manageable, but now that they had to face all together the chances of something going wrong were just too high.

They had become too lazy. Content. Careless. But Kodlak no longer had the energy to push them onwards. Skjor had, but lately he had preferred to run wild in his beast form than to invest in training, either his own or that of the whelps.

The Companions were the best warriors and because of that there was no more challenge. They went up against bandits badly equipped and barely trained and they brawled when somebody wanted an offender put in place. None of the Circle members strove for more. It had been too long since they had faced real danger, dealt with a crisis.

It was part of the reason why Kodlak had been so quick to accept Wulfryk into Jorrvaskr. That and the fact that the man was somehow linked to the cure he was trying to find. His dream had not revealed anything beyond that the mercenary had to become a Companion. It was meant to be.

Back when he had been young, Kodlak had worked as a bodyguard in Hammerfell himself. Wulf had been a swordsman for hire, both as a guard for caravans and people. And probably a paid blade when somebody needed dirty business done quickly and quietly.

Kodlak knew a killer when he saw one.

He didn't judge the lad. He knew what it was like, trying to survive in a foreign country, all on his own. He had done some things that he was not proud of, but it was difficult to feel regret over actions that had kept him clad and fed. Aela, Vilkas and Farkas had grown up inside Jorrvaskr. In a way, they were just pups.

The Companions needed somebody worldly in their ranks more than they needed just a skilled fighter. Somebody who would not shy away to lie and cheat to achieve his goal, somebody to whom honour was not carved in stone, but more of a guideline: quickly disposed of if necessary.

Not because Kodlak didn't believe in it, he did with all his heart, and knew that without their code they were no more than common thugs. Sometimes the lines began to blur. No, it was because their enemies would not shy away from underhanded actions and dirty tricks and somebody had to stop them.

Wulf did not intend to harm the Companions, that the Harbinger knew or he would have refused his testing, but he was efficient and cold-blooded and not blinded by ugly truths or hindered by morale. The Companions would need him to live through this crisis. He was capable of opening the others' eyes, his utter lack of diplomacy and tact might serve where the Harbinger's gentle, guiding advice and wisdom fell on deaf ears lately.

Vilkas was going to need all the help he could get, and sooner rather than later.

Kodlak knew that he was dying slowly, old age and some untreatable disease eating away at him. Skjor was a fierce warrior and had served in the Legion, but he was only a few years younger than Kodlak himself. That still made him old in everybody but Tilma's eyes.

The Harbinger feared for the future of the Companions. As much as he would have liked to believe that they would be safe in Vilkas' hands, the lad was just so young. 'He's not a boy anymore', the Harbinger had often told himself 'But a man grown. He will manage.' After all, Kodlak had done everything possible to groom the warrior for leadership.

Now though there was no telling what would happen if Farkas did not make it out of the Silver Hand lair alive. His twin would fall to pieces and who would guide Jorrvaskr's warriors then?

oooo

Kodlak's thoughts were interrupted when somebody rapped on Jorrvaskr's front door. 'Quite late for that', the Harbinger thought and frowned. It was close to midnight and at this time of night the streets usually were deserted and decent folks were at home. He briefly considered ignoring the incident and going to his room, but then he heard the plea.

"Please!", whoever was outside cried, knocking on the wood again. "Please, I need your help."

Jorrvaskr was always open to those who needed the Companions' service. And it wasn't the first time that somebody arrived at an odd hour. A kidnapping that could not wait or some other misfortune must have befallen this poor soul. It would be dishonourable to turn him away, just because he did not want to deal with late-night visitors.

"One moment", Kodlak called back. Whoever was out had probably seen the light from his candle and known that a Companion was still up. The Harbinger rocked back and forth, gathering momentum and stood up, clenching the armrests of his chair until he was sure that he was not going to fall over and cursing this frail body that his fiery soul was trapped in. Slowly he shuffled to the door, slid the bolts to the side and opened it wide to see who was outside.

"Now what is the meaning of this?", Kodlak enquired, not unkindly, but there was a note of authority in his voice. A tall man threw back the cowl of his cloak to reveal fiery red hair and a face so heavily freckled, it appeared red as well.

'A Cloak? It wasn't very cold or raining...Why didn't he carry a torch? It was quite dark outside' – those thoughts shot though the Harbinger's mind quicker than one of Aela's arrows.

"Hi." The foreign Nord grinned. Behind him, there were the shadows of other people moving closer.

Kodlak's training kicked in a second too late. Slow. He had gotten slow in his old age and could only gasp softly when a sword was buried in his chest right to the crossguard. All air had escaped his lungs and there was none left for him to scream at the sudden, dreadful cold that gripped him. He could only weakly clutch at the hands of his assailant, which were firmly wrapped around the hilt.

Warm. They were warm and dry and one of them pushed at him, almost gently.

Slowly the Harbinger of the Companions began to fall backwards, sliding off the blade and feeling every inch of it as it passed through his body. He hit the ground hard, limp and unable to draw breath, shock muting the pain, but still there was this terrible numbness. Kodlak's eyes were open and he saw everything that followed.

"There." The redhead sounded almost cheerful. He did not clean or sheathe his sword, sketching a half-bow instead, his hand stretched out towards the main room in an inviting fashion. "Ladies first."

A woman clad in armour stepped over the Harbinger's prone body, followed by three more warriors. They drew their weapons and quietly descended the steps, followed by the redheaded stranger who first closed the door without any apparent hurry.

They had come here.

The Silver Hand was attacking Jorrvaskr and every single warrior was asleep. Kodlak tried to shout, to warn his shield-siblings, but all he managed was a wet gurgle and a hissing sound that escaped from the hole in his lungs.

The last thing he heard before the cold swallowed him whole was an ear-splitting, agonized shriek. 'Tilma', he thought. Sweet old Tilma who had always been there, who had taken care of them for decades and was now dead or dying.

And the pups. Mara have mercy, the pups.

How had it come to this?

AN: Warning for blood, death and a bad injury!