The ghost glanced back in one of their rare moments of pause to see Farkas gazing up into the star-strewn sky.
"Looks like full moons tomorrow," Farkas said, smiling strangely as they resumed walking. "Good for hunting."
"Maybe better to be quiet now, brother." Vilkas glared over his shoulder, past the ghost, with an intensity that might have intrigued the fallen Dragonborn at an earlier point in his life. "At this time of night, the lines between life and death are blurred. You annoy the restless dead with your prattle."
"Eh, I'm not scared," Farkas glanced at Bleak Falls Barrow dominating the horizon, and the ghost saw him bite his lip. If the brute only knew how close I came to becoming one of his feared draugr, he would not dare stand so close to me. "That barrow was cleared out years ago. By the Dragonborn, I think. I drink with a wagon rider that delivers supplies up to the mountain. He said some priests of Arkay are digging up bones there, nowadays."
The crumbling spires of the Nordic ruin clung to the side of the mountain like a skeleton's hand, deathly still. They walked the high road, but even the ghost could not help but feel diminished under the shadow of such grandeur. Look at what the Nords accomplished so many millennia ago. How fragile and ephemeral these new settlements appear in comparison. During the Dragon War, the Barrow had weathered dragonfire countless times. And yet Helgen had fallen to a single dragon's impulsive attack, even with Skyrim's heroes close at hand. And what are Ulfric Stormcloak, Tullius, and his prisoner now? Naught but bones and ash.
Down to their left, the frozen surface of the river: a curve of shimmering oblivion in the heady moonlight. The snow stopped falling, but the white covered everything and muffled the world like a smothering blanket.
"Bad idea, if you ask me," Farkas continued. "Tempting fate. I always thought Arkay liked the dead in the ground where they belong."
The ghost could keep quiet no longer. "Are you certain your friend did not say...archaeologist? They are scholars of the mind that collect remnants of the past for study." His cracked lips stung with the speaking.
"Huh. Coulda been. I don't remember too much about that night."
Vilkas actually chuckled. "'Course that's what he said, icebrain. There are still a handful of the Dawnguard roaming Skyrim. If any priests of Arkay had betrayed their oaths in such a way, we'd likely have heard news of the massacre." He looked back at the ghost, his brow raised. "Not many commoners are knowledgeable in regards to the scholarly arts. I never would have taken you for a learned man."
Farkas ignored his brother's jab. "Still stupid to go digging in a draugr crypt. I wonder who'll put down the dead now, if they ever come back again. The Dragonborn ain't around no more."
"You don't need a dragon soul to clear out a tomb full of dustwalkers." Vilkas spoke with startling venom. "Amaton caused more trouble than he was worth. Give me a hardy whelp any day over a Dragonborn."
"Killing Alduin has to count for somethin'." Farkas dug a piece of jerky out of his pack and started chewing on it, evidently not too invested into the conversation. The ghost trudged on, too weary to even summon wrath at their unfailing pace. They do not even stop to eat? "That dragon wanted to eat the world, right? They're always singing about it in the Mare."
"If it had stopped at the World-Eater, he might still hold my respect. Jarl Balgruuf would still draw breath if not for the Dragonborn. So would the Greybeards. Whiterun bears scars from that terrible night. Not to mention Labyrinthian...how many friends did we lose in the fires?"
Farkas paused mid-chew, his forehead wrinkling. "Nah. Elves did that. Not the Dragonborn. I remember."
"And who provoked them? I'm no craven, Farkas, but even I know not to disturb a sleeping bear if it would be easier to sneak past."
Farkas, who the ghost suspected punched sleeping bears for fun, merely grunted in response.
"No, he didn't just disturb the bear," Vilkas' shoulders were held stiff. "He doused it with oil and set it aflame. And Skyrim paid for his arrogance."
"Can we stop just talkin' about it?" Farkas sighed. "I don't like it when you get like this."
Vilkas fell into a sullen silence, and the ghost welcomed the quiet. It was torturous enough being dragged around by two aged mercenaries without them barking at each other. At least the noise had distracted him from the pain. His thin legs shivered like old tree branches ready to snap off in the wind. By some small miracle, the ghost had weathered the last nine years without losing any fingers or toes, but already his throbbing extremities were numbing in the night's cold. Spite alone kept the ghost from asking how much longer it would be until they reached the Guardian Stones and could set up camp.
Soon they started passing road lanterns, marking the boundaries of so-called civilization. A faded road sign pointed the way towards a village called Riverwood. He'd not been this far north in years. Nothing will have changed. In this era, Skyrim is a stagnant pool of empty promise. The country's best hope had been for a Dragonborn to emerge to lead them, but one had effectively killed the other and then died himself not long after.
Farkas pointed. "I see 'em, up there. Not too far now."
The Guardian Stones stood like three weary sentinels on the cliff, the ancient etchings in their stonework visible even from a distance. The ghost felt a strange sense of kinship. Once symbols of grand power; now, mere landmarks for the peasantry. Mundanity has claimed us both.
"Hold," Vilkas snapped, stopping for the first time since they'd left Helgen. His brother moved fast, just as he'd promised earlier. Farkas had his greatsword drawn and advanced to the ghost's back in an instant. He imagined he could feel the brute's breath down his neck. "A rider down the road."
Farkas cocked his head, his eyes closed. "Hmm...yeah. Just one, it sounds like. Horse ain't too burdened. Light armor, or none at all."
The ghost heard nothing but the blowing of the wind. Have my senses become so dulled?
Vilkas rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Let's move off the road a bit, just the same. Likely just one of the Riverwood guardsmen."
The twins directed the ghost into the blanketed brush, and he bit back a hiss of pain at the fresh throbs of agony the slush of cold sent through his legs. It was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering.
It seemed an eternity before the mounted man passed into view, the moonlight casting his dark silhouette across the snowy cobblestones. He brandished a weapon that defied practicality; an absurdly long golden spear with a glowing tip. At the sight of it, however, Vilkas and Farkas visibly relaxed and stowed their blades. It wasn't until the rider stopped at one of the tall road lanterns and raised his spear that the ghost understood.
"A lamplighter," he croaked, not meaning to speak the word aloud. It wasn't a spear at all, but a long and specialized tool of the man's trade.
"Aye." Vilkas led them back on to the road. "Takes a brave soul to walk Skyrim at all hours of the night, even in these quiet times."
Farkas snorted. "Don't see what's so brave about lighting candles. Sometimes I do that in my sleep."
"Without lamplighters, you wouldn't see at all," Vilkas chided. "Don't tell me you've forgotten that time we took down that skooma den in Redoran's Retreat. Sun's Height, I think it was. We never would've made it out of that fog without the road lanterns to guide us."
The brothers fell into a back-and-forth exchange that the ghost already wearied of, despite having been acquainted with the two for only a matter of hours. His only relief came from the fact that they did not expect any response from him, and that their conversation served as an effective distraction whenever his pace slowed due to the numbness in his calves. They passed the lamplighter without pausing, though Vilkas gave the man what he no doubt considered to be a nod of the utmost gravity and respect. Pompous arse.
The lamplighter did not spare them a glance. He wore weathered scale armor, and a brown hood concealed his features. Likely that his ears have frozen off, and he did not even note our approach. Roaming this frozen wasteland night after night must be agonizing. Nevertheless, the ghost envied the man his comfortable place on the back of the horse.
When they reached the Guardian Stones, the ghost collapsed. Vilkas and Farkas stopped conversing and stood over him, looking down with almost identical frowns.
"Guess we'd better get that fire started."
"You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him, Farkas. I had my back to the both of you. You didn't think to mention he was freezing to death?"
"Well, he's a Nord, ain't he? You know, we never got a good look at his ears with all that hair in the way. Might be that he's actually some sort of elf, huh?"
Vilkas crossed his arms and sighed. The ghost let his head roll to the side, so his gaze went past the two brutes. If falling down had been a conscious choice, he regretted it, as even more of his body was now wet and freezing. He'd read that those who succumbed to the cold felt warmth before the end. It was difficult to wait for that promised comfort while needles of frost pierced his flesh. No more voices. That will be a relief. Will I return to Apocrypha, to face Hermaeus Mora one last time? Or will Akatosh restore his claim on my forsaken soul? The scavenger chittered nervously, fearing oblivion, and the dragon circled in seeming anticipation.
His mind clouded with misery, the ghost failed to see until almost the last moment: the lamplighter bearing down on them, his trade-tool lowered like a jousting lance. Absurdly, the footfalls of his steed were completely silent. Enchanted horseshoes.
"Lamplighter," The ghost rasped.
"What'd he say?"
Vilkas pushed his brother out of the path of the spear and took the full force of the horse's charge; in full heavy armor, the Harbinger represented no insubstantial obstacle. The slam of impact: a thunderclap in the frozen quiet, a hollow split in the muffled air.
The dismounted lamplighter soared over the ghost, landing in a dazed heap between the three Guardian Stones. Vilkas and the horse vanished over the frozen lip of the high road. There immediately followed the sound of a beast dying noisily, and the pained grunts of a man.
"Don't move," Farkas advised the ghost after he had steadied himself and drawn his long steel greatsword. The order drew the ghost out of his shock. "Gotta squash this bug."
The scavenger inside, the loathsome scurrying little creature that had kept him alive for nine years, awoke with blazing eyes. Opportunity. The oaf is distracted. The ghost felt a surge of adrenaline, his body pulling reserve power from some place hitherto unknown to him.
As soon as Farkas turned his back and started towards the stunned lamplighter, the ghost lurched to his feet and stumbled back down the road. The bindings on his wrists had snapped when he'd fallen.
Though the trek was easier going downhill, the ghost still only made it a short distance before slipping on the icy cobblestones and falling down the right side of the road like an errant boulder. He grasped on to one of the stones desperately. Slipping further down the hill beneath him might be a lethal venture. New sounds drew his attention: steel clashed against steel. The ghost looked back towards the Guardian Stones while marshalling his strength.
The lamplighter held a shortsword, and exchanged blows with Farkas. It did not seem to be an equal trade. Each strike of Farkas' greatsword sent the smaller man staggering back with a whimper. The duel, if it could be called that, was almost pathetic to behold.
"You should give up, or I'm gonna have to kill ya," Farkas barked.
The lamplighter continued delivering his ineffective strikes. Farkas barely needed to throw up a defense to protect himself; the force and speed of his own attacks gave his opponent scarcely enough room to catch his breath. The ghost was more familiar with the theory of swordplay than the practice, after thousands but even he could see he would only be a matter of moments before the lamplighter's life would be irrevocably snuffed out.
Vilkas materialized at the edge of the road, blood running down his face. He limped towards his brother's engagement with all possible speed.
Farkas brought his greatsword down again. The lamplighter fell back a number of steps; a number incongruous to the strength of the blow. He's letting Farkas push him back, unnecessarily. For what purpose? The ghost squinted, the skin around his eyes stinging, and saw the discarded golden spear lying between the stones of Mage and Thief. It had broken into two pieces. Farkas lashed out with the hilt of his sword and knocked the lamplighter down in that vicinity. His shortsword spun off the incline.
"The...spear!" Vilkas shouted, panting between words. He'd slipped on the wet cobblestones just as the ghost had, falling back down the road, and was struggling back to his feet. His hands were raw and bloody from the climb.
For all the ghost considered Farkas to be a simpleton, he caught on to his twin's meaning without pause. The lamplighter did not have time to aim his new weapon before Farkas' greatsword fell. The smaller man twisted with a speed and grace hitherto undisplayed, and deflected the strike off the shaft of the shortened spear. What happened then provoked a visible reaction in both brothers.
On such a cold and crisp night, even the ghost saw the flakes of golden metal fall from the spear shaft after it connected with the greatsword. But not metal - not metal at all, but pigment. Underneath the false gold, in the glow of moonlight, the revealed silver gleamed like the polished bones of an eldritch creature.
"Withdraw!" Vilkas screamed as he rushed forward, his own sword drawn.
Emboldened by his opponent's passivity, the Companion let out a war cry and swung his Skyforged steel. Vilkas reached the edge of the stone circle just as the greatsword struck the Thief Stone. The lamplighter had fallen towards the totem, and Farkas' blade was caught short. There was simply not enough space to maneuver such a hefty weapon. The lamplighter had no such disabilities.
The gilded spear plunged deep beneath the plates of armor before coming to a rest. Farkas took a gasping breath, trembling. His weapon clattered to the stones. The shaft jutted out from his stomach like the third arm of some nameless monstrosity. Vilkas held the lamplighter by the neck, pinning him against the Mage Stone. His head turned to his brother, desperately, futily.
"Don't try to change," Vilkas urged. "Just...hold on."
Farkas groaned and turned away. The ghost watched his dark eyes turn a primal golden, the hue of sunlight passing through the trees of a forest untouched by civilization. Then his eyes returned to the darkness, and the light fled from them like small animals hiding before the sunset, and Farkas fell.
"Farkas? Farkas, get up, damn you. This is no time to rest. What would Kodlak think? Or Jergen?"
As Vilkas spoke, his voice wavered, and his grip on the lamplighter tightened. The man's face purpled.
"Fine, fine. You can rest, icebrain. That will be a fine jest at our next feast...one of the Circle falling asleep in battle. Aela will never let you forget this."
Even the river seemed hushed now. The ghost remained in his precarious position, transfixed. All sound from the lamplighter ceased.
"Say something, Farkas. Just…"
Vilkas stepped back. The lamplighter collapsed, where he rolled and gasped like a fish plucked from a stream. What the ghost at first took to be an act of mercy swiftly transformed into something else. Vilkas stared down at his dead twin, and his eyes took on the same unworldly shade of yellow, and something terrible and beautiful happened between the Guardian Stones under the light of Masser and Secunda.
Mortal skin ripped like parchment, and gleaming flesh tore and expanded. Bones snapped and twisted and lengthened obscenely. The quiet night was filled with wet sounds of unfathomable horror. Fur spread like a rushing river across the fresh expanses of inhuman skin, and square teeth lengthened to tearing blades. The ghost counted as ten fingernails became ten yellow talons sharpened with the promise of slaughter.
Vilkas had been a tall Nord, but he was an enormous werewolf. Slaver dripped from his pointed snout. By the time the lamplighter caught his breath, the transformation was complete, but Vilkas still looked down at his brother. That look in his eyes, the disbelieving rage, remained constant.
The lamplighter was afforded no time to process this new development. The werewolf tore out his throat with a single paw swipe. Farkas' killer crumpled, redness spilling all down his front. Then Vilkas threw back his head and howled.
The keen of pure agony filled the night sky and sent birds flying from trees for leagues in every direction. For the ghost, it split through nine years of cobwebs and lies and denial and delivered a shock of ecstasy right to the core of his being. For the first time in so many winters, his consciousness abandoned its tortured drifting and directed its focus towards a new object of desire. The scavenger and the dragon cowered, and he drank in their fear like a fine wine. Power was the only word on his mind. Power, glorious power. Another thing that had not happened to him in so long happened again: the ghost's cracked and bleeding lips curved upward into a shape unfamiliar to them. As Vilkas howled, the lamplighter bled, and Farkas looked blankly towards the stars, the ghost smiled a crooked smile.