The moonlight made strange shadows of the Guardian Stones as the ghost searched through Farkas' pack for the supplies to build a fire. The stone of the altar chilled his knees, and the resurgent wind shuddered through the snowy forest like a dragon's words.
The ghost transferred his sole possession into Farkas' pack. He wondered, as he always did when holding the mask, if it would ever again stir feelings in him. He let the scavenger control his movements, that furtive and paranoid creature that sustained his fragile existence. But while his hands moved through the pack, tossing aside the unnecessary and snatching the vitals, the ghost's mind was strangely quiet. Something novel manifested; the dragon and the scavenger withdrew, as if wary, and a third presence held center stage though did nothing with its position of strength. For so long he had been torn between two extremes, driven to desperation and depravity by the scavenger and routinely inflicted to excruciating misery by the dragon. Thousands of years of poring over literature had taught him that three was a powerful number. Could the arrival of this third presence serve as a stabilizing force, of sorts?
That the ghost found himself able to consider these thoughts at all signified a marvellous change. Years had passed since he'd performed such clear-headed introspection. Not since Apocrypha. Not since the Last Dragonborn...no. Still too dangerous, to think about what had happened. The snowflakes on his hands melted to pearls of water. The ghost looked up, surprised to find a small campfire burning. The scavenger cowers, but performs its wretched duty. He sat in the center of the altar, equidistant from each Guardian Stone. Sometime after the werewolf had run into the forest, the snow returned with gentle but steady power. Farkas, at peace, rested under a thin layer of white. The ghost envied the finality in the dead man's blank eyes. Even with the spear jutting out of his chest. Wherever I go, the dead follow. The dead lamplighter laid against the Thief stone, sans boots; the ghost had exchanged his threadbare shoes for the lamplighter's superior footwear.
Names bestowed power, and he wished to strengthen this new aspect. It had burst into bright existence at Vilkas' howl, only minutes ago, but already felt as familiar as a well-worn glove. Not like the scavenger and the dragon, who always struck him as interlopers, representations of the loathsome creature he had become and the Dragonborn he could never be again. An idea came to him, and he spoke the word aloud. It tasted alien on his tongue, but...yes. I name you...Miraak.
The third presence - no, just Miraak - peeked its head out of its shell, like a curious mudcrab, and suggested a new course of action.
"Yes," Miraak murmured, rubbing his chilled hands together. "Yes. Vilkas. He will have left a trail even I can follow. If there is a path to salvation, somewhere in this fog…I believe it will begin with him."
The dragon taunted him for relying on a commoner, a joor, a mongrel servant of Hircine. But Miraak needed only to dig his nails into his palms, not even to the point of drawing blood, to banish the monster this time. It grew weaker by the hour; it feared losing power over him.
Miraak stood and spat into the fire, relishing the hiss. "Someday, the strength I saw Vilkas wield this night will be mine. And then...then I will excise you from my soul, parasite."
The dragon offered no reply. Satisfied, Miraak smothered the fire and turned to the road. An hour had passed since Vilkas' explosive departure through the trees. Reasonably warm, and wearing a decent pair of boots for the first time in years, Miraak took a deep breath of the crisp air and went to the new rift in the forest.
Two leagues of severed branches and clawed footprints later, Miraak found the telltale signs he'd been watching for. A break in the trees led to another section of the road, and then up a thin path leading to what appeared to be an iron mine. A faded sign on a wooden post read: Embershard. A few arrows jutted from the trunk of the nearest tree. The scattered pieces of at least two bandits presented a gruesome scene in front of the shattered doors. He noted no sound or sign of movement in the shadows beyond that ruined portal. Only the thin and biting wind, and the faint scent of blood. One wonders…if this mine had been inhabited by its intended occupants, would Vilkas have hesitated? Did he stop to mark the occupation of his victims before commencing his slaughter? Miraak had read of the Companions as an honorable company, but these same books had mentioned nothing of their lycanthropic affliction. A well-kept secret, or a relatively new development in their order.
The scavenger retained enough influence to deter Miraak from entering Embershard Mine. In his filthy and threadbare clothing, he could be easily mistaken for a vagabond himself. Especially in the eyes of a werewolf driven by pure rage and bloodlust. He made his way through the body parts and rubble and rolled one of the discarded mining carts down the trail. I will not have much time. From what I beheld at the Guardian Stones, he will make short work of any bandit gang that does not include powerful mages or armoured trolls in its ranks.
Even with the cart, it was easier going on the return journey, now that Miraak travelled by road. He would lose precious minutes, but the wooden wheels would never have held up against the snow-smothered underbrush of the forest. Before long his thin arms were screaming in protest. Miraak smiled against the pain; it was probably an uglier expression than this region of Skyrim had ever seen. I must relish the agony. I will need to build muscle, to regain some of my former strength, if ever am I to possess the powers of the werewolf. The death of Farkas had demonstrated that even these chosen of Hircine were fallible, if they did not also maintain constant discipline in their human forms.
He had read much about werewolves. Had discounted them as filthy dogs driven only by lust for the hunt, and as slaves to the Daedra. But to see such power firsthand…who am I to disparage the spirit of the wolf, when the dragon has served only to weaken me all of these years? And what was I to Hermaeus Mora, if not a slave to be discarded at his convenience?
It was difficult to see oneself, in the moment: so, so difficult. Now Miraak understood his true status as a discarded pawn who had been blinded by his own arrogance and superiority. He tasted power in this new humility and self-reflection. The power to transform, to become uncomfortable in ways that could only lead to greater strength. I see now that I must never become settled in my identity. That only leads to conformity; the world is ever-changing, and I must change with it.
The dead were waiting where he'd left them. After thousands of years in Oblivion and centuries in the Dragon Cult, that would take some getting used to. Vilkas will want the body of his kin. That much I know. Miraak brought the cart to a rest and shuffled over to Farkas on numb feet. The dead Nord was enormous, even without having changed into a werebeast. After starting another fire with trembling fingers, Miraak knelt down and rolled Farkas over. The blood had darkened and solidified around the shaft of the embedded spear. Farkas' slack face settled into an expression of faint surprise, but his eyes remained as dull and sightless as well-worn river stones. Miraak passed the back of his hand over the Companion's face, closing them.
A distant sense memory rose to his attention; once upon a time, his duty had been to prepare the loyal servants of the Dragon Cult for interment. Essential not to restrain any of their body parts or sever any muscles vital for combat, as the dragons demanded toil from their subjects even after death. Eternal slaves, to absent masters. The dragons remained ancient, frozen in time, unwilling to adapt. Ten years after Alduin had performed his grand resurrection, a majority of his brothers had been wiped out. A wise choice, to abandon them. The time of the dragon has passed.
Miraak used some rags from Farkas' pack to wipe away much of the blood, and then tossed the sticky clump off into the snow. Now comes the challenge. He wrapped his hands around the gilded shaft of the spear. Through his tattered gloves, the metal was bitterly frigid. Even using Farkas' own body as leverage, it took Miraak a lifetime to yank the spear from the corpse. When it came out, it did so all at once. Miraak gasped, stumbling backward, the spear held clumsily in his grasp. It was a wonder he didn't topple off the cliff. He dropped the spear and stood with his hands on his thighs for a time, catching his breath.
Fascinating. The wound left behind in Farkas was as dark as the pools of Apocrypha, and the flesh was nearly charred where the silver had made contact. Miraculous that Farkas stood as long as he did, with this burning his insides. Miraak found a few pieces of jerky in the pack and sat next to the dead lamplighter while he ate. The meat was rich and filling. Most likely mammoth, or some other hardy creature. Rats and scraps will not do for me, not any longer. Miraak sensed he would need to rest a little while before making the trip back to Embershard. His worn body was unaccustomed to this level of exertion. The jerky, at least, would help restore his energy. And the fire would warm his chilled bones. While the minutes die and my pathetic form recovers…let us see what you are, lamplighter.
This man scarcely outsized Miraak himself, and so was far easier to move around than Farkas. Miraak dragged the corpse closer to his resting place and sifted through the lamplighter's equipment with no particular haste. First: a silver dagger without any engravings or smith's mark that might have provided clues to its owner's identity. Miraak tossed it off the cliff. A small sack of dried food and a leather waterskin darkened with age. He transferred both to Farkas' pack for later consumption. And, finally…a folded note.
After unfolding the parchment Miraak saw it would bring him no satisfaction. There were no words in any mortal language. Only a drawing of a strange object: a heater shield surrounded by five equidistant spikes. Strangely, the shield was adorned with characters in dovahzul; the sight of the letters unsettled Miraak and heartened the dragon lurking in his consciousness.
Farkas' end was quick, if nothing else. Miraak startled. He had almost forgotten about the dragon lurking in the depths of his subconscious. It only allowed him to understand its taunts when it most wanted to harm him. The dog died swiftly. A pure death, a clean death. Not like yours, fallen traitor.
Miraak sighed, squeezing his hands into fists, but the pain of his nails against his palms was not enough to banish the dragon. Not this time. Perhaps because the taunting words seemed so piercing. What the Dragonborn inflicted on me…did he intend to take my life? Was my survival a simple accident? Parts of him had perished on the summit of Apocrypha. Miraak was certain of that. Other parts had been untethered, set free in a manner never intended by Akatosh. Everything that had once enabled Miraak to throw off the yoke of draconic servitude and subjugate them in turn had been twisted against him. The dragon circled, sending red-hot jolts of agony into his brain, probing this new Miraak for weaknesses. Envy this werewolf his quick demise, traitor. How long have you been dying?
"I am alive," Miraak hissed between his teeth. He drove his head back against the Mage Stone, sending a rattling drumbeat through his skull. It sent the dragon scurrying back into the shadows of his mind, but it also expended the last of Miraak's energy. His stomach was somewhat full, for once, and the fire's warmth was comforting against his skin, and the sky above was smeared with a starscape of twinkling majesty. Soon enough Miraak fell asleep with the lamplighter's drawing still clutched in his hand.
Cool sunlight on his face. He stood up in a stumbling daze, murmuring curses. Farkas and the lamplighter remained, as did the mining cart. Vilkas has not returned. Fate smiles on me, for a change. His arms and legs offered up fresh aches from the trials of his body some small mercy, Miraak stretched for a little while and looked down the cliffside. This early in the morning, the snowbirds were still at nest. Mudcrabs scurried from side to side on the shore of Ilinalta's tributary, churning the icy slush. A dark shape on the distant waters might have been a fisherman's canoe.
Moving Farkas into the mining cart turned out to be a simpler task than he first imagined. After positioning the cart against the slight incline of the altar, Miraak simply rolled the large man across the stones and slid him mostly inside of the cart. After that, it was only a matter of adjustments. Miraak spent as much time as he dared attending to the corpse's dignity. For once, the cold worked in his favor; in Sun's Height, Farkas would have been well on his way to rotting by now, but as it was there was little trace of decay. As a final touch, Miraak pulled the ratty blanket out of Farkas' backpack and threw it over his body. Then he took a step back to appraise his work with a critical eye. It seems not all my work as a young priest was for naught. If not for the paleness of his palor and the slackness in his features, Farkas might have been a miner resting between shifts.
Proper morning, now. The birds began their songs. Whatever has occupied Vilkas will not last indefinitely. Miraak hurriedly scarfed his rations and began the arduous process of pushing the cart down the road. A few minutes of this backbreaking labor was enough to make him pine for the days when he could have sent the corpse soaring to Embershard with a few choice incantations. Savor the pain, Miraak reminded himself constantly. The pain will make us stronger. Not today, and not soon…but this investment of anguish will one day yield power of the likes we have never beheld. The snowy road to Riverwood stirred with life in these sunlit hours. Birds flitted from tree to tree, cheeping messages or pecking at ice-crusted bark. Occasionally, a small animal crunched its way through the blanketed forest. Miraak kept his eyes peeled for bears and wolves. A corpse of Farkas' size could feed a predator for weeks. Not that I am in any condition to fend off such a beast. A particularly spirited fox could vanquish me.
By some act of divinity, Miraak arrived with his burden at the small trail leading to Embershard without any sightings of man or animal. Body parts and viscera still decorated the area…but just in front of the destroyed doors, the pale shape of a familiar Nord now rested on the ground. Miraak pushed the cart up the hill, panting heavily, and set it to rest against a shattered smelter. Farkas' legs dangled off the end of the cart like the limbs of a broken doll.
He found Vilkas face up, his eyes closed. Small cuts and bruises covered his bare body. An entirely unprecedented situation. Miraak hugged himself while pondering, tucking his cold hands into the pits of his arms. Perhaps the blanket I placed over the larger one would be better suited to the pursuit of modesty. But then the Nords of this era were a squeamish sort. Vilkas might be upset to have been covered by a dead man's shroud. So what to do, then? Wake for the naked Nord to return to consciousness and acclimate to the situation?
The decision was made for him. Miraak turned his head to make sure Farkas hadn't moved - corpses do not walk away, fool, get that through your ancient skull - and upon turning back to Vilkas, found the point of a sword at his chest.
"You," Vilkas growled, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Craven snowback."
It took Miraak a second to understand the accusation. "No warrior stands before you. Do you believe I would have surrendered so easily in Helgen, otherwise?"
"Could have...could have done something."
"Then I would have died with your brother. Grief has blinded you, Companion. Only...honor, compels me to be here at all." The word tasted greasy in his mouth, like the meat of an unnatural beast.
"Honor?" The sword went to Miraak's neck, its metal stalhrim-cold. "What do you know of honor?"
"I brought your twin." Miraak spoke simply, and carefully. The way one is forced to speak with three feet of steel nearly interrupting the words in their path. "Behind me."
Vilkas looked, and the sword hilt slipped from his fingers to hit the snow with a puff of powder. Miraak stepped aside as Vilkas walked unsteadily to the mining cart and drew aside the blanket. He fell to his knees like a crumbling monument. What must it be like, to love someone so? What can be worth pain of this caliber? A strange thought. He turned away to provide Vilkas privacy, pursing his lips. The third presence continues to surprise me. It remains to be seen if the advice it provides will bear fruit.
When the tallest tree shook in the absence of wind, Miraak glanced up and saw a red-haired woman aiming an arrow at his chest. She sat unmoving on a large branch, as if painted there by the creators of the world. As with Vilkas and Farkas, a design of dark paint covered her face.
"Harbinger," she called. "Is it friend or foe that stands with you?"
"Neither," Vilkas replied roughly, not looking up. "But don't kill him. Just…get down here, Aela."
"As you say." Aela descended the icy sentinel like a native of Valenwood, scarcely disturbing the snow on each branch. Miraak realized belatedly he had only noticed her at all because she had wished it to be so.
She landed gracefully in the thin snow and raised her head. "Slayer. You may emerge."
A tall Nord in steel armor, his hair a similar shade, stepped out from behind the ruined smelter, carrying sword and shield. Miraak had never noticed him at all. A relative of the woman, perhaps?
Now that he had been discounted as a threat, the three Companions seemed to forget Miraak entirely. The two newcomers gave him a wide berth as they moved to join their leader.
"Oh," Aela breathed out, looking down at the cart. The strength left her body like the fading light of a fallen draugr's eyes. "Oh, Farkas."
The man she had called Slayer turned wispmother-pale. "I…I don't understand. Who coulda done this?"
Vilkas answered hollowly, "We were taking that vermin over there to the Guardian Stones, to rest for the night. The lamplighter took us from the rear. By surprise. I was crushed under his steed."
"A lamplighter," Aela echoed. "And Farkas?"
"Farkas did what Farkas always does. And it should have been enough. The man was no great foe. When Farkas had him disarmed, on the ground…the gold turned to silver. Silver, Aela. Silver…I should have seen it. I should have-"
Miraak cleared his throat. "'Twas no lamplighter."
Aela twisted and fixed him with a glare of cool regard. As if he were nothing more than a fresh kill to be skinned and butchered. She stepped behind Vilkas, blocking Miraak's view, and the Slayer mirrored her movements. He could see them more clearly now for what they were: a pack, closing ranks around their fallen. "Speak what you know, ghost of Helgen."
"I discovered this parchment among the man's belongings." Miraak stumbled closer to them and willed his frigid fingers to close around the note in his pocket, and then held it out to Aela. She took it in a way that ensured no possibility of brushing against his skin. "The symbol is not one I know. The letters are in the language of dragons, I believe; reading them is beyond me."
If Aela recognized the drawing of the shield, or the dovahzul characters, she did not show it in her features. After appraising the parchment for almost a minute, she looked up at the steel-armored Companion.
"Slayer," she said. "Make haste to the Guardian Stones and sift through the scene of battle. Swiftly, before the snow cloaks all that was. I am not one to blindly trust the word of a man such as this."
The Companion straightened and bowed his head. "Yeah, I'll look under every rock. For clues, I mean." He made to leave, and then looked back. "Um. What ought I do with the body? Of the lamplighter. Or whatever he was."
Vilkas spoke, his bottom lip curled back. "Feed him to the river. Let the bastard's flesh feed the slaughterfish."
"You got it, Harbinger."
The one they called Slayer made no effort to soften his departure down the path, and the crunch of his heavy boots in the white was audible for some time. Morning sunlight washed over the snow, doing little to stay the cold.
Aela studied Miraak. He felt examined, torn apart, ashamed; how long had it been since someone looked at him, had truly seen him past the layers of grime and filth? Before these decrepit years, the mask had been his shield for millenia. Miraak averted his gaze, staring into the darkness of the exposed mine. The dragon, the scavenger, the new presence; there was no part of him that did not cower beneath her eyes.
When the Slayer passed out of earshot, Vilkas spoke in a hoarse whisper. "He knows, Aela. I couldn't control it. He saw me."
"Ah." Aela crossed her arms. "That does muddle the waters."
Miraak made himself look at her. "You all have it, then? The lycanthropy? I witnessed a change in Farkas' eyes, just before he succumbed."
Vilkas shoulders slumped, and he raised a hand to his face.
"Only members of the Circle have been blessed with Hircine's gift," Aela answered. "A warrior must prove his mettle and collect much glory before becoming worthy of the blood. I wouldn't expect a man like you to understand."
"You know nothing of me, woman."
"I know enough." She huffed. "The ghost of Helgen, they call you. Frightening off scholars and collecting the meager scraps of game poachers."
"I could have fled and left Farkas to be picked apart by scavengers. I could have slit your leader's throat when I found him lying unconscious before this mine."
"Indeed. You have behaved…curiously. And in the wilds, curiosity can be a perilous venture. My shield-brother has fallen. For now, that is all that matters. And whatever you have done here, whoever you are, your crimes remain. As slight as they may be."
"An impromptu execution, then." Miraak was more disappointed than upset. "How could I have forgotten? Knowledge is power. I know your order's gravest secret. You have no choice but to kill me."
Vilkas snapped, "That is not our way."
He turned for the first time since collapsing before the cart. His face was crimson and raw, like an open wound. The war paint around his eyes ran like grave ichor down his cheeks. "You'll face whatever punishment the Jarl deems appropriate. Speak whatever filth you want to whoever will listen. You'll just be another beggar spouting nonsense. Aela, take this wretch to Whiterun. I…I have to bring Farkas home."
She raised one eyebrow. "Alone?"
"It is my burden to bear."
"Madness. Look at yourself, Vilkas. You don't even possess the strength to transform again. And don't tell me you're fool enough to believe that your attacker was some lone crusader."
"My words were not suggestion." Vilkas glared.
"And I take commands from no man." Aela did not flinch from his gaze. "You are my Harbinger, not my general. Do not ask me to say goodbye to two of my shield-brothers today. Find something to wear in the mine, and wait for the Slayer to return. He will help you spirit Farkas to Jorrvaskr."
"Erik? I don't know...the boy might ask questions."
"He's a solid lad. His days as a whelp are long behind him. Whatever explanation his Harbinger offers, the Slayer will accept."
"I…fine." Vilkas sighed. "You win, Aela. I haven't the strength to argue further. I won't leave without Erik. But don't wait for us. We'll be taking the hunter's paths, through the forest and tundra. Farkas will not be paraded through Riverwood like some dead milk drinker war hero. He was not that manner of warrior."
"Aye. Come in through the-" She stopped herself, glancing at Miraak. "You know where to go. Skjor and I will make ready for the ceremony."
Aela and Vilkas stepped forward, clasping each other's forearms. Vilkas' hand trembled, but she held it steady for him.
He spoke in a quiet voice. "It seems that every year, our Circle tightens. I don't know who I am without Farkas."
"You're my shield-brother. The fiercest and wisest warrior Jorrvaskr has ever known. And the greatest Harbinger in the history of the Companions."
A shadow of a smile passed over Vilkas' face. "We will have to see what Kodlak thinks about that, when we join him in the next world."
"Look forward to it, brother." Aela stepped back, taking one last look at Farkas in his cart. "But not too fondly. There is still glory waiting for us here."
She turned to Miraak. "Let's not waste time, ghost. I want to reach the city by sunset."