Aela's sole concession to his dilapidated state was that they travelled by road, instead of sprinting through the forest and hopping from tree to tree as Miraak imagined she did under normal circumstances. She walked ahead of him, always, her back turned so that all he knew of her was a slightly untamed curtain of red hair and a slim suit of ancient armor. Perhaps Aela perceived his return of Farkas' body as a sign of cooperation; more likely, she was confident in her ability to turn and extinguish his life with an arrow if he tried to run off. Miraak followed, driven only by ambition and hope, waiting for the pain in his legs to either send him to the ground already or fade to a more tolerable ache.

On the outside he was a quiet and dutiful prisoner. They trekked across the shore of the river, as the mudcrabs went about their mundane business in the icy froth and seasonal birds dove at the water's surface seeking slim bounty. But inside Miraak, a civil war raged. It was fortunate the act of walking did not require much in the way of mental investment, especially with Aela to act as a point to follow, for all of Miraak's concentration was devoted to keeping this conflict from escaping in the form of a frustrated cry or a snarl of fury. The scavenger and the dragon had overcome their shock at the arrival of the newcomer, and now attacked the new Miraak with the sum of their doubts and demands.

The scavenger saw every step towards civilization as a descent into madness. For years Miraak had endured on the fringes, in the forgotten ruins of Skyrim, and this part of him was certain those were the only places he could possibly survive. To speak and interact with living beings, again…to become a member of society, for good or ill. Danger, the scavenger hissed. Danger, danger. They will discover what you are, what you were, and you will be cast out. We live in the darkness. The darkness is safe. The light exposes, makes bare the truth for all to witness. The truth is danger.

Miraak gritted his teeth against the waves of contempt rolling off of the dragon. The slave seeks new masters. A wonder that it has taken you this long to replace Hermaeus Mora. You consider these cursed mortals to be worthy of following, when the dov were not? He had rejected the human community of his own era for their pathetic subservience to the dragons. These contemporary Nords had none of the dov to rule them, but they still knelt in loyalty to the throne of a distant Empire. Joining them will diminish you, the dragon rumbled. You are stepping on to a vessel filled with holes, already filling with seawater. Their fate is clear, and yet you persist.

"We are nearing Riverwood," Aela said, coming to a stop in the shadow of three large pines. Miraak nearly walked into her before catching himself. "I don't intend to stop and chatter, so best keep quiet. So little happens here that even our passing may spawn rumours. The villagers will stretch out the memory of our appearance until it has lost all traces of intrigue, like a bone sucked clean of marrow. Let's not give them any help in that regard."

It took Miraak a second to pull himself free of his mind and offer a response. "Do not fear. I will follow your example."

"Hah. You smell of the wilds, ghost, but you talk like a court wizard. There must be an interesting story under all that filth."

Soon the shape of a churning mill appeared down the road, and the rest of Riverwood soon followed. A collection of wooden structures worn down by decades of sunlight and rain and time. Not so far away from Helgen as the villagers might think, in either distance or potential.

An armed man in armor of yellow and gold was posted in front of the village's small gate. His gear looked to be in far better condition than anything else in sight. He looked up as they approached.

"Hail, Companion." The guard's helmet turned to Miraak. "What brings you so far south?"

"We go where our work takes us," Aela replied. She did not stop walking while speaking, and Miraak hastened after her. "I see that things are peaceful here. You must keep a vigilant watch."

"Err, yes." The guard looked after them. "Ain't been trouble in these parts for years. Not since the dragons and vampires went the way of the snow elves."

To their left, a smith pounded metal into sheets. The sound filled the village like a heartbeat. He was turned away from the road and so did not note their passing. An elf chopping wood paused in his work, squinting at them through the midday sunlight, and an old woman leaned over the railing of her porch and drank in sight of them with starving eyes.

A young man sat on the steps of the inn next to an aged dog that seemed almost a part of the building. The boy's gaze was fixed on Aela, a look of dazed wonder dawning on his face. Aela ignored them all, going through the village at a steady pace, and Miraak followed in her footsteps.

Somehow, they made it to the bridge that marked Riverwood's periphery without being accosted further.

"Depressing little hamlet," Aela remarked, to no one in particular. "I can't imagine living in the same little place all your life, seeing only the same tired faces. Where's the adventure? Where's the glory?"

Miraak looked down into the rushing waters of the white river. Jump, the dragon suggested. "There are those that find comfort in familiarity and routine. It gives them pleasure to know nothing in their lives will ever vary." A mechanical response. Maybe he'd once read these words in a book.

"I name them fools. Our Harbinger before Vilkas was Kodlak White-Mane. Skyrim never knew a wiser man. He once told me that the fires of conflict can imbue even the weakest soul with strength. There is no greater failing for a warrior than to choose comfortable mediocrity over perilous opportunity."

"Simply enlightening. Do you always lecture your prisoners?" Miraak hoped she would hit him. At least it would be something to do.

"The Companions do not ordinarily take prisoners." Her smile was as cool as the shining snow they trudged through. "But you are right. I usually prefer action to words. My brother's death has stirred my thoughts. Farkas…Farkas had a glorious life. It pains me to know we will never hunt together again, but I am heartened by past memories."

He offered no reply. They continued over the bridge, and down the road as it curved around the mountain. Once, he might have felt the thrum of power from Bleak Falls Barrow from here, but those flames had been put out long ago by the Last Dragonborn. This was fortunate. The dragon grew stronger in the presence of such energy, and even the proximity of the Word Wall's engraved dovahzul might have been enough to tip the balance. Sweat traced a line through the dirt on Miraak's face, despite the cold.

"Where is he now?" The words seemed to come from someone else. Miraak felt his control slipping, like wet fingers grasping ice. "Farkas."

Aela glanced up and down the road before responding. "The Hunting Grounds. Hircine's realm of endless forest and bountiful game. On those hallowed grounds, the hunt never ends, and the glory is boundless. I almost envy Farkas."

Hunting. Forever and ever, hunting. His experience with the craft did not extend upon trapping rats and other vermin. Still, it couldn't be worse than Apocrypha. Or Sovngarde, ugh.

"Ghost." Aela's voice, from somewhere. The cold wrapped around his bones, a dark and crushing vise. "What's the matter?"

"I wish to be one of you," he whispered. Find a tree. His hands felt the air, found some bark. Rigid and unyielding. "I want to be a Companion." And then he stumbled only for a moment but it was enough and the dragon roared in triumph and the beast's burning hot rage spilled into his soul like a spilling font of magma and Miraak screamed and threw himself hard against the tree once, twice, three times until Aela's hand gripped the back of his hood and yanked him down into the snow.

His face was warm and wet. The dragon was gone, and the winter sky was blue and cloudless. He decided to remain on the ground awhile. Aela was still for a time, and then he heard her moving around purposefully. Soon he smelled smoke, and the warmth of a fire washed over his right side. Miraak sat up, blinking.

"You should have told me we needed to stop." Aela sat on a tree stump and poked at the fire with a stick. They were not so far from the road.

Miraak grunted and shifted closer to the flames, warming his hands.

Aela put down the stick and looked at him. "We all carry demons with us. It appears that yours are fiercer than most."

"One could say that, yes."

"That business is your own. But I have sharp ears, ghost. I heard what you said before your…fall."

He strained his memory back, moving carefully past the burning wound in his consciousness the dragon had left. "Oh, yes. I wish to be a Companion."

"Why? From the look of you, you've been enduring out here for months if not years. I know well the call of the wild. What compels you to risk your life and freedom to return to civilized lands?"

"I want to collect glory and honor." Miraak spat a glob of blood on the snow. "Become a true Nord, and all that."

"You mock our ways." Aela glared. "We have no use for scholars or fast talkers in our company. A quick tongue will do you no good in a real battle."

Miraak smiled at that. "The right tongue can win a war. But not my tongue. Not any longer. I'll tell you what I desire, woman. I desire what I saw at the Guardian Stones, when your Harbinger ripped out the throat of a man with a flick of his wrist."

She gave him a knowing look of contempt. "Ah. That makes matters very clear. There is a reason our whelps do not learn of the Circle's blessing until after they are inducted. It is about more than just safeguarding our secret. Glory earned in the blind pursuit of greater power is no glory at all, ghost. The beast blood does not make one great. It is only the great that have earned the right to the blood, that have proven they are strong enough to use their powers wisely."

"I did not intend to demand a bite from you immediately," Miraak replied. "Will you deny me a chance to prove myself, merely because your Harbinger could not control his emotions and exposed your order's secret?"

"If you transformed today, you would be feral by sunset. We'd put you down like a rabid hound. I suspect the same would be true in a month, or a year. Mastery of the wolf demands willpower beyond the reach of most. You have shown me you can't even control yourself as a man."

Miraak loathed the note of desperation that began to leak into his voice. "I can become stronger. The voices…I am growing more adept at shutting them out. But if I remain out here, I will lose myself entirely."

Aela tossed another branch into the fire. "The Companions are an elite band of warriors with a history that stretches back thousands of years. In the eyes of some, our standards have become lax recently. That doesn't mean they've vanished entirely. If we let in every beggar that wandered into the city, Ysgramor himself would return from Sovngarde to curse our weakness."

"I am no beggar," Miraak said.

"You have not a coin to your name." Aela sighed and stood. She unslung the bow from her back, and Miraak tensed for a moment before she held it out to him. "Here. Nock an arrow and pull back the string. You need not even fire. Do this, and I swear you will become a Companion."

The impossibility of the task struck Miraak before he even picked up the arrow. Her bow, lightweight though it was, trembled in his hands. He wrapped his fingers around the string, felt the gut cut into his flesh. The pressure required to move it even slightly was astronomical. He closed his eyes and held out the bow for her to take back.

Aela raised her brow. "How do you feel?"

"Pathetic."

"That's a good first step. Years ago, before the old man's death, losing Farkas would have filled me with rage. I would have hunted down his attackers and torn them to shreds. Today I merely feel tired, weary of the weight the world places on my shoulders. Perhaps I'm growing softer in my middle age, ghost, but I understand what it is to be cut off from one's self. I was once a young girl eager to join the Companions before I was truly ready. Know that there is glory to be found in Whiterun outside the walls of Jorrvaskr."

Miraak frowned. "Explain your meaning."

She leaned forward, catching his eye. "You will not join the Companions today. Our contracts are beyond your skills. But there are other honorable paths, if you don't allow pride to cloud your judgement. There are always townspeople who need simple tasks to be completed. Jobs that do not merit the work of a Companion. Seek these citizens out, and accept whatever paltry sums they offer in exchange. A true warrior is built from the work of a thousand days, not of a handful of great battles."

"My pride was taken from me long ago." He flexed his fingers, watching the threadbare leather of his gloves twist and strain. "I will heed your words."

"A last word of advice. Consider it my repayment, for safeguarding Farkas when his shield-siblings could not. No soul would name the Dragonsreach dungeon comfortable, but they give you a place to rest your head and a couple of warm meals every day. I can speak to the Jarl, recommend a proper length of punishment. You should remain there at least a fortnight. Banish the lingering cold from your bones, and rebuild your strength for the battles to come."

Willingly submitting to weeks of imprisonment…the scavenger howled at the very suggestion. No part of Miraak relished the idea of being trapped in a stony prison for so long without any hope of escape. The pain that will lead to my salvation must be endured in my soul as well as my body. Though her reasons were unknowable, beyond him, Aela had set out a path from which Miraak might obtain what he now desired most.

"Very well. A fortnight." Miraak glanced up through the trees towards the sun, now falling beneath the mountain's peak. "If we do not reach the city by sunset, we will have to stop. The cold of the night will kill me in minutes."

"Then lead on, ghost." Aela stood and offered her hand. Miraak studied it for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, and then took it and let her pull him to his feet. Her skin was callused and tough as old leather.

She lets me set the pace, in case I falter. He did not possess enough strength to resent the implication of weakness. It was true, after all. Miraak was weak. In every way a being could be. At least the dragon was quiet, for now. He let a soft blankness fill his head as they continued down the river road towards Whiterun, the mountain a great gray mass to their left. Change. I must always pursue the tides of change.

They passed several travelling merchants as they neared the city. The carts were laden with colorful cargo from neighboring provinces as well as other regions of Skyrim, and Miraak let his eyes feast on the strange sights and aromas that went by. There were mostly Nords at the front of the carts, but a caravan of Khajiit also made an appearance. He'd seen members of their race only from a distance, and now he marvelled at the soft brilliance of their fur and their wide and glossy eyes that shimmered like pools of corundum in the sun. The rulers of Skyrim do well to take advantage of this era's cosmopolitan nature. A country of only a single people are made weak by their uniformity and single-mindedness. Miraak had never seen an Argonian at all, outside of books.

Whiterun materialized on the horizon. A shimmering beacon of civilization, structures large and small encircled by tall walls of ivory, dappled in golden light amidst the expanse of dying tundra grass. The scent of grain and woodsmoke from the scattered farms reached Miraak even on the high road, and the labored creaking of windmills sent a tingle through his bones. How long has it been, since I tread so near a crush of mortal souls?

"The tundra is ripe with game, even in these bitterly cold months," Aela said. She seemed to brighten at the sight of Whiterun. "There's no shame in pursuing beasts that can't fight back. The elk and the rabbit are worthy prey."

"I know nothing of hunting," Miraak replied. They passed by an excited coop of chickens, and he wrinkled his nose. "Though I have learned to move quietly."

"That skill will serve you well. It's a rare and unsung one, among my shield-siblings. A wonder that the people of Whiterun have not run us out of the city, for all the racket a fresh group of whelps can throw up in their wake."

"Whelps?"

"The position you aspire to. It's what we call our unproven warriors, those who have yet to collect enough glory to be truly worthy of the name Companion."

He nodded thoughtfully, tucking the information away. It was too much to hope that the dungeons would have any books to consult; Miraak would have to entertain himself with his own thoughts during his lengthy imprisonment. A troubling prospect, should the dragon return to stir trouble in my mind.

The walls of Whiterun rose to meet them. Pristine, unbroken, unblemished by fire or war. This was a time of peace and recovery, a time of licking wounds and building things that linger. Even Miraak, in Apocrypha and then during his long exile, had been aware of the constant turmoil engulfing Skyrim in the last decade. First the Civil War, pitting brother against brother and father against son. A man named Ulfric Stormcloak had sent his word over the land, and a man serving a broken throne had sent his own word in return. Together they had turned villages into graveyards and turned the snows red from Riften to Solitude.

Then, the Dragonborn and the dragons. A plague of fire on the home of the Nords, burning death from the skies. Their enemy: a Dunmer no less destructive, in his own right, and no less furious. In this path of ruin he provoked the enemy that had been content to dismiss Skyrim as a backwards province not worth the trouble of conquering. The elves of Summerset had fallen on this land in dark hours, and opened wounds innumerable. Some of those wounds had closed, in the years since; some were still festering even as Miraak and Aela passed by the stable.

"Huntress," spoke the stablemaster, his head bowed. "I hope yer journey proved fruitful."

"Honor was served," Aela said simply. "The city has been quiet?"

"Eh, yes. Mostly. A handful of strangers came ta' board their horses." In the stable, the mentioned beasts were clearly distinct from the Whiterun steeds. The native breed was broad and thick, and colored a thick chocolate brown. The newcomers were light-footed stallions almost blinding in their paleness.

Aela frowned. "Not traders, I assume. These are the mounts of warriors."

The stablemaster nodded. "Aye. Knights, my son reckoned, but I told him ain't no knight come to these parts in decades."

"Knights," Aela mused, glancing up at the waiting walls. "Intriguing. Thanks for the information, Skulvar. You do honor to your profession."

"Anything for the Companions," Skulvar replied, his head bowed again in that pitiful display of respect. Miraak recalled Vilkas performing the same gesture towards the lamplighter that had gone on to skewer his brother. "Should I watch fer the return of yer shield-siblings? Old Jergen's twins?"

"No, they'll not be coming for some time. I hope the night treats you well, stablemaster."

Miraak and Aela passed under arches of heavy stone. Men and women patrolled the walls in the same golden armor of the Riverwood guard. Mounted crossbows glowed on the battlements in the light of sunset, the metal of the contraptions well-polished. These Nords have not let themselves grow complacent. A sign in their favor.

The main gates were a formidable sight: a pair of thick oak doors stretching twenty feet up, emblazoned with the golden horse of Whiterun proudly in the center. Two guards flanked the gates, and another one stood on the walls looking down.

"Two to pass through," Aela called out.

"You must be Helgen's ghost, then." The guard on the left stared at Miraak. "Don't look so frightening to me."

The right guard snorted. "It's like I told you, Daric. Those milkdrinking Imperial scholars woulda ran back to city at the first skeever they came across. Just so happened they met a stinking vagrant first."

Aela spoke, "My business is urgent, and the hour grows late. If I don't reach Dragonsreach before Jarl Hrongar retires for the night, you two will be the ones to wake him."

They were hastily ushered inside the gates.