For Sofie, formerly of Windhelm, death was an old and familiar enemy. So when Aela told them that Farkas had been slain, she did not weep with some of the others. She did not raise a tankard to his honor, or join in the tearful ballad she could hear coming from the feasting hall even now. After Aela left Jorrvaskr to attend to her prisoner, and Skjor had finished unleashing his anger on a wooden table, Sofie made herself unnoticeable. It was a skill sharpened well by her early years as a begging child. People had always found a way to let their eyes pass over her, to ignore her gaunt cheeks and hopeful eyes. She was well fed now, and all her hope had gone with Farkas, but the old muscles remained. She retreated into the shadows, silent as a murderer's blade, and slipped down into the lower hall.
No others here. That was fortunate. Sofie was not sure she had ever felt shame or pride, but there would be less questions later if no one witnessed her actions. If word got to the Circle, they might even forbid her from taking jobs. The thought of being trapped in Jorrvaskr, especially now, was nearly unbearable.
Not even Tilma was around. The old woman had been so fond of Farkas; when she found out what had happened…but no. Sofie smothered that particular line of thought in its cradle. She had enough of her own grief to excise, and no business taking on the burden of others. The only thing important about Tilma presently was her lack of presence. Sofie wandered down the hall, the carpet soft under her bare feet. Her only companions here: burning candles, untidy piles of adventurer's gear, empty bottles of mead, discarded sheets of parchment, crumb-strewn plates, whetstones, smithing oils, the smell of old sweat, the sweet aroma of drink. The mundane composite of the Companions of Whiterun. Products of a routine that had endured since the original Five Hundred and Ysgramor himself had tread on the snows of Skyrim. Sofie knew the others found comfort in such material reminders of their legacy.
Her sleeping area occupied the farthest corner of the room denoted as the whelps' shared space. Six months of occupation had not left their mark on her simple cot and chest. The others hung trophies, weapons, or even paintings above their small squares of Jorrvaskr. Sofie glanced at Hugs-the-Shadow's cot, opposite her own, with something akin to fondness in her expression. He had an etching of a Hist tree looking over his bed that he sometimes asked her to water in his absence. Each time, Sofie solemnly agreed to his request, not even letting the corner of her mouth turn up. She hoped Hugs-the-Shadow understood she laughed on the inside, always. She hoped he knew how dear a friend she considered him to be. I never told Farkas such things. But perhaps that was for the best. A clean break. No sorrow on either side.
The missing fingers on her left hand ached in times like these: a sensation that fell short of pain but that irritated her nonetheless. She'd lived five years without the top half of her middle finger and most of her pinky, but her body stubbornly refused to adjust to the change. It was helpful, sometimes, to look back at what she had lost in order to remember the price of hesitance - but this phantom itch had lingered far too long for comfort. Maybe Lucia knows of some remedy. But that's a thought for a later time.
Sofie knelt down to open her chest, took out the items she needed, and stowed them in the pockets of her leather armor. Then she went around the lower hall and extinguished every candle she could find. In her mourning, Tilma might neglect such an essential duty tonight, and Sofie did not want to see Jorrvaskr a pile of ashes come daybreak.
The door to Farkas' quarters hung slightly ajar. His bed, unmade. The sheets and covers bunched up at the end as if thrown off by a sleeping child. He had been old enough to be Sofie's father, but she had never seen him that way. Farkas was her brother, a role he attended to with all the experience of a born twin and a born Companion. Sofie stepped into the room and rested her hand on the footboard. This bed would never know his shape again. These walls would never shake at the cheerful boisterousness of his voice. How had she ever expected things to end differently? Her family had been dying for as long as Sofie could remember.
She made her way back upstairs before any more memories could seize her, and found the feasting hall unchanged. The singing, weeping, and shouting continued. Skjor was nowhere to be seen, but Athis represented the Circle around the hearth. He took no drink, but stared unblinkingly into the flames, his expression distant and troubled. Every warrior here was enduring their private grief, even those rubbing shoulders and passing words with others. Mourning was not so different than dying in that it was an ultimately solitary act. The singular occupation of her shield-siblings provided a suitable distraction for Sofie to follow the corners of the hall and slip out of the doors to the training yard.
It was past midnight, and Masser and Secundus gazed down on Whiterun like the misshapen eyes of a hunting Daedroth. Remnants of earlier activities littered the tables, and the training mannequins stood like a row of silent sentinels. No guards patrolled here; they trusted the Companions to attend to their own security. Unwisely. In an hour or two, every Companion in Jorrvaskr will be too drunk to raise a sword. She left the yard behind and climbed the steps to the Skyforge. Usually Ria would be present even at such a late hour, as the coals of the forge needed to be tended constantly to maintain their extreme temperature. Someone must have pulled her into Jorrvaskr after Aela delivered her dire news.
Sofie leaned over the Skyforge, and a wave of warmth greeted her. Enough heat remained for her purposes. She tossed her hair back so it would not be singed by the coals.
After one last check to ensure she had no observers, she removed from her pockets every possession she had taken from her chest. First, the small ceramic shield emblazoned with the crest of Windhelm. Farkas had given it to her the night she had been accepted as a whelp; he had mistaken her tears of mirth for homesickness. Sofie had no strong feelings towards the City of Kings - did a moth look with sentiment or spite, towards the cocoon that had birthed it? - but she treasured the ceramic shield for the kindness it represented. Now she let it slip from her fingers into the blazing coals. It melted quickly, the shape of the bear losing shape in a slurry of boiling clay. Sofie closed her eyes and let out a deep breath.
After the shield, the rest came easier. The leather waterskin Farkas had purchased for her, in the early days when she had no gold of her own. The compass he had lent her and never asked her to return. And finally, the silver dagger.
The memory was as clear as the waters of Windhelm's bay on a cold morning. Hey, wait. Vilkas told me you're goin' into a draugr crypt. Take this.
I have my axe, she'd stated.
Axe'll knock 'em down, but it won't keep 'em down. Farkas slid the silver dagger into her pack. Trust your elders, right? Just stick it in them a few times when they're on the ground.
The dagger had saved her life on that job, and many times thereafter. Now it shimmered in a silvery pool in the Skyforge.
"Goodbye, Farkas." A bead of sweat ran down her cheek. Even on such a bitterly cold winter's night, the air around the Skyforge must have been sweltering. Sofie stuck her hands in her pockets and hurried away. Her heart was at peace. She made a mental note to purchase a new silver dagger from Ria in the morning.
In the dark and bloody years after Windhelm, Sofie had known many small villages and towns that fell asleep as the moons rose, beholden as they were to the ebb and flow of Kynareth's natural cycle. Whiterun, though, was a city that slept only in fitful starts. Night guards walked the streets and their torches cast circles around them like the glow of golden saints. Lingering scraps of decoration from the New Life Festival hung like scraps of skin from wooden arches and statues. This is not the way I would have chosen to begin the year. Hopefully it's not an omen of things to come.
The candle-lit windows of the Temple of Kynareth never darkened. In the Gildergreen's square, past the crumbling statue of Talos, Sofie found Lucia on one of the benches and sat down beside her.
"What has you so upset?" Sofie leaned against Lucia's shoulder, taking comfort in her warmth.
Lucia scowled at nothing in particular. "What in Oblivion makes ya think I'm upset about somethin'?"
"You only stop moving when you're mad, Lucia. I don't think I've seen you sit down more than twice since we've met."
"It's that bull-headed Hrongar," Lucia snarled, throwing one of her hands towards looming Dragonsreach as if to curse the palace with a spell. "If ya ask me, the Thalmor poisoned the wrong brother."
"Be careful not to say that in front of any guards." Sofie glanced about, but fortunately they were alone in the square. Most people were probably at home or at the Mare, celebrating the festival. "It's such a walk to Dragonsreach. I won't come see you if they throw you in a prison cell."
"Of course ya will." Lucia turned, giving Sofie her full attention. "Hey. What's that mess all over your hands?"
Sofie held her hands up to the light of the braziers. "It looks to be soot. I was burning everything Farkas ever gave to me."
"Farkas? What-" Lucia looked towards Jorrvaskr, where mournful wails still echoed off the ship's hull like the death rattles of a snow whale. "Kyne's breath, Sofie…"
"It's done with." She wiped her hands on her leather pants, with little success. "I said my farewells."
"It's as simple as that, huh? Ya throw some junk into a hearth, and never think of Farkas again?"
"No. I'm sure I'll think about him often."
Lucia made a sound of frustration and hopped up from the bench. She paced in front of Sofie, her arms crossed, like a dwarven automaton stuck in a reset cycle. "Look. I know ya think you have life all figured out, but the way ya go about things ain't exactly healthy."
"I suppose you think I should cry every evening for a fortnight. Or destroy furniture, like Skjor. Who are you to say my way is lesser?"
"A priestess of Kynareth!" Lucia thumped herself on the chest. "Ya think I wear this robe for fashion? I'll leave all the bandit slayin' to you, lady, and you leave matters of the soul to me."
Sofie smiled absently. "Lucia, you're the least spiritual person I've ever met. You wanted Danica to let you uproot the Gildergreen to use as firewood."
"Well, at least we'd get some use out of it. The damn tree's nothin' but an eyesore since the Thalmor scorched it. Kynareth would probably thank me. But stop changin' the subject. Have they even buried your friend yet?"
"No. The Harbinger and Erik are bringing his body to Whiterun. I expect he'll be cremated at the Skyforge, as is tradition."
Lucia snorted. "Madness. Ysgramor was all about killin' elves, but ya burn your dead like this is Morrowind. If ya see Hrongar at the ceremony, can you push him into the forge for me?"
"You'll have to ask someone else." Sofie let her eyes drift down the avenue, towards the stairs down to the Plains District. A guard was climbing the steps, but he abruptly turned to enter a side alley. "I don't plan on attending."
"Excuse me?"
"I said I don't plan on attending."
"I heard what ya said, skeever-brain. It's insane." Lucia shook her head. "Farkas was practically your brother."
"He was my brother. Farkas made little distinction between ties of honor and ties of blood."
"All the more reason to stand around and look sad at his funeral!"
"I told you. I said my farewells. I don't begrudge the others for their way of mourning, but it is not my way."
Lucia threw up her hands. "You're hopeless. When I die, ya better be sad for a long fuckin time. Or else I'll come back to haunt ya."
"We'll see."
There were footsteps to their left, and both women looked up. A ruby-scaled Argonian slid out of the darkness, clad in fitted leather armor. He paused before them, and looked from Lucia towards Jorrvaskr where the mourning ballads still rang out into the night.
Sofie waved. "Hello, Hugs-the-Shadow. Happy New Life."
"Hello, Sofie. Who has died?"
"Farkas. He and Vilkas were attacked on the road to Helgen."
"Terrible." Hugs-the-Shadow's shoulders sagged. He did not speak for a long moment, as if considering a thought. "I trust he has been avenged?"
Sofie nodded solemnly.
Lucia stepped forward. "Hey, Hugs. Tell your Sheogorath-touched shield-sister that she should go to his ceremony."
The Argonian ambled up to the husk of the Gildergreen and rested his back against it. "I have learned better than to challenge the will of this one, priestess. Perhaps I will see Farkas to his rest for the both of us. My heart quickens to imagine the warrior who could best him."
"Aela didn't say much about what happened." Sofie looked back at Hugs-the-Shadow, her chin resting on the back of the bench. "I'm curious, as well. I've seen Farkas knock down small trees…"
Lucia fumed. "Curious? Curious? When one of your closest friends dies, ya don't get curious. Ya get mad, or sad, or somewhere in between. How do you think Farkas would feel, if he could see you sittin' there feelin' curious hours after he was killed?"
"I imagine he's in Sovngarde now. I don't know how he's feeling." Sofie thought about the Nordic afterlife, every now and then. If everything she'd been told about death was true, her mother and father were there, feasting and drinking with the ancient heroes of Skyrim. But she had forgotten her mother's face many years ago, and even memories of her father were as murky and indistinct as the waters of Morthal. Farkas had always enjoyed spending time in Jorrvaskr: the bawdy companionship, the drinking songs and the sparring, the recounting of great battles and hunts. Sovngarde had much in common with the mead hall of the Companions. And so Sofie imagined Farkas must be enjoying his death, and that lightened her heart.
Hugs-the-Shadow hummed. "You did not know Farkas well, Lucia. Does Sofie's grief truly concern you, or is there something else?"
"Just freezin' beggars and starvin' orphans. Ya know, the usual." Lucia nodded towards Dragonsreach. "And our strong and courageous Jarl, who believes the winter is Skyrim's way of cuttin' out the fat of the city. Seems to me that Whiterun would be a lot better off if that oaf on the throne became a Companion and someone with actual sense took his place."
"I am sorry to hear of your woes. But platitudes do not fill plates. Is there any way we can help?"
"No. I need to get to work, maybe try to scare up some donations from the festival leftovers. If I need someone beaten, I'll let you two know." She paused. "I'm sorry about your friend, Sofie. If ya want to talk about it, ya know where to find me." With that, Lucia stuffed her hands in the pockets of her robes and marched off towards the Temple of Kynareth, sending up a flurry of snowflakes in her wake.
Hugs-the-Shadow sighed. "We had better get to Jorrvaskr. After the mourning is done, someone will need to pick up our shield-siblings off the ground."
Her Companions burned bright and fast, like Akaviri fireworks. Several hours after the majority of the company had pledged solemn oaths to stand watch for the Harbinger's return, half of the present warriors were dead to the world, snoring on their cots. Sofie and Hugs-the-Shadow attended to the other half, rousing them from their drunken slumber and nudging them towards the closest beds. She didn't find Athis or Skjor in either group, but the doors to each of their quarters were shut. Besides Vilkas, Njada Stonearm was the only member of the Circle not currently in Whiterun.
"A fact our tables are no doubt grateful for," remarked Hugs-the-Shadow. They stood at the front of the feasting hall, looking over the carnage. "She follows Skjor in all things."
"I wonder if Ria has any skill in carpentry." Sofie scratched her chin. Tilma, too, was nowhere to be found. Some years ago, the twins had built her a small cottage to live in not far from Jorrvaskr. If the gods were kind, she had slept through the night in ignorance. But the gods are never kind. More likely that we'll find her feet dangling in a closet. "Let's get to work. Aela will be back soon."
Some wise Harbinger of old, or perhaps Ysgramor himself, or probably Tilma, had ensured that the majority of the objects in the mead hall could survive a hearty throw or two. After tossing the destroyed furniture into a corner and sweeping up the splinters, Sofie and Hugs-the-Shadow did not find it an insurmountable task to unbend the discarded tankards and pick up the tables that had been spared Skjor's fury. The central hearth smoldered pitifully; none of the flying wood had deigned to land among the coals, so it was soon a dying thing.
"I would ask that you not do that, Sofie."
She paused, her hand frozen above the bucket of fresh coals she'd been preparing to toss in. Her eyes asked a question.
"A roaring hearth on a night of mourning is like…a blue reed in yellow peat. A thing that does not belong."
Sofie straightened, curious. "This is an Argonian belief?"
"No." Hugs-the-Shadow straightened the chair he had picked up off the floor. "At least, I do not think so. It is a superstition entirely my own."
"Okay." He had said nothing about her disinclination to attend Farkas' burning, so Sofie was happy to indulge him in turn. "I'm not that cold, anyway."
This was a lie: she was freezing. But she had endured worse winters, in her childhood, and if Lucia had the right of it there were people dying on the streets even now. Farkas' death had changed this little world. How many others draw their last breaths this night, with nary a soul to note their passing? Such a fate had once seemed certain for her. A limp little bundle found squeezed into some icy corner of Windhelm. It remained unclear which was the worse fate: to die having cast no ripples across the waters of mortalkind, or to have inspired such grief and sadness with your death that entire lives were altered irrevocably.
Aela returned just after midnight.
"Hugs," she greeted the Argonian, and began unstrapping her weapons and gear. "I trust your hunt went well, brother?"
"The frost troll was formidable, for a beast." Hugs-the-Shadow had collapsed into a chair after clearing the last of the mess, and Sofie had mirrored him. "I witnessed it obliterate three town guards in succession. I was fortunate it did not see me coming. Though I regret there was no way to return it to its lair without bloodshed. Does a beast deserve to die, merely because it loses its way?"
Aela's brow raised. "I'm sure the families of those guards would think so. Be wary of your kind heart, whelp. It will serve you well between these walls, but I don't relish the thought of you questioning the state of a bandit's soul as his sword leaps towards your neck."
Sofie spoke, "Hugs just sees the best in people, that's all. It's never slowed him down, that I've seen."
Hugs grinned toothily. "Only because I see their best before they see me at all. Though the Huntress is right. Maybe my heart is in need of hardening."
"Don't let it weigh too heavily on you this night." Aela smiled tiredly, and sat down opposite them. "Our hall has scarcely known a quicker hand. If you ever decide to pick up a bow, I'll have a fine rival indeed."
"Ah, flattery. An effective weapon. Sometimes I think it is a shame I have such high moral character. As a thief or assassin, I could have had wealth beyond measure."
Sofie laughed, too loudly, and stopped just as suddenly when it became clear how out of place laughter was in this place where Farkas would never laugh again. She gripped the table, her knuckles whitening, and her head jerked towards Aela.
"How…" Before she could decide on the next word of her question, the door to the training yard opened behind them.
Erik's weary voice broke the silence. "The Harbinger's returned. He's asked for your help, miss Aela."
"Okay," Aela replied, standing. "I'll…I'll go to him now. You've proven your honor today, Slayer. Know that warriors both living and dead have witnessed you shepherd our fallen brother home."
"It was nothin', really. I just did what I was told."
Sofie turned her head, catching Erik's gaze. "That means a lot, on a day like this. C'mon, Erik. Let's get out of their way."
Aela nodded. "That would be best."
Hugs-the-Shadow stretched, evidently catching on to their meaning. "I will retire as well. Cleaning up after our shield-siblings makes for tiresome work."
The three of them descended into the lower hall. As a full Companion, Erik had his own quarters, so she and Hugs-the-Shadow bid him farewell at his door. Every question Sofie had about what Erik had seen out at the Guardian Stones died on her lips when she beheld his exhaustion. So she let him go with nothing more than a light hug and a few murmured words of kindness. He doesn't deserve an interrogation, after all he has been through. And shouldn't the word of the Circle be enough for me? If Aela had wanted them to know more about what had happened to Farkas, she would have told them before sending them away. The Companions were not a company of secrets and subterfuge.
"Are you well?" Hugs-the-Shadow asked as they settled into their beds in the whelps' dormitory. The inebriated snoring of a dozen shield-siblings filled the room, but fortunately Sofie had a jar of cotton balls under her bed reserved for nights like this. "I noticed you were about to ask Aela a question, before Erik joined us."
"It was nothing," Sofie lied, paused in the act of plugging her ears. "Don't worry about me, Hugs."
She turned away, burying her head into her pillow. Several minutes later, she felt secure enough to turn back around to check if Hugs was still awake. His chest rose only slightly as he breathed in and out. She watched it rise and fall as her confidence gradually built. What am I doing? Why can't I just let it rest, like Erik and Hugs have? She trusted Aela, Vilkas, and the others; she trusted them with her life. And yet that didn't stop Sofie from slipping away from the dorms in the small hours of the night and plodding on bootless feet to Farkas' quarters.
Sofie stood in the shadowed doorway, her heart beating like a wardrum.
"What am I even looking for," she murmured to herself. "An explanation? People die all the time, mostly for no reason at all." But Farkas hadn't been just anyone. Sofie sat on the edge of his bed, gripping her knees. Farkas and the Harbinger had gone to Helgen to clear out a squatter who had been frightening off resettlement teams sent by the Empire. On their return voyage, they were attacked by a mysterious figure that murdered Farkas. Vilkas had then slain their attacker and rendezvoused with Aela and Erik, who had gone to look for the two missing men after they were late in returning. Aela returned to Whiterun with the Helgen squatter while Erik and Vilkas brought Farkas home the long way around. The squatter…maybe he's the key to what happened. Strange that he would have survived the attack, and not taken the opportunity to escape.
Footsteps in the hallway broke her concentration. Without thinking, Sofie slid off the bed and then rolled underneath it, like a hiding child caught searching for Saturalia gifts. Five pairs of feet stepped into the room and took up various positions around Farkas' quarters before the figure closest to the door shut it soundly.
"Get a hold of yourself, girl," Skjor said roughly from his place near the dresser. "You're a member of the Circle, not some sniveling whelp."
Ria's hoarse reply came from just above Sofie; she was sitting on the bed. "Gods, I'm sorry, Skjor. I just…he's just lying there, under the Skyforge, all cold and alone…I was making a sword for him, I-"
"And don't apologize, neither."
Aela snapped from beside Farkas' weapon rack, "Go light on her. It's been a trying day for us all."
Skjor slammed his fist on the dresser and a vial of sword oil rolled off to land on the floor. "Trying? Is that what you call it, when Farkas is put down like a sick hound a day's ride from Jorrvaskr? They knew where he'd be, and the fucking silver...gods, someone assassinated my brother."
Athis grunted assent. Sofie could see his booted feet resting nearby Farkas' weapon rack. "Aye. I've been thinking along similar lines. But what reason could anyone have to wish Farkas harm? I've had run-ins with the Dark Brotherhood before. This doesn't seem like their brand of murder. Too messy, too...strange."
Vilkas stirred for the first time since he'd entered the room, and everyone fell quiet. His head turned to take a measure of each member of the Circle before he cleared his hoarse throat. "No. Don't think the bastard expected to find us on that road. Otherwise, he wouldn't have let us see him before he rode us down. Erik didn't find anything at the Guardian Stones that would point to any group I recognize. Aela. Any luck in tracking down that symbol on that note the ghost found?"
"Yes, but through no effort on my part. Brace yourselves for grim tidings. When I brought the ghost of Helgen to the Jarl, I found the leader of a knightly order beseeching Hrongar for aid. It seems that one of their members has gone missing down southways." Aela took a step towards Vilkas, and Sofie was stunned to see her hands trembling at her sides. "I'm sorry, Vilkas. They named themselves the Silver Dawn."
All at once everyone was moving, and Sofie's gasp was unheard in the sudden chaos.
"Shove it!" Skjor strained against the hold of Aela, who was doing an admirable job of halting his progress, and Ria, who was holding on for dear life. Athis hovered behind them, his fingers wrapping and unwrapping around the sheathed hilt of his shortsword. Vilkas stumbled away, his head in his hands, as if he'd been struck.
"We killed them all," he half-whispered to himself. "No, I was certain. They're all dead...we left no banners for others to pick up."
Aela grabbed Skjor by the chin and moved his face to within an inch of her own, until their eyes had no choice but to meet. "You need to calm yourself," she commanded in a tone the likes of which Sofie had never heard. "No, look at me. You're losing control, Skjor. Think of the whelps. Think of that man we loved, our packmate, alone in the Underforge. He needs his brothers and sisters beside him. There will be a time for bloodshed. I promise you that we will make them pay for what they've done. But if you leave now, we'll have to burn you right beside Farkas."
Heavy breathing, and more muttering from Vilkas, and Ria's gentle sobs. Sofie remained as still and silent as the statue of Talos in the Gildergreen's square. Minutes passed before the Circle regained their composure, but the atmosphere in the room had been altered. She recognized the sour taste in the air. It was not an aura that belonged in the hall of the Companions. The Circle, afraid? But what could they ever have to fear?
Vilkas blinked and shook his head, as if coming out of a stupor. "Okay. I...Athis. You need to find out all you can of this Silver Dawn. What are their intentions? How many do they number? This is your sole mission from now on, you understand? But do not let them know of our suspicions."
The Dunmer nodded grimly. "Don't worry. On my honor, I'll find out what they're up to. Just promise me that when the day comes, you'll let me take down a few of the murderers myself. "
The Harbinger nodded numbly.
Skjor spat. "Sneakin' around, scouting the enemy - this ain't our way, and you all know it. I fought a war once, Vilkas. Don't ask me to do it again. We could put an end to them now."
They seemed to ignore him. Vilkas turned to Aela. "I suppose...I think it would be best if the Jarl did not learn the details of what befell us on the road. Unless the knight you spoke of is a fool, he will know it was no coincidence that Farkas was struck down around the same time that their man went missing. And the river will eventually betray its secrets. A body will be found."
"Forgive me, my Harbinger." Aela let out a deep breath. "Before I could take a measure of their Commander Montrose, I shared the news of Farkas' fate with Hrongar's housecarl. No doubt it will soon be common knowledge. If only I had held my tongue for a few minutes longer..."
Ria spoke wetly, "D-Don't blame yourself, Aela. There's no way you coulda known about them."
Vilkas swallowed. "Yes, she's right. Fine. Very well. We'll just have to enter into this madness with the cards that fate has so grimly dealt us. Hrongar is still our ally. He will see any assault on Jorrvaskr as an attack against Whiterun. We are safe, for the moment, but we must move forward with care. For now...leave me, brothers and sisters. There's much to do before tomorrow evening."
In silence, the Circle streamed through the door and left their Harbinger to his mourning. Sofie crept out an hour later, when she was certain Vilkas had fallen asleep on Farkas' bed, so she almost shouted in surprise when she turned back towards the whelps' dormitory and found herself face to chest with the man himself.
His bloodshot eyes frightened her. "Sofie. My brother cared a great deal for you. W-Wasn't sure you knew."
She nodded slowly. Is that mead I smell on his breath?
"Would mean a lot to me...if you took one of the torches at his ceremony. Help me send Farkas to Sovngarde." As soon as the last word passed his lips, an ugly smile split Vilkas' face.
"Of course I'll help," Sofie said at once, betraying herself. What alternative did she have? "I'll take a torch, Vilkas."
"Yes, Sovngarde," he repeated to himself, and stumbled past her. Sofie looked after him, her heart beating like the clang of Ria's smithing hammer. Her own petty intentions seemed so insignificant in the wake of Vilkas' grief. Was it not the proper way of things that she should bend to his wishes? Her missing fingers ached again.
Hours passed in seconds, and Sofie found herself before the Skyforge smithy with every Companion in Whiterun in attendance. Waves of bright sweltering heat rendered the winter darkness into myth, even with snow-capped Dragonsreach looming over them like the Throat of the World. Tears ran down the faces of some, but no more than sweat dripped from the face of the esteemed Jarl Hrongar, whose stiff posture struck Sofie as that of a young child dragged to a formal ceremony by his unrelenting sire. Housecarl Irileth, at least, had the wisdom to look solemn. Even Hrongar's Imperial steward bowed his head in respect.
With the Circle's prayers concluded, Vilkas stepped towards the forge with a face of stone and a smoking torch. Sofie and Aela joined him with torches of their own. Farkas, unburnt for the moment, seemed to be in no hurry as he waited amidst the virgin coals with his arms crossed over his chest. It was the first time Sofie had seen him since he'd left Jorrvaskr to seek the ghost of Helgen.
Vilkas looked down at his own face pale in death. "Brother. I send you to-" A strange spasm seized him and arrested the word. "We'll meet again in-"
Once again an unknown force stopped Vilkas from completing the sentence, though his face wrenched with the effort. It mirrored the rending of Sofie's own heart. Words flashed through her mind, memories of a conversation she should have never heard: underforge, packmate, murderers. The Silver Dawn.
Only Aela and Sofie were close enough to note the falter in the Harbinger's voice. The other Companions were too consumed by their own grief to take much note of what was happening, and Hrongar merely looked bored.
Aela interrupted before Vilkas could make another attempt: "Go in peace to Sovngarde and Ysgramor, Farkas, with all of our love and pride. Join the ranks of the honored dead that came before you, and know that we will someday join you in that glorious hall."
His eyes closed, Vilkas murmured words of gratitude and knelt to light part of the bed of straw. Fire danced in Sofie's eyes as she contemplated Aela's words; she had become well acquainted with false sincerity in her years as a begging child. As Aela said her words and used her own torch to spirit Farkas away, Sofie's soul screamed in rebellion. Underforge, packmate, murders, the Silver Dawn.
The wheel fell upon her, and many eyes turned. She sensed Hugs-the-Shadows watching, but did not look up at him. Nor did she heed Aela's worried glance. Just last night, Sofie had sacrificed Farkas' gifts in this same forge. That had been the end of it, no? Wasn't that what she had told Lucia?
Just as Aela opened her mouth to speak, Sofie bent over the merrily burning straw to hold her torch to an untouched corner of the crematorial bed. Then she looked down into Farkas' still face, and could not lie any longer.
"Where are you, brother?" She asked softly, and surrendered to the warmth.
Steel bearings in her lungs, searing pain, screams splitting the stillness of the cold night. Ten thousand ants biting screaming red flesh. Strong arms pulling her out, beating her until dark spots colored her vision. A tall shape looking down from the stairs to Dragonsreach: a divine vision, a beautiful Breton in silver and white, his eyes missing nothing. Now, pain fading to numbness; Ria weeping like a babe, Erik's face frozen in horror. Sofie went gladly to the darkness.
End of Part I