They had not long departed Valtheim's shadow when it became clear they would need to stop to rest. Vilkas traveled on foot with Miraak and Lucia, having given his horse to Sofie to ride back to Whiterun, but he far outpaced his weary followers. Even their mule, restored to them at last, kept pulling ahead of the stumbling Nords. Now that the rush of battle and conflict had left him, Miraak's bones felt like jelly and fresh aches made themselves known with every movement.

"There's a cabin nearby we can weather the night in," Vilkas said eventually. "A good sort of folk. Warrior bard and his woman. Though I've not spoken to them in some time. If Kyne has been merciful, they've managed to survive this winter." Curiously, this last sentence was spoken without even a glance at Lucia. There seemed to be an unspoken tension between Miraak's two traveling companions.

"No need," Miraak gasped out when he finally caught his breath. "We can press on until midnight. It will be useful training for the trials ahead."

"Don't be a fool. Even I'll admit you've proven yourself today. That leap off the bridge alone has earned you a few hours of sleep."

Lucia groaned, her head drooping. She spoke, "Yah, yah, you're all glorious warriors. But I sure ain't, so we'd better stop soon unless ya want to carry me."

Vilkas smiled tightly. Soon he took the mule by its reins and led them off the main road down a dirt path into the forest. Lightning bugs drifted lazily through the cool air of dusk, and long branches touched Miraak's hair. His nose filled with the slightly sweet smell of the river, and he tasted woodsmoke.

The cabin itself came into view not long after: a small dwelling hugging a riverside embankment. A simple bridge stretched over the waters to other wooden platforms on the opposite shore. Smoke pumped dutifully from the cabin's chimney, and flickering candlelight against the windows suggested current occupation.

"I don't want to frighten them." Vilkas scratched his chin as they stood looking down at the occupied cabin. "They'll be on their guard with the bandits nearby. Maybe I can-"

"Hey!" Lucia stumbled forward, waving her arms. "It's me, Lucia! Priestess of Kynareth, from Whiterun! Come offer us some hospitality, will ya?"

Vilkas rubbed his forehead. The cabin door opened, and a tall man holding a candle peered out into the twilight. He called, "Who's there?"

"It's Vilkas, Jon." He stepped with purpose on a handful of pine needles near his feet. "I'm with two others. We're in need of a warm place to wait out the night, if you're willing."

The man's white teeth almost glowed in the darkness. "Of course, Harbinger. We've gone far too long without guests. Just stick your mule in the side pen and come on in."

A woman's voice past his shoulder: "Who is it, Jon?"

"Put the bow away, my sweet, it's Vilkas. Harbinger of the Companions, you remember? Check if we have any mead ready. I'll get the meatballs going."

At the door, they met their host: a tall blond Nord in vibrant but weather-worn clothes. His blond beard stretched down nearly to his chest. The lines of his eyes and his mouth suggested a man prone to smiling and laughter, but the calluses on his hands told Miraak that this Jon was no soft-skinned city minstrel. Vilkas entered first, and Miraak hesitated until the mouthwatering aroma of spiced meat and the comforting warmth of the fire drew him inside. Lucia followed after him like a woman held up by puppet strings, her arms hanging limp at her sides.

"Oh, dear." A sturdy-looking woman with long white hair rushed forward to help Lucia into one of the chairs around the central hearth. "Are you unwell, Lucia? It's so strange to see you outside the city walls."

"Thank ya, Olfina...I'm just tired, is all. Been a long day."

"Finally getting a taste of our homeland's wild delights, eh?" Jon grinned from the opposite chair as he stirred a broad-bottomed cooking pot. "She can be overwhelming at first, I'll give you that. We've struggled to tame even this little part of Skyrim."

"We, he says." Olfina scoffed. As she passed her husband, she placed a tattered chef's hat on his head at an askew angle. He swiped at her half-heartedly but she danced out of reach. "Jon Battle-Born, if you spent as much time chopping wood as you did writing ballads, we'd be living in a grand estate right now."

"Ah, but you love my ballads. What's a big drafty estate without beautiful songs to fill it with? Come, Vilkas, sit down. You too, brother Nord: looks like you could use a good meal. Olfina loves my cooking near as much as my singing, though she'd never admit it."

Miraak followed Vilkas' example and found an empty chair next to the hearth, while Olfina knelt to rinse some wooden bowls over a basin. The scents coming from Jon's pot sent Miraak's stomach rumbling.

Vilkas let out a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. "You have our gratitude. Both of you. These cool days are a welcome strangeness, but the nights have not lost their chill."

"Ha! I'd been hoping the fair weather would lure some of you city-dwellers out of your nest. Been too long since I've had a worthy audience."

Olfina snorted without looking up from her work, but Miraak heard the smile in her words. "He spends a year in a cabin a half-league from an Imperial road and thinks he's Svaknir the Brash come again. Maybe you can shave off some of Jon's ego while you're here, Vilkas. Or at least some of that ridiculous beard."

"Little chance of either," Jon said cheerfully, and accepted the wooden bowls from her before ladling his steaming mixture in each and passing them around. "This will warm you up just fine, kinsmen. An old Gray-Mane family recipe. Olfina bagged all the rabbits herself, but I made the jam."

It was like nothing Miraak had ever eaten before: sweet like fresh snowberries, and yet savory and rich as the finest roast venison. He closed his eyes after eating the first meatball, and let the memory of its flavor settle on his tongue.

"Sublime," he breathed, barely noticing the cup of mulled mead Olfina pressed gently into his hand. That changed a moment later when he took a sip and the heady spicy sweetness spread through his chest and sent his fingers tingling. How in Sheogorath's madness had he accepted such paltry substitutes for so many years, when delights such as these existed? "Oh, gods. Vilkas, you have to try this."

"Aye, it's delicious," Vilkas replied with a twinkle of amusement in his gray eyes as he observed Miraak over the rim of his cup.

Jon grinned widely at Miraak's reaction. "Don't tell me you've never had rabbit meatballs? By Shor, I first tasted these before my own mother's milk!"

"You'll make yourself sick if ya eat too fast," Lucia warned him.

"I apologize," Miraak said, and was surprised to find himself faintly ashamed. "For too long I have subsisted on dungeon scraps and worse."

Their host sighed. "Hrongar back to his old ways, then? I oft have nightmares, still, about those weeks after Balgruuf's poisoning. Good friends, many of them elves, forced out of their homes and occupations...city's not been quite the same since. Though I thought our mighty Jarl lost his taste for chains after what the Thalmor did to him."

Miraak's heart raced as everyone glanced at him for his response. "I...proved to be an exceptionally defiant rabble-rouser. It is possible that I dishonored Hrongar's face in a base manner in order to secure a long sentence."

Jon laughed for so long that Miraak wondered at his lung capacity, and even Vilkas snorted in amusement. Lucia raised her cup in salute, her face softening to him.

Olfina's hand on his shoulder startled him, but she was only topping off his mead. "Any soul bold enough to put Hrongar in his place can drink all night in our home." Her warm smile sent moths fluttering in the pit of Miraak's stomach, and the memory of her touch lingered pleasantly. He retreated into his cup, unwisely. His head was already beginning to swim.

"Certainly one way to secure a warm bed," Jon said, wiping a tear from his eye. "If all of your stories are like that one, brother, we shall have a merry night indeed. But tell me, Vilkas. What brings you so far from the city in such odd company?"

Miraak let his mind drift as Vilkas regaled Jon with tales of recent happenings, including the purpose of their quest to the Eldergleam Sanctuary and the death of his brother. Olfina clutched her heart and Jon murmured some pretty words, but Miraak found himself drifting away from the conversation as the warm glow of the mead cushioned his consciousness like a fine feather pillow. It was only when Vilkas began speaking of the Silver Dawn that Miraak refocused his attention.

"A company of knights, just like in the old stories? We may have to make a trip to Whiterun yet, then, if only to hear what glorious tales they have to offer."

"They have little to do with glory. More butchers, I'd label them. And what's worse, Hrongar has already granted them leave to recruit from the city."

Miraak offered, "Lucia and I witnessed one of their knights speaking with Belethor. I believe they intend to construct a headquarters out of the Wood Elf tavern."

Jon stretched and tossed his empty bowl into the washbasin where it landed with a splash. "Sounds a fine idea to me. The Huntsman's sat in bitter ruin for too long."

The Harbinger scowled. "I'd see it remain that way for another five years over Francois Montrose and his company of killers moving in."

"By the Eight. Are they really as awful as all that?"

"No," Lucia snapped. "He's fillin' your ears with poison. Since New Life, the Dawn have given more to Whiterun than the Companions have since I was a girl. They help with donations and gettin' people fed, all without askin' anything in return."

"Nothing is given freely in Skyrim, priestess," Vilkas spoke. "Are you truly so blind? These knights have purchased your regard with their meager tokens of charity. You're a fool if you think they won't come to collect on their investment."

Lucia took a moment to respond. When she finally looked up at the Harbinger, she looked much older than her twenty years. "You're so lost, Vilkas. Ya have no idea what life is like outside of that ruined old boat. Tell me what use is glory to the starvin'. Tell me why I should treasure your mercenary honor over the Dawn's shallow kindness. You'll cut ten men down before helpin' one up. S'pose that's one way to make sure everyone gets enough to eat, but don't ask me to call you a hero. Olfina, can ya help me to a bedroll? I'm dead on my feet."

Their hostess blinked a few times before hurrying to Lucia's side. "Of course!"

The muscles in Vilkas' left cheek twitched as the two women disappeared behind a side door, but he resisted any further comment. Miraak studied his face, pondering. What use is honor, indeed. He'd been hoping to discover the truth of such matters on this trek, but every day he spent with the Companions seemed to further muddy the waters.

Jon gathered up the dirty bowls and proceeded to noisily wash them in the deep basin behind Miraak, perhaps hoping to drown out the tense silence. Miraak leaned towards Vilkas, his elbows on his knees.

"Why did you try to parlay with that werewolf?" His voice was a hushed whisper. "And do not insult me by suggesting it was a ruse."

"I…" Vilkas' mouth shut suddenly. "It's no concern of yours, ghost. Do not mistake the pity I've shown you for fondness. The knowledge of our secret does not grant you intimacy in our affairs."

"As long as you do not mistake my curiosity for concern." Miraak smiled bitterly. "It is quite clear now why you so loudly claimed me for your company in front of Montrose. As a man fluent in Dovahzul, I would be a useful instructor for the Silver Dawn, especially as they seem to be ushering in new members. Now if I fail in this quest you people have set me, I will have no hope of alternative reprieve. You have marked me as an ally of the Companions. In doing so, I am doomed to either join you or die." He'd been nothing but a precious oddity to Hermaeous Mora, and it seemed not much had changed. I am still a collector's item to be passed between different powers.

For a moment a flash of something unfamiliar seized Vilkas' face, but then his customary mask of scorn returned in force. "Believe whatever you wish. Though if you needle me again about matters of the Circle, be prepared to explain how a man such as you came to know the dragon tongue. You have a dragon name, as well, Montrose said. Is it true?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Miraak's lips. He leaned back and made a show of stretching his shoulders. "As you said, Vilkas. You keep your secrets, and I shall keep mine."

Jon chuckled as he returned to his seat. "Not sure what you're discussing, lads, but I know from experience that no dance like that can last long. Let's not end this evening on a sour note, now. Olfina, my sweet, could you bring me my lute?"

Miraak collapsed on his bedroll several hours later, his soul dancing to the memories of Jon's incredible music. It was almost enough to distract him from the many conflicts this long day had provoked: when he closed his eyes, he could still picture the tortured werewolf writhing underneath smiling Montrose. He could still hear Sofie's words as she claimed to recognize something in him - he sensed that dangerous conversation would rear its head again when next they spoke. And above all else, he saw the dead Argonian at the end of his spear. What was his name? Would it plague me less if I knew he deserved such a fate? Such dark thoughts set him tossing and turning on the floor. Olfina had given Lucia the house's only spare room, so he and Vilkas slumbered before the hearth. Probably for the best; Miraak was still not comfortable sleeping in beds.

"Be still," Vilkas murmured. "Always take your rest when you can get it. A long road awaits us come morn."

"Does it get easier? Killing, I mean."

What he expected was for Vilkas to groan and roll away, or to ignore his words entirely; instead, the Harbinger rose groggily and lumbered to the hearth to set another batch of mulled mead going.

"Vilkas? What are you doing?"

"Come on, up with you." Vilkas, wearing a strange expression, settled back into one of the chairs. "Let us speak of this person you killed."

Miraak, confused and gladdened, scrambled to his feet and joined Vilkas beside the warm fire. The spiced aroma of the churning mead rose around them and helped clear Miraak's drowsy mind.

It took a little while to summon the courage to speak. Vilkas waited without comment, his focus firm and unwavering.

"He was a bandit we encountered on the road to Valtheim. An Argonian. The first I have ever seen." Miraak rubbed his knee and glanced up at the ceiling. For all Olfina had criticized Jon's work ethic, the thatchwork seemed a marvel. "This is something you do for all the whelps, then?"

"Aye. Many come to us having already spilled blood, but some are young and untested. Aela usually helps them, after the first time. I wish she were here now. She speaks well."

"You will do, Vilkas. I saw your true heart, at the Guardian Stones, and now before you I shall bare mine."

This had been the wrong thing to say: Vilkas' face tightened like a recoiling snake, and for a moment Miraak was certain their conversation was over. Then Vilkas said: "Tell me what this Argonian looked like."

"Must I? The memory is...uncomfortable, to say the least."

"Such is the price of our livelihood. But a wound ignored will only fester with time. The infection will spread until you find yourself paralyzed at the prospect of shedding blood again. As a warrior of the Companions, you must know no hesitation. Doubt could cost you your life. Or even the life of one of your shield-siblings, eh? Wouldn't want you freezing up on me in the heat of battle."

"Very well. His scales were bright green. His eyes, yellow." Miraak's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "A lean stomach. I think he must have been very hungry, but that is difficult to say with certainty. I would need to see a few well-fed Argonians to know for sure. Weakness of the body would explain how I was able to defeat him with my meager abilities."

If Vilkas had any objections to Miraak retreating into scholarly contemplation, he gave no voice to them. Instead, he filled two clean cups with steaming mead and held one out to Miraak. "Sofie would have told me if you conducted yourself dishonorably, so the fight was fairly won. How did you defeat him?"

"We engaged in a duel of spears. He made an error, left his centerline exposed. I managed to wound his arm with my spearhead. A grievous injury. Blood, everywhere." Miraak licked his lips and took a sip of mead.

"Was it this wound that ended the bandit's life?"

"No. He tried to stab me with a dagger, while I was looking at Sofie. Before I knew what I'd done...my spearhead was in his chest. That was when he died."

"Murderer."

Miraak recoiled. "What?"

"Something wrong with your hearing? I called you a murderer." Vilkas looked almost bored as he took a measured drink of mead. "No different from any other desperate rotten cutthroat. No different from the miserable creature I found hiding in Helgen with all the other ghosts."

"No, I have changed, I…" The cup fell from his trembling fingers, but neither of them looked to see it spill. His dragon chewed at the bars keeping it restrained, its yellow eyes flashing with hungry malevolence.

"You liked it, didn't you? You took pleasure in killing that poor starving wretch."

"Please," Miraak whimpered and hid his face in his hands. "I do not want to feel this way. I cannot be weak, it will not let me...it made me leave the city. Do small things, Aela said. The work of a thousand days. Do you not think I wanted to listen? But when it forced us back into the wilds, even then I did not know why. I am a fool, I think I will always be a fool. Because it got what it wanted, you see? And now it is going to want more. That is why I asked if it gets easier."

Vilkas stared at him for a time, the corner of his brow turning up, and glanced over at the closed bedroom doors.

"Ysgramor's beard, ghost. Get a hold of yourself. I was only trying to provoke you into justifying your kill, you see?"

Miraak swallowed with some difficulty. His heartbeat slowed. "J-justify?"

"Aye. Y'know, 'he was trying to skewer me, 'he was a danger to travelers,' something along those lines. Damn, but I'm doing a poor job of this. You do know there's a difference between what we do and the violence practiced by common bandits, don't you? Fight with honor. Don't shoot a man from the shadows, don't stab her in the back. When we put people down, we look them in the eyes. So long as you do that, have no fear of a guilty conscience. That Argonian sealed his fate when he picked up a spear and decided to start robbing honest folk for a living."

A guilty conscience? He would have sung with joy to have so petty a problem. Vilkas could never understand, could never know the terror and pain of having such a creature as the dragon living in his mind. And now he was putting out the fire, and refusing to meet Miraak's eyes.

"Best we get some sleep. As I said, it's a long road waiting for us tomorrow." Darkness filled the house and Vilkas returned to his bedroll, his back turned before Miraak could even make himself move from the chair.

The surge of panic had purged all fatigue from his body. Miraak lay awake for a long time on the floor. He stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling and wondered, for the first time since leaving Helgen, why he had come here.