Chapter 22: Targets

I dragged my weary frame back to Breezehome. I hadn't slept for almost two days now, and the fatigue was finally taking its toll.

My head was consumed by a fog of dull emotions, acknowledged but barely felt. There was a smidgen of fresh guilt; Kodlak had reminded me I had a bed in the dormitory when I had visited him to take my leave. I had respectfully declined, again, reminding him that Lydia would worry if I didn't return to our home in the Plains district.

They had let me go; Farkas with a wave as he lifted a bottle of mead to his lips, showing no signs of retiring despite his injury, and Vilkas with a short, bemused 'good night' and a frown, as he flickered a questioning glance to the Harbinger.

I frowned at the road as I shuffled home, trying to dislodge a weary concern over his contrary behaviour. His brother was so open and constant and harmless, but it felt as though Vilkas couldn't make up his mind about whether I was friend or foe. When I played the lute or sang or told stories, he gazed at me with an intent, almost rapturous kind of longing. While it was certainly odd to feel such eyes fixed on me, it was a state the majority of bards strived to attain of their audiences, for an enamoured listener usually gave larger tips.

But when I wasn't performing? He barely acknowledged me, and seemed perplexed by my presence when he did.

I resolved nothing of his nature, as my own thoughts were too bleary. I found my key and unlocked the front door, reminding myself as I relocked it that neither he, nor the other Companions, would be my problem for very long.

I couldn't deny that they were good people, or that most of their number had made genuine effort to welcome me into their ranks. They were people I could have easily come to consider comrades, over time. But while my name might forever be recorded on a list somewhere in their halls, I could never stay with them. I had to learn what I could, and go to the Greybeards.

I didn't even bother to undress as I crashed onto of my bed, and let myself sink into unconsciousness.

–

After several hours sleep that felt like mere minutes, I was woken by a fierce, blinding headache.

I rose to drink some water from the pitcher on my dresser. Through the high window in the hallway between my room and Lydia's, I could see a patch of steely-blue sky. I lowered my cup and groaned, holding my head as it continued to thump relentlessly. It was nearly dawn. That meant I had to stay up, and go to Jorrvaskr.

My head continued pounding as I dressed. I had taken a potion to see to the rest of my body before I had ventured back to perform; why was my head torturing me now?

I dressed much the same as I had the previous day and crept downstairs, glancing around the kitchen for another potion as I threw my coat around my shoulders. There was no time to cook up any food.

But as I wound my scarf around my neck I noticed something that had not been on the table the night before; a cluster of red and green potions at the breakfast table. Crossing my brows, I took up the small note creased beneath the nearest one.

Take these with you. No arguments.
If they are here when I wake, I will bring them to Jorrvaskr personally.

Lydia

Smothering a laugh, for I did not doubt she would follow through with that threat, I pocketed a few of the potions then took up another as I made to go, unstoppering and unceremoniously emptying the contents into my mouth.

The liquid oozed down my throat, and I closed my eyes in relief as the headache receded. Thank the Gods for Lydia.

When my breaths came a little easier, I opened my eyes, and turned back to the kitchen hastily. Grabbing some charcoal from the hearth, I scribbled a swift thank you note and told her I would be home between the end of my training, and my night's performance.

Once outside, the potion continued to warm and wake me as its effects flooded my system, and the crisp air attended to what the potion didn't. I felt suddenly so alive, so energised, and I fell into a run, racing the impending dawn.

As I jogged, I decided I would not allow Aela to bully me today. She revelled in response, as all bullies did, so I would not give her the satisfaction of one. Be calm, be focused, I schooled. The rhythmic thump-thump of my boots striking the cobbles resounded through me, building a resolve that left me feeling almost serene as I rounded the upturned ship and slowed to a stop in the training yard.

Aela wasn't there.

I frowned, looking around for signs of the disagreeable flame-haired woman, by the targets, on the verandah, up near the Skyforge. Nothing. I had beaten both her, and the sun, to my station.

Shrugging, I moved toward the target I had been shooting at the previous day, and retrieved all the arrows I could find.

"Not even going to say good morning to your teacher?" a hard-edged male voice drawled from the verandah.

I leapt and yelped, turning toward the source of the voice. I searched the shadows as a new dread filled me; I was fairly certain that I knew who it was.

Skjor shifted in his seat and slowly rose; silent and ghost-like.

His face was masked by darkness, and I clamped down on a rising surge of panic as his frame descended toward me.

Do not let them bully you, I reminded myself futilely.

"Where's Aela?" I stammered before I could stop myself. "She said to-"

"That's none of your concern," Skjor cut in. The tower of muscle stopped before me; arms crossed in expectation.

I leant back forever to make eye contact with him, and the moment I did, I wished I hadn't. His eyes were as hard as his voice and narrowed, as though considering whether I was worth his effort. His gaze bore a similar sheen to those of the Circle, but behind it, one of his eyes was completely white.

My determination faltered, and I tried to transfer my calm onto this new development.

"Sorry," I muttered, lowering my eyes in what I hoped would be taken as a sign of respect. My heart fluttered in my chest, so loud and frantic that I was certain Skjor could hear it. "Shall I begin shooting at the target?"

His reply was a heavy silence, then he stooped down until his eyes were level with mine.

I was compelled to look at him. Both orbs flashed a fierce, golden yellow, reflecting the rising sun for an instant, but then he closed them and took a deep breath through his flaring nostrils.

"So, there's a soul of a dragon in you, huh?"

I took a step back, unable to stop myself. "Please," I stammered, barely a whisper as my voice shook. "I have no quarrel with you or Aela. I am trying to make my way through the world, as you-"

He stood tall and regained his standoffish composure. "I am not interested in back story, whelp."

"Then...what do you want of me?" I managed. I made myself look up again and a flash of frustration rippled through me; cautious but bright. I was angry that I was afraid.

The corner of his mouth rose in snarl. "The sun has risen," he spoke. "Time for you to get to work."

"All right," I agreed. Relieved to have something to do, I turned, adjusted my stance and placed an arrow in my bow.

They're just trying to scare you off, I reminded myself as I sighted the target I would be trying to hit for the rest of the day. That's why Aela's sent Skjor in her place. They don't want you comfortable, they just want the run of their home again.

I grimaced, and the truth leant me some courage. I would not be pushed out Jorrvaskr by them. I drew my bow, fully extended and adjusted my aim, before I exhaled and fired-

"Why did you come to us?" Skjor asked, half a second before I released the arrow.

My focus scattered and the arrow flopped out of the bow, pitifully skidding across the earthen courtyard.

I ducked, retrieved another arrow from my pile, and attempted to deliver composure when I replied flatly; "Because I need your help."

Silence again from the Companion. I placed the arrow, and drew. Exhaling, I released the string-

"Kind of selfish, don't you think?" he droned.

I cursed as my arrow soared up – too high, and over the walls of Whiterun.

My head whipped to him; my mind reeled at his childishness and my heart ached from his words. He's right. You are using them. Eyes wide with indignation, I dared not say what I wanted to under his glaring, watchful gaze.

I placed a third arrow; my hands shook with restraint, and drew back the bowstring. Instead of loosing, I glanced to Skjor, waiting silently and pointedly for his next interruption.

His mouth flattened into a line. "I asked you a question, new blood," he growled.

Turning back to the target, I aimed swiftly and fired; missing, for I had been too hasty, but at least my arrow thudded in the general vicinity.

I whipped back around to him. "Do you even care how I answer?" I replied stiffly, stooping down and grasping another arrow by the shaft. "You will believe what you wish to believe about me, no matter what I say."

I placed the arrow, glanced to my feet to ensure they were positioned correctly, and the force of Fus pushed against my rising fury, tempting me to unleash it.

No. I raised my bow and focussed on the target instead.

"If a member of the Circle asks you a question, it is your duty to answer it, whelp," he growled, close by my side.

I closed my eyes to reign a yelp in before it escaped; I hadn't heard his approach. "I entered into an arrangement with our Harbinger," I said through clenched teeth. "Is that not enough for you?"

Skjor huffed; a rush of hot air brushed my cheek. He hissed; "Look at you. Insolent, and reeking of fear. The Harbinger defers to us, you petulant child. You will learn your place, or you will be put in it."

When I heard the retreat of boots, I opened my eyes, aimed, and let out a breath as I fired.

My arrow soared and thudded into the edge of the target, but I couldn't even smile at my small success. Retrieving another arrow, I repeated my motions, all the while feeling Skjor's eerie, half-blinded gaze on me like a hawk.

I had loosed three more arrows before Skjor evidently decided it was time to torment me some more. "I grow weary of your woeful aim, whelp. You lack the strength to keep your arm steady long enough for an arrow to soar true," he drawled.

I turned to him, lowering my bow and relaxing my stance. "I know," I told him flatly. "Why do you think I am here?"

No answer; only more hard stares. I returned to my occupation, wondering if I was getting anywhere with him. The last thing he had said to me had sounded dangerously close to advice. Aela had been much the same in her tutelage; sniping at me while issuing instructions wrapped around insults, taking any opportunity to belittle me.

Another two arrows loosed; only one thudded into the target, just within the largest of the circles. I wanted to cheer; would have done if not for the presence of my disagreeable shield-sibling, and contented myself with a silent smile. I could get better. I could do this.

"You think that the Companions can teach you to be strong?" Skjor asked in a sharp tone.

Given the time it had taken him to reply, I began to wonder if he had trouble forming his words. The idea made me smirk. I would always win against this warrior, if we fought our battles with words, and with Kodlak's support, he would never dare harm me.

"I do not believe anybody can be taught strength," I replied loftily, feeling suddenly more relaxed and sure of myself.

Of course, I had begged Kodlak that I be taught strength, and implored the Jarl for time to gain some. But given the nature of their replies, I now endeavoured to impart what I had learnt from them, to make myself seem wiser if nothing else, and perhaps give Skjor a response he didn't expect. I stooped down to retrieve another arrow. "Strength cannot be measured by the skill of one's arm, or the stature of one's frame, but by the fire in one's heart-"

Skjor barked a disdainful laugh. "This, from one who would wring a man's power from his core? You know nothing of strength," his words were barbed with ice.

I half shrugged and placed my arrow. Sighting my target, I glanced down to make sure the shaft was still in position, and stable. It was wobbling a little; I tensed my arm, and it stilled.

"Perhaps not," I whispered sadly, and loosed. The arrow whispered through the air and landed in the training dummy next to my target. "But I am willing to embrace it, should it find me."

The Companion barked another humourless laugh as I sighed at the training dummy, and ventured forward to retrieve all the arrows I could locate.

"Where are your eyes, the moment before you loose?" he demanded.

There we are, I inwardly sighed with relief. Just like Aela.

I tugged arrows free and stooped to gather those that had fallen short, replying as evenly as I could. "The arrow head, to make sure it is steady when I loose."

"Wrong," Skjor fired. "No wonder you can't hit a target to save yourself."

I turned back toward him, because I had collected my arrows and had no excuse not to, and frowned. "Where should my eyes be trained?"

He gave me a withering look and drawled, "Does it matter how I answer? Will you listen?"

I quirked an eyebrow. "I am here to learn, not to make friends. Where should my eyes be before I loose?"

He frowned; bored and distant as he gazed at the Skyforge above us. "The prize," he murmured.

Piling my arrows next to my feet, I turned to the target and resumed practising. The target, I told myself pointedly. It felt strange to trust my hands to do what they had to do, without watching them to be sure they did it.

No different to learning a new song on your lute, I conceded. After the patterns became second-nature, you didn't have to watch your hands any longer, and could instead focus on other things; emotive intonation or the atmosphere you wanted to create when you performed it. I trusted my hands when they were holding my lute.

I needed to trust them with my bow. I stared at the gaping eye of the target, remembered to breathe, then loosed. This time, my arrow whizzed straight for the target, impacting the circle one out from the centre.

I whooped and jumped into the air, ecstatic. "I did it!" I cheered.

Skjor didn't complain, and I turned to him, wondering at his silence given a fresh invitation to find fault in me.

But he hadn't noticed my celebration at all. His eyes were still on the Skyforge; flitting back and forth across the protruding rock formation before it.

Without sparing me a glance, he turned and purposefully marched for the doors leading into Jorrvaskr.

"Hey! Aren't you going to teach me any more?" I called out, emboldened by my success.

The double doors swung open and slammed closed behind him.

I turned back to face my target, baffled. Had I just...won something? Surely not. There was no winning against Skjor or Aela.

So I shrugged, uncaring of whatever it was that had sent him away. I was better off without him. Ducking to grab another arrow, I resumed my training, as in his haste, my teacher had not told me to stop.

With immense satisfaction, every arrow I fired now thudded into the target, though none broached the large dot in its centre.

–

I had been firing at the target hours when the other Companions filtered into the training yard.

I didn't want to appear weak in their eyes, so despite my aching muscles, I persisted with my target practise.

Athis was first to arrive. He sat on the low step before the courtyard and wound a cloth around his knuckles. I felt his thoughtful eyes on me as I fired, but once he had finished with his hands he shifted to the training dummy farthest from me - perhaps simply so he wouldn't be shot by a stray arrow - and began punching and kicking at it.

When I next retrieved my arrows from the target, the doors to Jorrvaskr opened again.

"Morning, Celeste!" Ria's cheerful tones called.

I glanced up to find her smiling welcomingly at me. "Morning!" I greeted, just as merrily.

By her side was Farkas, and both wielded training short-swords. The mountainous Nord smirked and rumbled 'morning' to me, then the pair descended and settled opposite one another in the middle of the courtyard.

There was no trace of a limp to Farkas' walk; I glanced down to the Nord's knee in surprise. The stitches were still visible and the skin swollen, but the man seemed wholly unaffected by his injury. The pair exchanged a few friendly taunts before they fell into a sparring session.

I lowered my bow to watch in envy and wonder as the smaller Ria battled Farkas. She was incredible; strong and certain in her movements, and while more jerky than graceful, she was fast. It was obvious from the start that Farkas was training her; Ria was doing all the work, and Farkas was merely blocking and grunting 'good' and the occasional single-word suggestion.

How long had it taken her to learn to do that, I wondered as I followed their movements? Could Farkas teach me to wield a sword like Ria did?

"Hey. New blood," the rumble of Vilkas' thick accent jerked me out of my thoughts, and my cheeks pinked as I turned to him. He was standing beside me, his arms crossed – I hadn't even heard him approach – with his war-painted eyes trained on my form as he considered me warily. "You planning on shooting that arrow, or have you grown too close to part with it?"

What? Was...that a joke?

Dismissing Ria and Farkas, I turned back to the target and raised my bow. The thump-thump of Athis' strikes against the training dummy accompanied the less frequent clangs and clashes from the sparring pair.

"I'm resting my arms," I covered hastily, positioning my feet and sighting my target. Vilkas' silvery eyes left me, then he shuffled; I assumed he was done with me, until he entered my peripheral.

My eyes flickered to him in confusion, but his focus was on my bow. Rather than waiting for his assessment, for I felt one was imminent, I inhaled, and drew.

"This bow is too large for you," he commented quietly, almost in surprise.

I exhaled and fired; distracted enough that my arrow thudded into the base of the target. My shoulders slumped at the failure, and I reached down to grasp another arrow. "I had a smaller bow," I replied steadily, nocking and righting my stance; determined to show him I could hit the target. "But I couldn't draw it. My arm is too weak. This bow is lighter," I positioned my arms, lifted the bow, inhaled and drew again.

I heard Vilkas take a step back, and hazarded another glance his way, wary of whatever reprimand he was cooking up.

But was checking my stance, my arm; everything about my form. His eyes were critical; his expression more thoughtful than judging.

Perhaps Aela and Skjor have given up, I reasoned, turning my eyes back to my target. Perhaps Kodlak has assigned Vilkas to teach me now.

I saw no other reason for him to be here, assessing me. My exhale, as I fired again, carried a weight of relief.

My arrow thudded into the target, though the centre still eluded me.

"Better," Vilkas muttered; his eyes on the target. "Did Aela teach you to stand that way?"

I nodded, looking down to my feet as I repositioned. "Yes. Any wider and I can't draw the bow back far enough to fire," I explained.

He made a disgruntled sound, and held his hand out for the bow. "May I?"

Crossing my brows, I handed it over.

I expected he wanted to test it, but instead he raised one end to his eye-level and took the curled end of the wood between his fingers. With a frown and a tug from his other hand, he unwound the bow string once, twice, and then secured it again.

"Try now," he passed it back to me.

I glanced between the bow and him. "All right," I stooped to collect an arrow, then positioned it in the slightly looser bow string. Next, I steadied my feet.

"Further apart," he schooled. "You won't ever be able to hit a moving target with your knees locked together."

I shuffled my feet further apart, getting closer to the position Faendal had first taught me. "Aela told me that this stance was too wide for my frame," I felt the need to say.

"Aela never thinks about the bigger picture," Vilkas rumbled, low enough that I had the notion he didn't wish our shield-siblings to hear him.

I glanced to him in interest, but his eyes were on my feet. He stepped closer, tilted his head, then nudged my trailing boot to shift it back another inch. "You only borrow strength by keeping your centre high - it will not serve you in the long run," he took a step back. "Better to loosen the string, and learn in a position you will be able to bolt from," seeming satisfied, he glance up, and I did catch a hint of a smile from him then. "No point in teaching you the wrong dance. Your arm will become used to the weight of other bows, over time."

I couldn't help but smile back, and turned my eyes to the target, relieved suddenly that he had appeared. Vilkas seemed the most professional of his shield-siblings, and despite the moments of surly conflict I had caught, it would be easier for everybody if he taught me. By day he was detached; aloof, and I would be able to learn a lot more from him than Aela or Skjor because of it.

I raised and drew the bow, and my arm wobbled as I neared extension - but mercifully, I could continue, and the string extended. I exhaled, and fired.

"See?" Vilkas posed, a little smug. "You can do this."

A smile bloomed in my chest and I let it surface, and not only because he had congratulated me. I watched the fletching wobble in the wake of the impact; the head embedded in the very edge of the centre circle of the target.

–

Vilkas didn't stay with me for long; once my pose was sorted, he sauntered off.

I called out, asking whether he was to teach me any more, and he shot me a dark look and grumbled that he had a job to do.

I came to find these shifts in manner were the norm; he was encouraging one moment and turbulent the next, as though he was somehow two different men. So I shrugged it off, as I did Aela's bullying and Skjor's snarled reprimands. It was who they were, and I had to keep telling myself that as long as I was improving, their attitudes didn't matter.

My days spent with the Companions began to blur. For a week, I did nothing but shoot arrows at targets by day, usually in solitude, but occasionally with a member of the Circle watching over me. Aela and Skjor's behaviour altered; their eyes were less disinterested and cynical, but grew more observant and calculating. It had to be a new plan to make me feel uncomfortable, so as with their previous tactic, I ignored it, and worked hard to meet whatever orders they gave when they deigned to speak.

By the end of the week, I wanted to burn the targets, and glared hatefully at them each time I was told to fire. I could now hit it more often than not, and was itching to improve faster – to learn something new. One whole quarter of my promised time with the Companions was over, and I felt no better equipped to face the Greybeards than when I had begun.

Breaks in the monotony of archery training came at night during my brief hours at Breezehome. Early in the week I dashed home to change for my performance, and met Alvor and Sigrid, sitting around the kitchen table with Lydia drinking tea.

I squeaked in surprise, my aching muscles forgotten, and dashed forward to envelope the pair in a hug; relieved to see their friendly faces. After much laughing and a babbled greeting, I learned that Dorthe was being shown around the town by Lucia. Hadvar's aunt and uncle had been waiting to say hello before departing for home, as the details of the Legion contract had been finalised earlier.

I changed hurriedly then lingered far longer than I should have, but I wanted to hear about their arrangements with Adrianne Avenicci. While I listened, I regretted my all-consuming contract with the Companions - it gave me no true time to myself.

But my music consoled me, and after apologetically leaving them, I sung a programme of songs about family and friendship, honour and duty. My duty was laid out before me; a path to prepare for the pilgrimage ahead. I could not stray from my promise to be better, faster, stronger, and more than I currently was.

Another reprieve from routine arrived that evening; I returned home to change after training, and found a sealed letter on the kitchen table, addressed to:

C Passero,
Breezehome, Whiterun.

I recognised the hand and a squeak of surprise left me – startling Lucia but making Lydia laugh loudly.

"Are you all right?" Lucia asked gently, glancing uncertainly Lydia's way.

"I'm fine," I managed, my cheeks burning as I tucked the letter into my coat pocket.

I fell into the nearest chair and made a few minutes small talk with them, not really paying attention to conversation or food, before I stood and arched my back.

"Well, I'd best get dressed for my performance," I said brightly, making for my room.

"Okay!" Lucia called merrily after me.

As I ascended the stairs, she asked Lydia in a low voice, "It's from that soldier, isn't it?"

Yes, it is, I thought silently in triumph. My mind and heart raced and my stomach fluttered with nerves; now I could read what he made of this Dragonborn business.

Please believe me, I begged as I broke the seal and sat on the edge of my bed.

Dear Celeste, Hadvar's letter began.

I have moments before my Captain calls me away and my duties tear me from wondering over your remarkable story.

But first, I express my deepest appreciation for securing my family's contract with the Avenicci's. As ever, you saw into the heart of the matter and stepped up when an opportunity presented itself - and not because you had to. Because you wanted to. Being unable to help them by day is one of my deepest regrets in joining the army, but you have delicately unknot that anxiety for me through your selflessness.

Thank you. I wish I could thank you in person; words do nothing to express the depth of my gratitude.

My flushed renewed. I had not expected this...glowing praise, but it warmed me. I wish you were here, too, I mused, and read on:

You asked how the war fares, but I have little to report that might interest anybody. Our camp in the Pale is no great secret to those who live in these parts. We are visited daily by roaming merchants and smiths and bards, all seeking coin in these uncertain times who are all met by polite yet comprehensive questioning to ensure they aren't Stormcloak spies before they enter our camp. We are also lately venturing out in small brigades to locate an artefact our commanding Legate believes Stormcloak is searching for, in an attempt to legitimise his claim to the High King's throne.

I frowned; the warmth of Hadvar's opening cooled. The High King or Queen of Skyrim couldn't simply take the position as they liked, ancient relic or not. They were assigned the honour at a moot, and that was that. And even I knew that Ulfric Stormcloak would never be successful in appealing to the moot; not after the havoc he had unleashed with his selfish, impatient actions, or the lives that had been torn apart because of it.

Hadvar went on to address my thoughts directly;

It's strange to think that a man who proclaims to love Skyrim fails to understand how our leaders are chosen, but perhaps I shouldn't expect logic from a tyrant.

I could sense the resignation in his words, and my frown doubled; I shuffled, drawing my feet up onto the bed and tucked them under my legs.

The days are long, and with legions of Stormcloaks in the region also searching for this crown, skirmishes are frequent. When there are no Stormcloaks left, there are draugr to deal with; I daresay I have struck down enough take you on your next quest!

My heart thudded, despite his bravado; he was fighting for his life, daily - hourly? And for what – some artefact? Why was the Legion wasting time and people on that? Did they truly believe Stormcloak would become High King if he obtained it?

Speaking of Bleak Falls Barrow. And - everything else. I'm worried for you, but I'm also unduly proud. Thane, Companion and Dragonborn, huh? Maybe being on that cart in Helgen makes more sense, as though you were supposed to be there, for bigger reasons. News of what occurred at the Western watchtower hasn't reached my post but I look forward to hearing your name spoken with reverence by my peers in the days to come.

He wrote as though there had never been any doubt - he did believe me. My nerves settled, and I smiled, lying down on my pillow, holding the letter up to read its last.

Once everyone knows you're Dragonborn, you might gain some unwanted attention. I'll be surprised if the General doesn't summon you, to try collect you for the Empire. Stormcloak has the gall to try the same, despite what his actions meant for your family.

The choice is yours, of course, but - promise me you won't sign your life away to the army, no matter the entreaties woven to take advantage of your impeccable good will. You are more important than this war.

I crossed my brows, though my heart ached at his disclosure. I hadn't considered being Dragonborn might attract the attention of the armies. If forced to take a side, I was of course for the Legion, but gratefully, I already had my excuses if either approached me, which had nothing to do with the dragons.

I was Thane to Jarl Balgruuf. As long as he remained neutral, I could do the same.

Not that I would make a very good soldier. And perhaps that was why Hadvar expressed such fear at the notion. I read on:

How are you? Underneath all the dragon stuff and accolades - how is the woman who saved me in Helgen?

I snorted; I had done nothing but hinder him there. Perhaps he was being ironic.

It warms my heart to hear about the Companions and little Lucia, and Lydia. If she was your father's housecarl, perhaps the Jarl will make her yours?

I smiled; that had already occurred.

Shall your reply relate another six counts of your elevation; are you at this moment Thane of three more holds?

I await your next, with anticipation,

Hadvar

I could feel the amusement in his last, and laughed quietly as I rose and placed the letter in the chest at the end of my bed for safe keeping. I didn't have time to answer him now, but I would do so - soon.

I made myself think about what I would play instead. I was to perform outside tonight, on the verandah, which meant that Aela and Skjor would be within Jorrvaskr.

I bit my lip in concern as I recalled the coldness to Aela's gaze throughout the course of the day. I had wanted to stop firing and ask her what – what specifically was she searching for, and I would give it to her, if it would make her stop looking at me like that? But I had made a promise not to be scared by her or Skjor, which meant that I had to refrain from reacting.

She had only spoken to issue commands; trailing arm higher, feet parallel, watch the angle of your hips. But for the perpetual judgment in her expression and tone, I could have believed she was actually helping me.

I layered up. A bonfire was usually lit in the courtyard when I played outside, but not even fire could not stop the icy breezes that crashed over the wall or the flurries of snow that occasioned to brush against my exposed cheeks and hands but never seemed to settle long enough on the earth to transform Whiterun into a frosty wonderland.

Leggings, thick undertunic, woollen socks, trousers, quilted overtunic, scarf, boots. Hair secured. I didn't look like a bard tonight, but then I had started to feel less like an isolated performer, and more like a woman singing for her peers because she desired to do so.

I grabbed my lute and made haste for Jorrvaskr, calling my apologies to Lydia and Lucia as I darted past them.

If I sang well, perhaps I could finish early, and return to write my reply to Hadvar. Not that I had much to tell him, compared to my previous letter, but I wanted to make contact with him again as soon as possible.

–

The air surrounding my audience was perceptibly tense, owing to Skjor's presence amongst those assembled on the verandah.

When my confused glance to Kodlak yielded no response, I continued with my preparations. My awareness of the warrior heightened; the hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I felt his eerie gaze settle, and remain, on me.

What was he doing? Had he grown weary of tormenting me by day to no avail, so had decided to throw off my performance tonight? Perhaps he thought if he made me too scared to play, the other Companions would grow bored of my efforts.

No, I determined. I would not let him affect me. I was a professional; I could manage a heckler amid those who did appreciate what I had to offer. Given Kodlak's response to my music, I doubted he would allow Skjor to openly intimidate me.

Try as I might to forget him, Skjor set the tone for my performance as I strived to reach him, as I so effortlessly had Kodlak, Vilkas and Farkas. My programme consisted of old, traditional songs, with lyrics exuding loyalty and camaraderie.

I glanced over the crowd to gauge the reaction of my listeners, and made eye contact with Skjor several times. He leaned against a support beam, silent and ever-watchful, though once or twice, I was sure his eye twitched; the only possible signal of restraint. Otherwise, he seemed wholly unmoved by my performance.

My attentions left Skjor and I continued to check on those whose reactions I could rely on. As ever, Kodlak seemed lost in serene thoughts, Farkas seemed blissfully, openly relaxed, and Vilkas seemed-

I sat back and took a proper look at him. Vilkas wasn't watching me; he was watching Skjor; his eyes narrowed, and his mouth a grim, straight line.

The nerves I had worked so hard to suppress soared; if Vilkas was watching Skjor, something was afoot.

As if my suspicions needed confirming, the doors from the mead hall opened and Aela stepped out. My heart leapt into my throat, and I fought to keep my exterior calm.

"His tomb was built upon this lake, and in his name this oath I take.
Should evil come, should night descend, I swear the Rift I will defend," I sang the final stanza of Geirmund's Oath with a noticeable shudder to my voice, and turned my eyes down, watching my fingers pluck out the last few bars so I wouldn't have to look my formidable shield-siblings.

I brought the song to a close. In the silence, the wind whistled over the walls of Whiterun to my left. A flicker of red caught my eye; sparks from the bonfire, twirling high on the breeze and blinking out as they ascended.

I swallowed and turned back to my crowd. I felt as though I was perched on some terrible precipice, and that no matter which path I chose, I could only tumble down from here.

One more, I commanded; glanced to those who were not of the Circle. "My final piece tonight will be An Ode to the Red Bird, unless there are any objections?"

There were, but not about my choice of song.

"No! Aw, Celeste, don't stop yet!" Ria's call rang out, distinguishable from the others.

I smiled sadly to her and shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I'm nearing the end of my strength. The cold night air does my throat no favours," I wound excuses, feeling wretched for lying to her.

But I could not sit by and wait for whatever Skjor and Aela had planned for me.

The protests persisted, but I stuck to my story and punctuated my determination by strumming the opening chords. I cleared my throat of the lump that had lodged in there, in preparation for the lyrics. It was a trickier, livelier number than I would have usually finished with, but as with my excuses, I was committed to play it out.

"Let us fly together, dear red bird,
set aside the idle talk of stern elders,
as you set aside the ground below," I sang.

The music managed what my mind could not on its own, and forced me to focus on something other than Aela and Skjor. My anxiety drifted away as I progressed, and by the end of the song, I found myself able to genuinely smile again.

At the close of my performance I rose and made the traditional bow amidst applause and cheers of my comrades. I couldn't mask the satisfied smile on my face; my music had been appreciated, and that was all that mattered to a bard.

I half-watched Aela and Skjor for signs of movement, of anything. Then Aela shifted; my eyes flashed to her, but she merely approached Kodlak and Vilkas and started talking to them. Skjor departed at once and was the first to re-enter Jorrvaskr.

I sighed with relief and with a few hurried farewells, I took my leave. As I turned and descended the few verandah stairs, several of the Companions made for the mead hall after Skjor, and as I walked past the ramp leading up to the Skyforge, I wondered if it was possible the worst of my interactions with the disagreeable pair were over.

I sighed and glanced around the Cloud district; made myself breathe deeply and think positively. All was silent but for a few patrolling guards crossing the courtyard beyond, making their way to Dragonsreach, perhaps at the end of their shift.

I turned right and was about to descend the stairs to the Gildergreen when the sound of the main doors to Jorrvaskr opening caught my attention. I turned to glance over my shoulder, curious about who might be setting out on a job at this hour.

"New blood," Skjor called to me, his voice steady as he clicked the door closed. "I need to talk to you."

I stilled; my stomach clenched. I met his gaze and suppressed a shudder at the triumph I saw in him.

Of course you weren't reaching them, a cruel voice scoffed.

I turned properly, so I faced him. "All right," I agreed quietly, placing my lute over my shoulder so I could run unhindered if I had to.

Run? What do you think is happening here?

Skjor smirked, still too proud to settle my heart thumping frantically in my chest. At once, I had the notion that he wished for me to run.

I swallowed, praying for any other Companion to walk around the ship and cut through the rising tension.

"What is it that you need of me?" I asked. My voice was too scared, too small.

The smirk persisted, and he tilted his head to his right a little. "Got a job for you," he descended and made for the path I had just walked, back around the Skyforge side of Jorrvaskr.

I remained where I was. My instincts surged at my inaction; insisted that I flee while I could. "Can it wait until morning? I'm really quite tired-"

"No. We do this now," he cut over me in a quiet growl, casting a glare over his shoulder, and nodding in the direction he wanted me to go with a flick of his head. "Do not make me repeat myself, whelp," he added darkly.

I was stunned into action, otherwise I would never have stepped forward to meet him.

When I found myself beside Skjor, looking up into his hard eyes, I opened my mouth to speak, but didn't know what I could possibly say. My lower lip trembled in injustice, and I wondered if I should scream.

"The bard, rendered silent?" Skjor mocked. "You can be taught after all. Come on," he sighed and started trudging around Jorrvaskr. "This won't take long."

His tone was almost bored again, which leant me curiosity enough to follow the warrior, for now. I glanced around the courtyard as it swam into view, but my heart sank as I saw that it was empty of Companions. The bonfire in the courtyard was out; someone had thrown sand over it already.

"That's far enough," Skjor took my arm.

I skidded to a halt, glancing up in confusion and willing him to release me.

He didn't, but his hold shifted so his enormous hand contained my wrist. With utter nonchalance, he turned to the rock wall and pressed an inconspicuous knob at about his shoulder-height.

The rock split and parted, revealing a darkness beyond. Like a tomb.

"What is this?" I asked hurriedly, trying to twist my arm loose.

Skjor's grip tightened, but he said nothing. As rock whispered against rock, the gap became large enough for us to walk through.

Skjor gave me a sideways glance. "You came to us to gain strength, didn't you?" he asked in a rumble.

I nodded hastily. My eyes were drawn to the impenetrable darkness within the hidden cavern. "Yes, but-"

"But," Skjor cut me off swiftly, "you have found yourself wanting," he supplied.

I closed my mouth, and dared not dispute. My progress had been slow, but it was progress.

He must have taken my silence as agreement, for he raised his eyebrows as he tugged me forward, "Well," he took a step into the dark passage. "This is your lucky day, sister."

–

For minutes we walked through the dense darkness in silence. I wondered how Skjor could see anything, for the blackness was so consuming that I wanted to shuffle to be sure I wasn't about to trip over something. I felt my voice would be swallowed and lost if I tried to speak, so I didn't attempt to.

Underneath my uncertain fear, my cheeks flamed with embarrassment at my inability to stand up to this determinedly frightening man. What was he playing at? What did he mean, lucky day?

Remember, you can Shout, I repeated to myself over and over. Yes. If it came to it, I could shout and run.

We turned a few times, and eventually a dull light revealed itself, far ahead in the gloom.

Another turn, and it brightened marginally, and in the face of it, my heart rate quickened and I found my voice.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked as steadily as I could manage.

Skjor remained silent, and continued to lead me toward the light.

Calm down, I commanded myself. You need your wits about you. Breathe.

I breathed. I forced myself to take the slow, deliberate breaths of my teachings. You are a bard. You can talk your way out of anything.

I glanced around the cavern Skjor led me into; scoured the corners and pools of shadow for possible exit points. There was another tunnel to the left I could run into, but I would need to procure the light first - a lantern, flickering away on the ledge of a great stone basin next to...

I gasped and tried to recoil, but Skjor's grip on my wrist tightened even more.

"Steady," he schooled in a drawl. "You don't want to startle her."

I barely heard him. My entire focus was trained on the beast standing behind the stone basin. It was tall, dark, and furred, with ears pinned back against its skull and a snarling maw in which sharp teeth were bared. One shining white tooth dripped a glob of something as I stared. Its shoulders were impossibly wide, wider even than Farkas'; its arms were heavily corded, and its thick, knobbly fingers ended in claws the size of a bear's.

But its eyes - terrible eyes - burning gold, reflecting the glare of the lantern between us, trained on me and daring me to run.

Skjor urged me closer to the creature.

"Celeste," he warned in a paternal, patronising tone, "this is what strength looks like."

I shook my head in disbelief. "It's a werewolf," I stuttered quietly. "It will tear our throats out. Please, get us out of here," I stammered.

The creature growled; a low, displeased sound.

"Show some respect," Skjor tugged me closer to the stone basin and pressed a hand to my shoulder to make me kneel by its side. "You don't recognise your own shield-sister?"

I landed hard on my knees, but didn't feel the jarring pain; I couldn't look away from the looming werewolf across the basin. "Shield-sister?" I whispered incredulously. This creature was Aela?

"Aela has agreed to be your forebear," Skjor released my shoulder but kept a loose hold of my wrist; another warning in itself. The werewolf's – Aela's – eyes never left me; the glinting orbs rose and fell in time with its heaving breaths.

When I didn't answer, Skjor's grip tightened again. "A choice is before you, Celeste," he said through clenched teeth. "Should you accept the beast blood, Aela and I will teach you to master it and you will have that which you desire; the strength of a warrior, to appear before the Greybeards."

He released my wrist and I gasped with relief, grabbing it and rubbing at what would be a bruise by morning – if I lived that long.

"Or," he took a step away, then another, and then turned, to stand beside the waiting werewolf. When his eyes met mine, they flashed gold for a second. This time I knew it wasn't a trick of the sun.

Skjor was one as well – a werewolf. I could never have imagined it, but it explained so much – their manner toward me, their talk of knowing one's place, their hatred of my music for calming their nerves-

I closed my eyes in realisation, as the truth resounded in my chest. They were all werewolves. Kodlak, Vilkas and Farkas yearned for my performances for the very reason that Aela and Skjor despised them.

And now Skjor, of all people, was asking me to become one of them? Why?

"Or what?" I asked softly and made myself face him.

He grinned; a toothy leer, then he raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Or, you run."

Skjor left the rest unsaid. There was no need to explain; I understood at once. If I ran, Aela would chase me. She would catch me. And she would tear me to pieces.

Tears welled in my eyes and I shook my head. There was no choice here; I had to go along with them, or die. "Why are you doing this? I will leave the Companions, if that's what you want, just-"

The werewolf-Aela growled more impatiently than before as it swept a huge, clawed arm forward.

Skjor barked a laugh. "It's too late for that now, sweetheart. You know our secret," he added, in a lower voice. "Either you are with us, or you are food."

I shook away tears of frustration and gripped the side of the basin, to steady myself. "Fine!" I cried, dashing my tears hastily before they could fall on their own. "Turn me into one of you. If I want to live, I have no choice."

Surprise crossed Skjor's features, but it was gone almost at once as he turned to look up to Aela. "Well. You heard her," he spoke up victoriously. "Let her drink from you."

The beast took a step closer to the basin and raised her front limb swiftly. I turned my eyes down and fought the urge to vomit as she tore her claw across her arm and spilled her own blood.

I watched in horror as the trails of ruby liquid dripped, shimmering in the lantern light as they trickled down into the basin.

"Drink," Skjor commanded.

I cast him a wide-eyed glance as bile rose in my throat. If I drank that, I would throw up, of this I was certain.

"Once the beast blood takes you," he droned, "Kodlak and his weakened pups will see it is futile to suppress its call."

Dread swept through me. So this was Skjor's game. He wanted to punish his shield-siblings.

You wanted to be strong, and quickly, didn't you, I tormented as I watched my pale hand reach into the basin and gather a half-handful of the thick blood. Now you will be.

I raised my hand and sniffed the irony liquid quickly; its pungent tang made me want to heave.

But before I could lift the drink to my mouth, a tormented howl echoed through the cavern, and an enormous, furred blur of muscle crashed into me.