Chapter 28: All Towers Must Topple

By nightfall the raid was over, and the price for Farkas and Aela's orgy of vengeance been paid.

The Silver Hand had swept through Jorrvaskr like a plague, but their intention had not been to fight us. That had been clear from the start, or we might have all been brought down in a matter of minutes. Those who had emerged from the underforge with torches blazing and arms at the ready had scattered, rather than charging for us as a front as an attacking army would have done, confusing those waiting to meet them.

They did not mean to eradicate us, for who would be left to taunt if they did? No, they were here on another purpose; to steal the fragments of Wuuthrad, the Companions' sacred axe forged by Ysgramor's son, which the Companions had been returning piece by piece.

The order was evidently not to kill on sight, but to attack any who got in the way of their goal.

I glanced to the wall, not really seeing the space where Wuuthrad's pieces had been set, recalling bitterly that an hour ago, it had almost been complete.

That the axe even mattered, in light of the night's true losses.

I shuddered a breath, utterly exhausted, with Silver Hand blood drying on my clothes and skin. My hands were clasped around the limp, lifeless hand of Kodlak Whitemane. I stared down to his peaceful face searching for guidance, willing him to say something. To open his eyes; to just breathe.

Nothing happened, and I clenched my eyes closed. Everywhere I looked caused pain. I had closed Kodlak's eyes when I had knelt by him earlier. They were not going to reopen.

A vice gripped my chest as I squeezed his hand again, willing, praying for him to return the pressure. Was it hopeless to imagine it possible for a strength of spirit such as his might still recover, after all this time?

I witnessed the death-blow that had sealed his fate, yet again; a cruel replay in my head as an emotionless force within tried to make me acknowledge what I had seen. It had been as fast as the strike that had killed my own father; a sure stab from the side that none of us had seen coming.

I felt the weight of Kodlak's sudden departure now as I had my father's, as I had knelt over him that night at the Blue Palace. My eyes, though clenched closed, were clear, and my tears unshed, though I didn't repress what I felt for a second. It was as though any tears that might have gathered had been stunned into withdrawal.

Time took on a strange, dream-like quality. Everything about the battle had been so fast – so frantic and furious – and then Kodlak had been attacked. I had seen red, but when I had turned back to him, hoping to see Kodlak being attended to by my shield-siblings, it had not been the case.

He had died while I had been fighting. Time had slowed down when I had staggered and crashed to my knees beside him.

And now, time had stopped. This might be a single moment in a hazy second I had found myself trapped in, and if only I could find some way to make time resume ticking, Kodlak might breathe again. But I knew not how to escape it.

I saw and heard nothing until a presence joined me; shifted beside me. A knee brushed my leg. Large hands encased and held mine around Kodlak's; the rough calluses on the fingers and palms scratchy as they quaked, and squeezed.

"How did this happen?" he spoke – begged – in a voice full of unrestrained suffering.

The accent was familiar. It held a tiny, flickering light of recognition to my senses, tugging me back from the repetitious abyss I stood before, and anchoring me to the ruthless world of those who were left behind.

I turned and saw Vilkas, travel-weary and worn in body, with his handsome face twisted and furrowed into an anguished mask of terror. I met his tear-filled, silvery eyes, and stared.

What else he was saying? I could see his lips moving, but could hear no words being spoken. Perhaps he said nothing, and his lips quivered on their own accord.

My thoughts began to catch up to where I was. Wasn't he away? His hands felt real. But no. Vilkas was travelling. Perhaps the past hour had been nothing but a horrific dream, and soon I would wake and rush into the common area to find Kodlak at his desk, writing in his journal and smiling gently as I sat by him.

"Is that really you?" I whispered hoarsely, squinting through the hazy gloom. "You're back?"

He said nothing at first, but lowered his eyes. After a shuddering exhale, he replied with, "Yes. But, too late, it seems."

It was unfair of me to think it, but I agreed with him. If only you had been here an hour sooner, I thought. My unspoken barb whipped me back to the now as my blood surged through my ears at the injustice, the horrible timing of his return. Where were you, I wanted to scream at him, but I couldn't find the will or voice to do so.

And it would do no good to rage at poor Vilkas. He had been exactly where he should have been, and had succeeded if the lumpy sack on his other side contained what I thought it did.

"You did it?" my gaze flitted from the bag, back to my shield-brother. "You retrieved-?"

Vilkas shook his head emphatically, shaking away his tears in the process as he squeezed my – and Kodlak's – hands again more urgently. "Don't," his voice was all command, broken by a choke. "Not now. Tell me what happened here," he ordered with an edge of desperation.

"They came for Wuuthrad," I told him in a voice that cracked and scorched my throat. I swallowed heavily, dryly, looking back to the empty wall where its pieces had sat, seeing the blankness properly this time, and recalling those agonising final moments with vicious clarity.

Vilkas was waiting for his response; his eyes expectantent and impatiently fixed on me.

He had to know all of what had happened. Now he was here, he could help track them and deliver a truer, swifter vengeance to the Silver Hand.

"They could have killed us all," I wavered as my focus drifted back to Kodlak's serenity; his weathered face and silvery-white whiskers. He was a true Nord warrior, even in death. He had died in battle, and was worthy of direct admittance to Sovngarde. His eyes, closed, and his face so calm, gave him the impression of one sleeping. He had always seemed to regret that he had been unable to rest.

And now he never would. His soul was condemned to Hircine's hunting ground, because we had not been able to cure their curse before this horrible night had fallen.

This thought brought the tears to my eyes. This was worse, far worse than my father's murder, for while it had been horrible, I had at least known that my beloved father would ascend to an afterlife his soul deserved.

Whereas Kodlak had suffered a lengthy sentence, and was still to be denied his solace. I gasped out a sob, wrenching my hands free of Vilkas and leaning over Kodlak's body; burying my face in his chest. "They killed him, and they killed Ria!" I cried. "It was over so quickly," I burst out in the quiet mead hall as my heart wailed and my chest heaved; but while they pooled, no tears fell.

–

We burst into Jorrvaskr once we realised where the Silver Hand were headed. I stepped into the recess where the accounts book and gold were stowed at night, for cover. I lifted my bow, glancing about for my shield-siblings. I had no idea what had become of Farkas or Aela, but Kodlak had raced into the mead hall before me and I would keep with him.

The hall was full of foreign bodies and chaos. Not only Silver Hand, but also Whiterun guards from Dragonsreach, alerted by the sounds of battle, who had joined in the fray at the defence of the Companions.

The Silver Hand's focus seemed to be on defending two men. My sights fell to them; my arrow trained. There was a small man, possibly a Breton, on the shoulders of a larger Nord. The smaller was taking the fragments of Wuuthrad from their setting, hurriedly passing each down to the man supporting him. The Nord was subsequently, unceremoniously stuffing the precious fragments into a backpack.

There was a cry closer by, and I fired on one of the defenders of these men; a woman, running straight for Kodlak with her axe raised. My arrow struck her cheek and propelled her sideways; Kodlak delivered a finishing blow to her temple as he pushed past her toppling form.

Drawing another arrow, I placed it with shaking hands and watched as Ria and Torvar tore through the line of defence, preceding Kodlak. The invaders scattered, darting out of arm's reach, and I fired upon another as he leaned back against a side table. This time my arrow found its mark; impacting the side of the man's chest. He fell, gasping and clutching the arrow shaft with wide eyes and blood-soaked lips as he coughed. Nobody paid him any mind; neither to help nor to finish him off. I averted my eyes with cold clarity as I raised my bow once more; the man was no longer a threat.

Kodlak was before the pair stealing the almost-completed Wuuthrad. He roared, swinging his battle axe with his whole body into the side of the Nord supporting the Breton man. The larger man tried to dodge, but it was no use. The blow landed; the man crumpled, and the smaller man who had been on his shoulders agilely leapt away, using the larger man's fall to propel him out of reach.

The Harbinger swung again; his axe came down across the Nord's skull, shattering it. There was a scream; the Breton had been leapt upon by Ria. She had pinned his arm to the table he had landed on with her dagger. The pair grappled and I aimed, knowing that it was useless to fire when they were so close to each other. I couldn't risk hitting her. She could handle one man.

I set my sights back on Kodlak and his surrounds. The Harbinger reached down, retrieving the pack containing the fragments of Wuuthrad from the grasp of the dead Silver Hand. In the corner of my vision, I saw Ria finally drive her sword down, spearing the Breton through his chest. She leapt off the table as she tugged it free with a grunt of effort.

The end of the mead hall was clear, and with the immediate danger over, I lowered my bow.

I would regret doing so for the rest of my life.

At some signal that nobody perceived, three figures descended on Kodlak, and another two on Ria.

A man drove a great sword into the side of Kodlak's armour, through one of the seams where only padding and fur covered his flesh. The Harbinger tried to swing, despite the sword piercing him, but a second Silver Hand grabbed his axe and tugged it from his grip, throwing it across the room as the first, with his sword still stuck in Kodlak's side, punched him across the temple. The third attacker grabbed the backpack containing the fragments and bolted. Ria's attackers drove her back onto the table that she had speared the Breton on, and drove their blades into her chest and torso. She didn't have time to counter them before she was run through; she didn't even have time to scream.

In the flickering hearthlight of the mead hall, Kodlak's attacker's teeth glinted as he twisted his sword, and drove it harder into Kodlak's side, yelling something about putting an old dog down. The sword tip burst through the other side of Kodlak's body; a spray of his blood accompanying it, driven out by the force of the blow.

It all happened so fast, in the space of a single breath; a matter of three agonising seconds.

"We have it!" the one who had grabbed the bag screamed over the din. "Fall back!" he commanded. The one who had thrown Kodlak's axe retreated, and he with the great sword began to tug it out of the Harbinger's frame.

"FUS!" I found my voice and screamed at Kodlak's attackers, throwing my bow and arrow to the floor with a clatter and propelling myself over tables and chairs as I ran toward them.

Kodlak had crumpled to the ground, unmoved by my thu'um. My shout projected the one who had stuck him away from his side. The mead hall began to empty in a flurry of blurred, darting forms; Ria's attackers left her on the table, with both of their swords still driven through the Imperial's form, pinning her lifeless and bleeding body on top of the Breton man she had slain.

The man I had FUS'd crashed down with a cry of pain, landing awkwardly on his back across the edge of a table with a sharp 'CRACK'. His bloodied great sword clanged down onto the tabletop beside him.

I leapt up the stairs to the landing and then leapt again onto the man, straddling his chest and arms as I lifted his great sword in both my hands and pressed the blade to his neck.

"You are a dead man," I snarled at him, tightening my thighs around him as he tried to throw me away. "Tell me where your people are taking Wuuthrad, and I'll make it quick."

The man stopped struggling as I reinforced my hold on his sword, pressing the blade more firmly against his throat and steading it with the flat of my palm, uncaring, unfeeling if the blade sliced me as the adrenaline swelled through my veins like a vicious storm.

"Speak!" I commanded in a voice full of authority, backed by the soul of a dragon.

He stared up at me, perplexed for an instant before his dark brown eyes narrowed. "You're not a dog – ah," he realised, adopting a vicious sneer. "The Companion's pet dragon," he spat at me. I didn't even flinch as the glob of warm saliva landed on and then trailed down my cheek. "I'm not telling you anything, you traitorous bitch."

"Then you will be turned," I roared. "And once you have transformed, we will take you to your kind, who will mete out the justice you deserve!" I added icily. "You either die now, by your own sword, or serve Hircine eternally after your colleagues have tortured you."

The man had little courage. After another struggle where he tried to kick me off him, I gave up on trying to reason with him and called for Farkas. I knew that wherever he was, he would hear me.

"Don't turn me into one of them!" he screeched.

"Then TALK!" I leaned over him, close to his face; my eyes flashing with fury. "Tell me where they are taking Wuuthrad."

He flinched. Behind me, a world away, I made out the dismayed cries and screams of several of my shield-siblings.

"Driftshade," he whispered; his eyes flickering with fear as he licked his lips. "They're in Driftshade."

There was no way to tell whether what he said was true, but it was enough to seal his fate. If he lied, then Farkas and Aela would sniff them out.

Wordlessly, I pushed the sword down, slicing through the man's throat, uncaring of the warm blood and gore spilling over my hands and knees and splashing across my cheek.

The Silver Hand man screamed and then convulsed, and then stilled, but I didn't care, or regret the pain I was causing him. He would pay for what his kind had done, and then he would feel no more.

–

My stomach heaved at the thought of killing that desperate man and inflicting such pain. I had never done anything so horrible, so wilfully torturous, in my entire life. What had I become since I had left Solitude? If I were to look in a mirror, would I recognise myself? I still could not feel regret for the life I had taken; only a subdued horror that such actions had even been possible – which was worse.

"Celeste," Vilkas rumbled in a low voice, grasping for my shoulders, encouraging me to rise.

I did not make it easy for him to move me, but when he bodily drew me from Kodlak's frame and turned me swiftly to face him, I whipped my attention to him; my eyes blazing and full of wavering tears, angry that he had drawn me back.

"I FUS'd the murderer across the mead hall," I told him darkly, grabbing his arms and twisting my shoulders violently so Vilkas would let me go. Despite my fury I was no match for him, and he didn't relinquish his hold. I narrowed my eyes in challenge as I wavered in his grasp, on the verge of using FUS against him.

"Celeste," Vilkas repeated more clearly, shaking me a little so I would claw back out of my haze. "Now is not the time for stories, but for action," he squared me; quaking with restraint.

His words were as good as a slap to the face. I stared up in anguish, wishing he was anywhere but before me demanding answers. My lower lip quivered as I nodded.

"Where are Aela, and my brother?" he interrogated in a rush.

I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," I whispered. They could have been steps from me, for all I was aware.

"Find them," he barked, releasing my shoulders. He stood, but his hard eyes remained on Kodlak. "Bring them to me."

I sank back on my heels as my hands fell limply into my lap. Glancing at Kodlak, I felt the will to move seep out of me. "Vilkas, please," I choked. "Don't blame them for this."

"Why in Shor's name would I blame them?" he thundered.

I bit my tongue and clenched my eyes closed. He hadn't known. He hadn't been here. I shouldn't have said anything. He would blame them, for everything, once he knew.

I stood, clenching my fists by my sides so I wouldn't reach for him. I let my eyes do the imploring. My mind drew a blank, when I should have been able to summon words of consolation, or found some means to soften what our shield-siblings had done in Skjor's memory. How was it that when it mattered, my training failed me?

"Now is not the time to be divided," I spoke finally, in a low voice. "I will go find them, but please – remember that."

He took a step back from me; his eyes flickering over me in what seemed like fear. Then he glanced away swiftly, searching the mead hall. "I should never have left," he murmured regretfully, kneeling by Kodlak's side again.

Fury shot through me, and I shifted past him in a rush.

You should have been here, I thought again. It was unfair, but I could not help but think it. He could have kept Farkas and Aela in line. He could have stopped the Silver Hand. He could have saved Ria, who had so admired him, and Kodlak, who was like a father to us all.

Internally, I screamed at myself to stop thinking such things. Had I not just told Vilkas that now was not the time to be divided? Casting blame was no way to achieve unity.

I drifted around the room, searching for Farkas and Aela. Ria's body had been laid out on the other side of the hearth, and Athis was bent over her, sobbing into her chest with his hand clenched around her limp one.

She had been so young; so brave, and had been cut down so cruelly. I wavered at her feet, glancing over her peaceful face, remembering how she had always been the first to offer a smile; the first to call out hello. I had gravitated toward her bright, confident, welcoming presence.

Swallowing thickly, I averted my eyes and shuffled on. Vilkas had given me a job.

I located Farkas sitting in a darkened corner of the mead hall. His head was downturned, on his knees; his long, inky hair obscuring his face like a sweat-and-gore slicked veil of mourning. There was blood on his armour, and streaks of it on what I could see of his skin, but I doubted any of it was his.

Kneeling before Farkas, I reached out to him. Whatever else was going through his head, he would have sensed my approach. He startled when I made contact, but didn't raise his head or bark at me to leave. I persisted, sweeping his hair gently aside and tucking it behind his ears.

"Hey," I whispered. It came out as a rasp. "Vilkas is home."

Farkas grunted, lifting his head far enough to glance at me from under his dark brows. He regarded me from swollen eyes and his war-paint had been washed away entirely, but I saw no tears in his silvery depths now. I lowered my hands to his legs, not wanting to break contact now that I had gotten a response from him.

"Where?" he grumbled softly.

"He's with Kodlak. He wants you and Aela to go to him."

Guilt shot through Farkas' eyes, and he leaned back slowly, nodding as his mouth formed a flat line. His focus drifted to the centre of the mead hall, where Kodlak had been laid out; where his brother now knelt. His larynx bobbed as he swallowed.

"Do you know where Aela is?" I asked him quietly. I didn't want to face her, but I would do as I had been asked.

Again, Farkas nodded, but his eyes were still on Vilkas. "Don't you go near her. I'll bring her. Go back to my brother," he murmured.

I felt too foggy to refuse him. I rose and sauntered back to Kodlak, kneeling on the other side, across from Vilkas.

"They're on their way," I told him softly.

He didn't answer; maybe he nodded, but I didn't see any acknowledgement. He spoke, but only to Kodlak, in a quiet voice with the old warrior's hand clasped in his.

"It is not too late for us yet, master," he was saying, his voice shaking with a passion of hope. "I have the heads of the Glenmoril witches. All we need is Wuuthrad restored. I won't give up now."

With a pang I realised that, had the Silver Hand not attacked, the Circle would have been closer than ever to realising their cure. We could have been celebrating Vilkas' return at this moment.

Lifting my hand to Kodlak's brow, I smoothed the fine, silvery hair at his temples back and listened to the rumble of Vilkas' voice. Could Kodlak still be saved? It seemed as though Vilkas thought so.

"And I swear to you that I will reclaim it, for your soul, and ours," Vilkas went on in a choked murmur. "You will be free. We will meet again, in Sovngarde, as it should be."

Only silence met Vilkas' promise, for I didn't dare ask how Kodlak might still be saved. We stayed by him in silence until the tread of boots approaching drew us each from our quiet vigils.

Aela and Farkas drew to a halt. They were at Kodlak's feet, standing as though they were on trial. In the corner of my eye I saw Vilkas let go of Kodlak's hand, and rise slowly to meet them.

I prayed to the Divines that he would embrace them; that what remained of the Circle would not allow what had passed to divide them again.

But of course, it was not to be. Their inner wolves, when challenged, would allow them neither rest nor comfort.

"Tell me how this happened," Vilkas commanded in a growl, his fists clenching.

Farkas looked so ashamed that it physically pained me to look at him. Aela, ever defiant, raised her chin. Her green eyes flashed yellow and I was surprised that she didn't bare her teeth at Vilkas when she spat her answer at him; "I will not regret what I have done."

"Explain," Vilkas demanded swiftly.

She told him everything with dissent thick in her manner and choice of words. She told him, unashamedly, of how she and Farkas had hunted, every night he had been away, bent on eradicating the Silver Hand plague responsible for torturing and murdering Skjor; who would have killed her as well, had Farkas not found her in time. I had known that she had never agreed with Kodlak and the brothers choice to pursue a cure, and it was evident as ever in the way she allowed her beast-blood to form her responses to Vilkas. Where they abhorred, she thrived.

"If I must regret, it is only that we weren't thorough enough," Aela grit her teeth in conclusion.

Vilkas was quiet and still with his focus fixed on Aela. I was glad that I couldn't see his eyes, for I knew they would be full of blazing fury that might burn anyone who got in his way.

After a significant silence, Vilkas turned his head slightly to regard his brother.

"Do you have anything to add?" he asked in the same, low voice he had commanded Aela in.

Farkas seemed to feel the brunt of Vilkas' glares, whereas Aela hadn't budged under them. He lowered his eyes and shook his head.

Without a word of reproof or otherwise, Vilkas turned and strode toward the living quarters.

"Vilkas?" Farkas called out, looking up hastily.

"Let him go," Aela muttered spitefully.

Propelled by a sudden, desperate force within me – to stop him, and whatever he was going to do – I scrambled to my feet and dashed after Vilkas.

"Celeste?" Farkas' call was even more confused this time.

I didn't acknowledge. My feet clattered down the stairs; I flung open the doors to the living area, and saw Vilkas turning the corner into the hall that led to his private quarters.

"Wait!" I called out, breathless.

I burst into the hallway. He had stopped in his tracks, his back to me and his frame trembling with pent-up emotion, tall and taut, and ready to snap.

I skidded to a halt, alone with Vilkas' suppressed fury, his suppressed beast.

He just stood there, shuddering, waiting for me to speak, his head half-turned as though he had meant to acknowledge me over his shoulder, but had decided against it partway through the action.

"Just – wait," I breathed deeply, not realising that I had been holding it. "You said you didn't want my stories, but you must let me tell you this. Before I killed Kodlak's murderer, I made him tell me where they were going with Wuuthrad."

"You what?" he growled.

Vilkas turned around; his eyes narrow and glinting at me, reflecting the light of the hall lanterns.

I stood taller; conversely, his reaction had dispelled my anxiety. He would not attack me. I had faced his wolf in the underforge. He had saved me then. He could control it. And now, he was speaking and listening to me.

"Driftshade," I told him with more confidence. "Before I...ended him, he told me they were in Driftshade."

Vilkas stormed forward. I thought he was going to grab my shoulders and braced myself for his rough hold, but instead, he wrapped his arms around me fiercely, clasping a hand to the back of my head.

He tugged me urgently, protectively, to land against his chest. "Why?" he asked me in a desperate hiss.

I froze, my arms bundled up in front of me; startled by his embrace considering the number of times I had stopped myself from doing the same because I had assumed Vilkas didn't do hugs.

"Why were you fighting them at all?" he elaborated, imploring; trembling. "You could have died," he pulled back. His large hands settled on my arms as he ducked down and fixed me with distressed, silvery orbs. "Then where would Skyrim be?"

The shock was catching up to him; that was abundantly clear. But he was so full of sorrow that I felt my eyes fill with tears as I watched the strength before me slowly crumble.

"Shield-brother, listen to what I'm saying," I whispered, determined to pull him through this. There was no point in answering why I had been fighting - I was a Companion. He had not seen how far I had come over the two weeks he had been gone, so I would have to excuse his doubts of my abilities until I could show him otherwise. "They're taking Wuuthrad to a place called Driftshade. I heard what you said upstairs, to Kodlak," I brought my hands up, resting them in the crook of his elbows in an attempt to soothe the torment. "If it truly is not too late...until we act, his soul is bound to Hircine."

It might have been cruel to remind him, but it had the desired effect. The change to his countenance was difficult to perceive; a gradual shift from distress to resolve. But the change did happen, and soon he stood tall, taking a step back as his eyes cleared of sorrow.

"Driftshade," he echoed in a quiet voice. "I do not know of it. But, I have a map, in my room, that might."

He turned and I followed unhesitatingly into his sanctuary. It was a relatively small room, of similar size to my bedroom in Breezehome. There were chairs beside a desk with a few sheets of paper, a few letters, some quills and ink and a neat pile of books on it; a short bookshelf beside it, piled with more in orderly columns of tomes and stacked in a way that made best use of the space. Across the room was a privacy screen, to separate his work space from a sleeping area; through the gaps in the screen I could see a bed, made up for sleep, but never truly slept in, and with a disused quality about it given he'd been away for two weeks. On his dresser was a bowl of odd, segmented, glowing eggs of some kind – spoils of some quest or other – and a couple of bags of gold. It did not seem to be just a room to work in, but a place that Vilkas had impressed an orderly, stoic, efficient human part of himself on.

Vilkas grabbed a large, rolled parchment from the top of the bookshelf and turned to his desk, uncoiling it and placing a book on each side to keep it from curling back on itself.

I stood perpendicular to him, my hands on the table, and we searched in silence. I prayed to the Divines that this Driftshade, be it a camp or a ruin, would actually be marked.

"There," Vilkas reached out, pressing his finger to a point south east of Dawnstar. "Driftshade Refuge. An old fort."

I confirmed for myself, nodding. I felt a little faint at the prospect of journeying so far north. "All right. Let's go."

"You're not coming with me," Vilkas stood up, busy replacing his books and re-rolling the map.

"I am going with you," I corrected him quietly, willing him to look at me, but he didn't; turning and replacing his map on the bookshelf idly. "For Kodlak, I am going with you," I insisted in a louder voice.

Vilkas remained facing his bookshelf, but sighed to the ceiling; his shoulders falling as he did so. "You have no armour. You will need to sleep, whereas I will not. Your housecarl will insist on coming with us, and the Jarl will not approve of his Thane leaving Whiterun without a word. Furthermore," he turned finally, fixing me with a pleading expression. "You are Farkas' only hope, should I fail, and," he sighed to the floor, then added in earnest as he glanced up; "I...cannot bear the thought of you being put in harm's way again."

"There is no time to argue," I stood taller, dismissing the personal, somewhat selfish nature of his admissions. "I am your shield-sister. I saw Kodlak and Ria run through by the Silver Hand, and I am going to Driftshade Refuge.

"Furthermore," I whispered pointedly. "You need me to keep your wolf at bay. I will not abandon you to suffer your demon on your own."

He fixed me with a searching glare, which I bore the whole of, stilled and determined. This was what it was to call oneself a Companion; to ensure your shield-siblings didn't have to carry out their quests alone. Farkas had helped Aela avenge Skjor; now I would help Vilkas avenge Kodlak and Ria.

Suddenly, Vilkas strode past me.

"You're right," he replied gruffly, retrieving a great sword from a shadowed weapon rack I'd not perceived earlier; unsheathing the sword at his hip and replacing it with this new, I assumed sharper one. "There is no time to argue. If you can keep up with me, I cannot stop you from doing what you believe to be right. As for what we must do," he glanced darkly at me over his shoulder. "We are without a master to keep check of our consciences any longer."

His last did not feel like his words; they were too futile and desolate, as though said only to remind me of what he was capable of becoming if left unchecked.

If anything, he only made me more determined. He would need me to keep him from transforming.

But challenging the wolf would not do. I lowered my head to him in respect. "If you would lead; I will follow you," I told him truthfully.

Silence met my pronouncement and the solemn weight behind it. I yearned for him to understand that he was not alone, and wanted to remind him of his duty to stay alive; not only as a shield-sibling and as my teacher, but as Kodlak's second. Vilkas had been managing the day to day business of the Companions for some time now, if the accounts book was anything to go by, and it would be expected, when the dust settled, that he become Harbinger. He would lead the Companions, so long as he lived, and we would follow him when he ascended.

A short sword entered my vision. I glanced up to Vilkas with wide eyes, to face a grim expression and discomforted gaze. He was holding the sword out to me.

"If you take this," he told me with heavy certainty, "then you must follow me. If I tell you to hide, or to run, or to leave me, you do not argue, but act. Do you swear it?"

I nodded, accepting the handle and gripping it, searching about myself for somewhere to sheath it. "I swear it."

Vilkas stepped closer and sighed, taking the sword again and hooking it through a loop in my belt. "Until you have your armour, you wear it here," he murmured.

"Thank you," I replied, flushing. Could I stop by Breezehome to retrieve my Legion armour without troubling Lydia? Doubtful. She would not like this. I was covered in Silver Hand blood. But, as well as retrieving the only armour I owned, I could not leave without telling her where I was going, and why she couldn't come with me.

Vilkas strode toward the hallway. "Pack provisions for a five day journey. Bring what potions you can source. I will..." he hesitated. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling again. "Our shield-siblings will need some...instructions," he chose a word, grimacing distastefully at it. "Meet me at the stables in half an hour."

I hastened after him. "I'll be there."

–

Before returning to Breezehome, I changed out of my blood-soaked clothing and into some common garb I found in one of the dormitory dressers, and retrieved my discarded bow and quiver from the mead hall. There was no time for a bath, but under the cover of night and at the speed I maintained, I doubted any would notice the dried blood on my hands and face.

Lydia noticed everything, however, and the moment I stepped through the door she was before me, hugging me tightly.

"Where were you?" she whispered fiercely, holding me close and exhaling a low breath over the top of my head. "They are saying that Jorrvaskr was attacked?"

I nodded, gently extricating myself from her. "Sorry. There's no time to tell you everything, I leave in under half an hour. Will you help me get ready?" I asked swiftly, moving toward the stairs.

"You're hurt," Lucia said in a small, shaky voice, looking up with wide, fearful eyes from her seat at the kitchen table. From the state of the table, they had been taking dinner when I had barged in.

I shook my head as I walked past her. "I'm unharmed."

"Then you're sad," she insisted swiftly, but still remained where she was, rooted to her chair.

I answered from the bottom of the stairs. "Some of the Companions were killed," I told her in a quiet voice, meeting Lydia's confused green eyes as I said it. "Vilkas and I are going after those who did it."

I bounded up the stairs, with Lydia at my heels. I expected a fight, but my housecarl surprised me.

"How can I help?" she asked flatly.

Thank the Gods for Lydia. "I need armour, food, drink, potions..." I trailed off, locating my pack in the chest at the end of my bed and flinging it onto the covers.

"Your armour is in the bottom drawer," she told me, ducking down to tug it open. "But, it's a little conspicuous."

"It will do," I knelt down and tugged the Legion cuirass out. "I have no other."

Lydia cursed. "The Jarl's armour orders don't usually take this long to fulfil. It must be on account of the war."

I agreed, standing, and stripped down to my smalls. I scrubbed my face and arms briefly from the bowl of water on the dresser; grimacing as my face cloth came away rusty with dried blood.

Lydia said nothing, though her eyes lingered on the murky water.

"Can you find something I can wear under my armour?" I asked to distract her as I washed myself again. "It's going to be cold."

She shook herself and retrieved a padded under tunic and thick leggings from the top drawer, passing both to me.

"Where exactly are you going?" she asked carefully; a mild quiver the only hint of her concern.

I chucked the under tunic over my head. "A fort called Driftshade. It's near Dawnstar," I stretched into the leggings, then brought the Legion kilt up over my hips and secured the belt around my waist.

"Dawnstar?" she sounded aghast. "So far?" she lifted the Imperial cuirass up.

"Yes," I tugged it down, my hands immediately falling to tighten the side straps. My fingers worked quickly, and I recalled how Hadvar had tightened these same straps for me when I had first put this armour on. My Hadvar, who had been assigned to a garrison in the Pale, in the direction I was soon to be headed.

You have no cause to go to him, I told myself sternly, and sat on the bed, slipping into my boots. No; whether Hadvar was a mile, or half a Hold away from me, neither of us were at liberty to go the other. He had his tasks, and I, mine. The Silver Hand would pay for what they had done, and Wuuthrad would be retrieved, so that Kodlak's soul might find its peace in Sovngarde. Nothing else mattered.

Lydia spoke of food and left me to finish preparing. It didn't take me long. I unbraided and re-braided my hair more securely, twisting the plait around itself and pinning it at the back of my neck in a bun, out of my way. I sheathed the sword Vilkas had given me; put on my coat and scarf, then strapped my quiver around my shoulders, lamenting for a brief moment that there were so few arrows in it. As with my armour, it would have to do. I would retrieve more on the road.

With bow in one hand, and empty pack in the other, I rushed downstairs to find Lydia and Lucia assembling potions and food. Hastily, I stuffed what they had collected into my pack as I thanked them.

Then I threw my pack over my shoulder, my hand tightening around the strap as I stood tall and stared at them. Both Lucia and Lydia looked worried, but said nothing to hinder me.

"Well. Good bye," I swallowed thickly, blinking back tears that had unexpectedly risen at their show of mute fidelity.

Lydia frowned and encased me in a hug, and Lucia joined in a second later, wrapping her small arms around my waist tightly.

"Good luck," Lydia murmured.

"May the Divines keep you safe," Lucia spoke into my armour, where her face was pressed.

"And you," I whispered, pulling back from both and shaking away my tears as I turned to Lydia. "Would you explain to the Jarl-?"

"I will take care of it," she assured calmly, resting her hand on my arm. "You worry about nothing but keeping yourself and your shield-brother, alive."

Feeling wan, I nodded. Then I turned, unwilling to make this a long good bye, and left Breezehome.

"I don't like good byes."

The memory of Hadvar's admission pressed upon me as I stepped out into the cold night and turned left, making for the main gates that would lead to the stable.

"Better than not saying good bye at all," I reminded myself in a whisper as my teeth chattered; not from the cold, but from shock. All the good byes I had been denied were looming like shadows behind me, and I quickened my pace, determined to outrun them for just a little longer.