By the time they were done packing up their camp and preparing for the leave, the sun's rays were already sneaking over the forest floor, staining the dead leaves and dry dirt in golden-pink coloring.
Their fur cloaks were donned, their fire stifled, their bladders emptied, their waterskins filled, and then they cleared out of the forest in the direction of the path they left the day prior. On the way they picked as many snowberries as they could carry, wrapped them in leaves, and stashed them in their cloaks. It was likely they would reach an inn by evening and could break bread there with the coin they took from the bandits, but until then there would be no stopping, save to relieve themselves.
It was during the berry-picking that Vilkas and Farengar went out of earshot, heads lowered together, speaking in hushed tones—no doubt discussing Farengar's plan of action. Lynette didn't even try to eavesdrop, not that she could have even if she desired.
Farengar gave nothing away on his face when the men returned to her side, but Vilkas's countenance was noticeably darker. She tried to ignore the dread that needled her insides.
Farengar conjured two ethereal steeds, just as before. And also as before, the Siren was tied to the back end of the one Farengar rode. Disappointment was a stone in Lynette's gut, but she knew she was being ridiculous. It made zero sense for her and Farengar to share when he would need to reapply the sleeping spell on their journey. Stopping would cost them precious time.
And there was nothing wrong with riding with Vilkas…usually. Right now she couldn't shake the apprehension that he was being cold towards her.
Despite the emotional distance, Vilkas wordlessly helped her mount the steed. As if she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes for him, his callused hands took her by the waist and hoisted her up and over the back.
Not wishing to inconvenience him more than she already had, a flustered Lynette scrambled to throw her right leg over the other side and scooch down to give him space at the front. His hands stayed on her waist until he was satisfied that she was situated and wouldn't slip off, then he mounted in front of her.
Farengar watched them the entire time, silently. Lynette needn't even look; she could sense his burning gaze on her, and it oddly pleased her. But she did look, and she tossed him a smile over Vilkas's shoulder, with as much reassurance as she could muster. She didn't know why or where she got the implication he needed reassurance, but she did.
There was no reaction that she could see before he turned back around and led his steed onto the rocky path. Vilkas followed suit and Lynette sensed his stomach clench beneath her interlocked hands. His abs were rock solid and she was embarrassed she was aware of it.
There was almost total silence for the start of their journey; the only disturbance was birdsong, or an occasional fox sprinting through the bushes. Vilkas didn't even whistle, and that made Lynette believe this ordeal with her soured any friendship they had. Truly Namira was rotting everything she held dear.
The weather wasn't ideal. The sun struggled to breach the dismal clouds, causing the air to be chilly, worsened when Farengar bade them to pick up the pace. Icy breeze bit at what skin the cloak didn't cover and her teeth chattered. The sky threatened snow or rain—or both—and Lynette could only beg the Divines to have mercy. Lynette wasn't religious by any means, but today she might be.
If Lynette worried about Folkvar, she needn't have. Her brave and capable hound kept pace with the horses with ease. He seemed to be enjoying the sights, occasionally pausing to sniff flowers or animal droppings—faltering behind just long enough to make Lynette worry he would lose sight of them. Sometimes she called for him, but he never strayed too far. He knew better, and she loved him for it.
Before they crossed the Cyrodiil border, they stopped for a bathroom break. The sun was far enough along now that it must've been well past noon.
"We should stop in Falkreath until morning," Vilkas suggested, before helping Lynette back on the horse again.
"No. We push for Bruma. We can stop at the inn there, but not before. It's not worth the risk." Farengar didn't even meet his eyes, too intent on dripping water into the Siren's mouth.
They couldn't risk feeding her, but they made sure she was given enough water for survival. Lynette still hoped she might convince them to give her some berry juice so she had some kind of sustenance—there could be no punishment if she didn't survive after all—but she was having difficulty convincing the men to spare their rations for someone who stole and tried to kill them.
"I don't know about you, mage–" He emphasized the title with disdain. "–but I don't fancy falling asleep on my horse. Or being attacked by bandits again. If we ride at night, we're asking for a problem."
A sigh of long suffering tumbled from Farengar's lips. He closed his waterskin and rolled the Siren back on her stomach. "If we pick up the pace, we'll easily make it by nightfall."
"No, we won't. And you are in no position to be speaking of travel duration. How many times have you traveled, exactly?"
Lynette could sense the heated tone before Farengar even spoke. The two of them could never agree on anything, at odds like ice and fire. She nearly flinched.
"None of your business. Furthermore, who died and made you leader again? Oh, right. Nobody. I am leading this expedition, and you are being paid to accompany me, not disagree at every turn."
"If you want to go that route," he snapped. "This was not what I agreed to. I agreed to help you reacquire your magic, not go to a very dangerous shrine on a shred of a chance you can free Lynette from this hold."
"I already told you that you will be paid double."
Shame dumped a bucket of heat over her back. She was costing Farengar more Septims than she was worth at this rate.
"Some things cannot be bought." Vilkas was cool now, the manner of someone with the upperhand, and his words were serrated like a blade. "Pay or no pay, I chose to come with for Lynette's sake. But if you think I will tolerate your arrogance and unwillingness to listen to reason, then you're sorely mistaken. We stop in Falkreath, or I walk and you can shove your coin up your arse."
She could see Vilkas's ultimatum do a number on Farengar; his visage took on a range of colors, from red with anger to shadowed with defeat. But though Farengar might be a king of ice in temperament, he was wise enough to recognize when he was at a disadvantage.
"So be it. We will stop in Falkreath, but we leave at first light." His jaw muscles twitched as he smoothly hauled himself onto his steed, back facing Vilkas now. Nonetheless, his voice carried with its resounding undertone of threat. "But if anything happens, it's on you, and I will make sure you know it."
"Fine by me."
And then they were off again.
It went without saying that their trip to Falkreath was a tense one. Where the silence before was awkward but light, this one was thick and needling. Lynette felt like she was poised on a knife's tip; one wrong word or move and she would slip, no doubt with blood drawn. Figuratively, she hoped.
Farengar may have relented, but he was not pleased about it. His jaw never relaxed, and his spine was a rigid line—it didn't take an empath to sense his temper bubbling below the surface. Lynette was sure not to speak to him, fearing he would take it out on her. Not that she truly believed he would, but better to tip-toe eggshells then end up crying.
Vilkas's mood wasn't any brighter. He stewed, occasionally muttering something unintelligible underneath his breath. It clearly wasn't intended for her and she dared not ask what he said. She missed his whistling though; a tune would take the edge off the tension.
She admired nature instead, as she chewed a thin layer of skin off her bottom lip, but that became boring quickly. One could only see a tree that looked the exact same as the last hundred, or fifty red mountain flowers before one desired a change of scenery. And unfortunately time ticked by achingly slow. She felt as if they'd been riding for hours, but the sun barely moved an inch in the sky.
Folkvar made it bearable with his antics, but he eventually became bored as well. Not even a butterfly could tempt his curiosity and he stuck to trailing behind the horses, his tail dragging. Lynette worried the travel was wearying him, making her grateful Vilkas pushed for rest.
Folkvar sensed it before the rest of them, even beating Vilkas's wolfish hearing to the punch. Though he obviously couldn't hear, he must've felt the vibrations in his paws. His ears twitched and his spine became as strung up as a bow's string, the fur twitching uncomfortably. His growl was deep, guttural, and it scared Lynette half to death with how loud it was.
"We have comp–" Vilkas started to snarl.
It came out of nowhere, the hissing and all the legs. It sprang for Lynette and Vilkas's horse, fangs bared. All Lynette saw was too many legs, all the legs, furry brown and green.
She barely brought up her arms to block herself in time. Vilkas unleashed his sword and swung it fast, dipping into the creature's side, but it managed to sink a spindly leg-claw into the tender flesh of her arm before he could stop it.
Vilkas managed to separate them and shove the giant spider back away from her, but the force knocked her off the horse and her back hit solidity, relinquishing the air from her lungs. She saw, tasted, breathed red-hot pain.
"LYNETTE!"
Farengar.
She heard the creature shriek in agony, sword tearing through its flesh—Vilkas—but she couldn't see any of it. Her gaze was a haze so she shut her eyes and wheezed.
The wetness was there before the pain, dripping down her arm and soaking the front of her robes. Too much of it. But the pain did follow and it was immense—grooves of pulsating lightning in her skin. The very air that touched it burned. Worse, liquid fire coated her veins, spreading towards her heart.
Feet bulleted across the ground before they reached her and halted. His robes swooshed as he lowered, touching the back of his hand to her forehead. His skin was frigid compared to hers. He swore.
She cracked an eye open to see him forming a golden-white orb of magic in his palm, then in the second, before abruptly placing them to the wound on her arm. Agony exploded at the site and her body reared, a blood-curdling scream tearing from her throat.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "This will be over soon."
Never did she anticipate hearing that statement from his mouth and it did her dizziness no favors. She wanted to say it's okay, it wasn't his fault, but her tongue was too thick and her mouth too dry to form the words. She could only give a wobbly nod.
The spell knit her skewered flesh back together. She didn't watch, certain it would make her vomit if not the pain tenfold, but it felt like knitting needles crafting a complex pattern. Tugging and folding, knotting and twining. It was warm, and it hurt, but it was a good pain. Healing pain. And relief followed shortly.
She knew he was done when his palms retracted from her arm, breathing heavily like he'd run from one end of Whiterun to the other. He sagged into a sitting position and she watched him, too weak to do anything but admire the way his hair curled at the ends, damp with sweat. Between conjuring the steeds, keeping the Siren slumbering, and now healing her…it was no wonder he was exhausted.
Her body was very light as she lay there, so much so she wouldn't be surprised if she was floating on a cloud in the sky, but she knew better. Though she wished to sit up, she doubted she possessed the strength.
Where was Folkvar? Heart in her throat, she jerked her head so suddenly to face the battle that she almost passed out, but damn it, she forced herself to remain awake.
Her hound was at the rear end of the gangly arachnid, lowered in a crouch, snarling. Whenever the monster moved he would nip at its legs, inflicting shallow but many injuries that dripped the awful goo. Her heart rate soared skyward, fearing for his safety, but by some mercy the spider was more intent on Vilkas and paid Folkvar little mind.
Farengar must have sensed her terror, because he said, "He'll be fine. He's a smart hound."
That was the nicest thing he'd ever said about him.
"Could you hurry things along?" Farengar yelled at the Companion, his voice simultaneously managing to carry and sound uninterested. Then, beneath his breath, "One job, I swear."
"Could you SHUT. UP!?" Vilkas shouted right back before bellowing a mighty battle cry.
His greatsword swung in a solid arc, cleaving the spider in its back and tearing down its abdomen, cutting it practically in two in a mess of goo and horrifying squelching. It writhed, spraying its ichor, screaming in what was unmistakable anguish.
In spite of its attempts to harm them, Lynette felt sorry for its suffering. Bile climbed her throat and she rolled her head away.
Eventually the creature's noises faded, then went out like a snuffed candle, and she knew it was dead. The sound of a blade dipping into flesh grated her nerves, no doubt Vilkas giving the thing another good stabbing to be sure it was dead-dead.
Almost immediately Folkvar's wet noise nuzzled her cheek then gave it a slobbery lick. She half-sobbed, half-giggled, stretching a weak hand to pat his head.
Instability quaked her frame as she tried to sit up, grossly aware of the amount of blood that now stained her robes. There was so much. No wonder she was out of sorts.
There was scarcely enough strength in her upper body to prop herself on her elbows, but Farengar came to her aid; he put an arm around her waist while his other hand grasped the arm that wasn't injured. With his own body supporting the whole of her weight, she was able to haul herself to a sitting position, huffing.
They stayed like there, Lynette halfway in his lap, her back to his chest and his chin brushing the back of her head. Heat traversed her back with the awareness of how close they were, again. They had to stop meeting like this…
"That was unpleasant," said Vilkas, resheathing his broadsword before he trudged over to them, out of breath.
He was looking at them, but if he had a reaction to their position, he didn't express it. "I suppose it would be too convenient for this to be random, eh?"
"It went for Lynette specifically, so no."
Lynette would have called Farengar's tone apathetic, but she could have sworn she heard his heartbeat increase as he said it.
No! She needed to stop getting distracted with…whatever the hell this between them was. Namira was sending fiends after her. That was bad. That should scare her. And it did. But the mushy feelings about Farengar stuck to the inside of her ribs like burrs, refusing to be entirely forgotten.
"Namira is associated with insects," Vilkas muttered darkly.
"They're arachnids, not insects."
Lynette felt his every word, every movement, every breath as he spoke, vibrating against her back. She suppressed the impulse to shudder.
"Who gives a shit?"
"Well, you do know a lot about Daedric princes, I'll give you that. I suppose it comes with being bound to one yourself."
Vilkas wasn't taking the bait. "I've done some reading."
"I'm amazed you were taught."
He scowled. "Just because I wield a sword doesn't mean I'm an oaf. Tell me, do you take others into account when you speak, or is your head shoved so far up your arse—"
Farengar interrupted him, waving a hand. "I did not mean you were too stupid to read. Clearly you possess a semblance of intelligence, else I wouldn't have hired you. I meant I'm surprised the Companions teach reading. You've been with them since you were a boy, as I recall."
The fact that Farengar remembered that… Vilkas appeared faintly amazed, and even Lynette was astounded. Farengar was, well, a bit of an arsehole at times. It came with the career, she supposed, burrowing in Dragonsreach and pouring over tomes and maps more than he interacted with the everyday populace. His social graces were rusty, if not outright nonexistent, and he stepped on toes simply by being himself and speaking his mind.
Lynette didn't think he was bad, quite the contrary, but she did think he spared little thought of people's lives and their stories. And she was mistaken. He'd taken the time to remember what should have been a minute detail about someone that was practically a stranger. People who didn't care didn't do that.
Clearly feeling awkward, Vilkas changed the subject, stating tightly, "That creature stank of Daedric compulsion."
"Indeed. I sensed it as well."
"So she is listening."
"Seems so. And thus she sends resistance."
"I do pray she does not know of our plan…"
"Impossible, but as she is aware there is some plan and intends to keep us from her shrine… I don't think stopping in Falkreath is wise. We'll put the townsfolk in danger."
Vilkas's eyes were icy slits and a growl unfolded in his chest. "I'll admit going to Falkreath is no longer wise, but neither is brute-forcing going to Bruma. We would endanger townspeople regardless."
Farengar pursed his lips and Lynette saw his hands wind into fists. "Leaving ourselves exposed here overnight is asking for Namira to attack again."
"Bruma is bigger," Lynette piped up, stroking Folkvar's chest. "And the guard is better trained. I doubt Namira would attempt anything in such a large city." Hopefully her inclusion would dissuade further tiffs.
"With how we've been delayed, we will be traveling part of the way in the dark." Vilkas rubbed the stubble on his chin. He looked tired. "And we're exhausted. Your power pool may be broad, wizard, but even you have your limits."
"I will be fine. I have no want nor need of your concern. I could keep these horses conjured for a whole week if needed." Farengar's face screwed up in annoyance and his chin tilted subtly, while his arms tightened around Lynette, causing her heart a sputtering spell.
"But could you as well fight and offer healing if needed?"
Farengar didn't answer, but he stiffened.
"Thought so." Vilkas glanced at their prisoner, not at all smug about being in the right. "However, if our Altmer friend were to aid us–"
"Absolutely not."
"She might be willing, if offered a lesser sentence."
"Or she might attempt to burn us to death. Again."
"We won't know unless we try."
"The answer is no. Do not test me, Companion," he spat.
"We should discuss this while we're riding, instead of sitting here like ducks," Lynette suggested delicately, not wanting to trigger any tempers. But their rapidly waning light was putting her on edge. She didn't want to be clobbered by a giant spider again.
"Lynette is correct." Farengar seemed all too ready to agree. Lynette suspected that though he enjoyed a debate where he could prove the other wrong, she didn't think he enjoyed spats.
"...Fine."
Farengar's arm wound about her waist again and he helped her stand with him, then they approached the still-present steeds, together. He only released her to let Vilkas help her mount, but losing his touch made her chest ache. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, seeking the physical pain to stifle the ridiculous emotions.
Though she was only left alone on the mount for a moment, her shakiness made it a smidge treacherous. She thought she would certainly fall before Vilkas climbed up, not a moment too soon, and for once she wasn't reluctant to wrap her arms around his waist. Better to tolerate close-quarters than take another nose-dive.
Farengar saw as he went to his own horse, but surprisingly there was no snarky comment, not even a scowl—at least none he revealed. He checked that the Siren was secured, then hauled himself on with less elegance than before, and they were off again. Folkvar trotted right behind them, tongue out and tail wagging, and Lynette envied his energy reserves.
Despite the suggestion to discuss things on their trip, it was quiet again, normal quiet. Unfortunately this meant there was nothing to keep her awake. Lynette fell asleep an hour in, her head between Vilkas's shoulders, and, unbeknownst to her, with him keeping her arms in place so she wouldn't fall.