Hey look, a chapter!

Now, before you all decide you hate me (which would be entirely justified, considering how long this took me to get up), just know that I'm really sorry to have kept you all waiting. This chapter has been three-quarters of the way done since two days after the last chapter went up, but after a car wreck and an increase in hours at work (boo and yay, respectively), it got put on the backburner for a while.

So. In order to apologize, I'm posting two chapters in one night! Yay!

Hope this is worth your wait! Apologies again!

topside

Vilkas hasn't seen much of Mayenor since they reached Lakeview Manor. After they'd discovered the red-haired intruder, she had stormed out the back door of the house, and he, winking at Rayya, had been close on her heels.

He had wandered back into the main hall with Rayya, who continued preparing the fish, though her cuts were more forceful than before. Vilkas had stayed silent for a long while, brooding about the stranger. Finally, he looks at Rayya.

"Who is that guy?" He asks, trying to sound casual. The Redguard doesn't look at him, intent on cutting vegetables to go with the fish that is now cooking over the fire.

"Brynjolf," she answers, and the tone of her voice makes Vilkas think that she doesn't much like him. "I told her getting new locks wouldn't stop him. I said she should get one of her friends at the College to ward this whole place. It'd help with the giants, too, but no." Rayya grumbles to herself as though she's forgotten that Vilkas is listening intently from across the table. She snorts. "She didn't really want to keep him out. She just wanted to make a point."

"They aren't friends, then?" Vilkas presses, and Rayya looks up at him sharply, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"It's not my place to talk about Milady's friends," she says, voice clipped. "If you have questions, you can ask her yourself."

Vilkas doesn't question her anymore about Brynjolf; he doesn't need to. Rayya is obviously familiar with him, and he clearly shares some history with Mayenor; his imagination can fill in the missing pieces.

"Where should I put my things?" He asks, standing and grabbing for the rucksack he had brought in with him when they first entered the house. Rayya jerks her chin toward the stairs at his left.

"Up the stairs. There's two beds on the left side; choose one of them. There're chests you can store your things in."

He ascends the stairs slowly, still deep in thought. He's learned more about Mayenor today than he'd expected, and all it's shown him is that he knows nothing about her. And, what's worse, there are other people – other men – who know her better than he can ever hope to. Her relationship with Ralof, at least, seemed like nothing more than a friendship, but it doesn't take a seer to realize there's something more between her and Brynjolf. The fact that she wasn't happy to see him indicates that whatever they had is now in the past, but Vilkas can't help but wonder if Brynjolf got that message.

As Vilkas reaches the top of the stairs and enters the bedroom, a door at the back of the house slams shut, and he realizes that the hallway behind the bedroom holds a door to what must be a back porch. Mayenor is standing with her back to the door, frowning at the ground, and he resists the urge to ask her what's on her mind. Before he has the chance to, though, she moves into the room on the right side of the house, then down the stairs to the main hall.

"I'm going down to the lake," he can hear her tell Rayya.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. I need some time to think." There's a moment of silence. "Where's Vilkas?"

"In the spare bedroom."

"Good. Don't let him talk to Brynjolf."

Rayya voices an affirmative, and Vilkas can hear Mayenor's footsteps leading to the back of the house, then the sound of a door opening and closing once more. He lowers his pack onto a bed and begins rifling through it, stripping off his heavy armor with a low sigh of relief and exchanging it for brown breeches and a loose, linen shirt. Below him, he can hear the gentle scrape of metal against wood as Rayya stirs dinner.

He thinks back to Mayenor's instructions to keep him away from Brynjolf, and he wonders at her reasoning. For a brief moment, terror squeezes his heart: does she know that he loves her? Is she trying to prevent a fight between her actual lover and a man who yearns to hold that title?

He tries to convince himself that it's impossible, that if Farkas hasn't noticed the affection, she couldn't possibly have. But he can't shake a sick feeling of dread that's settled in his stomach, and, suddenly, the air in the manor feels thick and oppressive. He feels like a fool, to love a woman who is the greatest enigma in his life. And now, standing in a home he didn't even know she had, he feels like he's nothing more than an intruder in her life.

He moves quickly to the back door and bursts through it, sucking in the fresh air as though he hasn't breathed in hours. The door leads to a patio that runs along the back and both sides of the house; tucked against the wall to his right is a small table and two chairs, but otherwise, the porch is empty. He takes a few deep breaths and forces his muscles to relax, forces himself to admire the view and forget that he may well be drowning in unrequited love.

Across the lake, a mountain stretches into the clouds, starkly black against the fuchsia sky, and he can just make out the mammoth shapes of Bleak Falls Barrow against the darkening twilight. The lake stretches on in both directions, nicely shaded by the trees that line the bank, and Vilkas can see a dirt path that meanders down the side of the cliff on which the house sits, leading to the lake.

With a start, Vilkas realizes that someone is swimming close to the nearest shore; he squints and sees that it's Mayenor. On the shore, her clothing sits in a pile, serving as a pillow to her sword. His pulse begins to quicken. From this distance, he can't see the details of her body, but he can imagine her arms slicing through the water, her long legs trailing behind her like ribbons dangling from a package waiting to be unwrapped. He can imagine her hair, which she usually keeps pulled tightly back lest it hinder her in battle, floating around her, framing her face like an aura. He can imagine her hard stomach and thighs and forearms, and he can imagine her breasts, soft-

"Enjoying the view?"

Vilkas jumps and whirls around, hand instinctively rising to grab the hilt of a sword that isn't there. Brynjolf stands only a few feet away, watching him. Vilkas scowls.

"I didn't hear you coming."

"Stealth is particularly useful in my line of work."

"What are you, a thief?" Brynjolf's lips twitch into a half-smile, and he offers Vilkas an ironic sort of bow.

"At your service." It takes Vilkas a moment to realize that the other man is serious.

"Does she know that?" He doesn't mention her name, but they both know he's referring to Mayenor.

"Does she…?" Brynjolf stares at him for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs. Even to Vilkas, the sound is catchy and infectious; nonetheless, he eyes the other man's exposed Adam's apple and considers how easy it would be to slit his throat.

"Of course she knows I'm a thief." Brynjolf is still chuckling, and the grin with which he surveys Vilkas is infuriating. "That's how we met."

"You tried to pick her pocket?"

"Hardly." Brynjolf's grin turns affectionate as he reminisces. "I caught her stealing jewelry from one of the stalls in the marketplace. Offered her protection. Independent thieves are at a lot of risk; with the Guild, though…" He drifts off and shrugs, but Vilkas is no longer paying attention.

He, like every other person in Skyrim, has heard the rumors about the Thieves' Guild's growing strength. Their influence has always been tangible in Riften, but it has recently spread to neighboring Holds. He's even heard, once or twice, of guards in Whiterun turning a blind eye to certain peoples' crimes. The thought that Mayenor is involved with such seedy characters is an affront to his morals, and yet, somehow the news doesn't surprise him. He doesn't need to be particularly familiar with her to know that she has a few traits he considers unsavory: she has a quick temper, and, though he often uses it to his advantage, he knows it's gotten her into trouble; she possesses a blood thirst unparalleled by even his own beast blood-tainted savagery; her greed, as he realized while watching her shamelessly plunder a pile of corpses in a bandit camp, knows no bounds; and, if Torvar is to be believed – which he rarely is – she has an insatiable hunger for intimacy.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Vilkas turns his attention back to Brynjolf, who has settled against the railing and watches Mayenor, not even bothering to pretend he isn't staring.

"I hadn't noticed," Vilkas lies, forcing himself to look away from her nude form.

"You don't fool me, Companion," the thief laughs, glancing sideways at him. "What are you doing out here if not watching her bathe?"

"Making sure she's safe." His response comes too quickly to be believable, and he can see Brynjolf's smirk stretching wider.

"If you think she can't take care of herself, you're a fool." He shakes his head, eyes shining with a cautious admiration. "I've never seen a woman fight as well as that lass. Nor a man, for that matter." A frown flickers across his face as he says this. "Not any man."

There's something in the shadow that, for just a second, darkens Brynjolf's calm demeanor that makes Vilkas think there's a story behind his words, but he finds that he's not interested in hearing about the other man's exploits with Mayenor.

"She still has a lot to learn," he grunts. "She lacks a lot of technique unarmed. You get rid of her sword, she's a goner." Brynjolf's smirk returns in full force as he eyes Vilkas with a look of what seems to be contempt.

"And you're her protector, I take it?" His tone is mocking, and Vilkas bristles, fists clenching around the porch railing.

"We work together; that's it."

"Funny, that's exactly what she said." In the blink of an eye, Brynjolf is inches away from Vilkas, and, though the thief is smaller than Vilkas, he feels a cold wariness creep down his spine.

"I see the way you look at her." Brynjolf's voice is rough and low. "You're good at hiding it, but I see it. You want her."

Hearing it voiced, hearing his primal need to hold her summarized so simply, somehow makes it more real to Vilkas, and his dormant affection rages into a possessive infatuation; he scowls at the other man, roughly shoving him back a few steps.

"I don't recommend getting in my face again," he growls, and, though Brynjolf doesn't look intimidated, he has the sense not to move closer once more.

"You want to try with May? Fine, go ahead. Good luck." The thief's demeanor, usually so casual and suave, screams a challenge at Vilkas, and he squares his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height. Brynjolf is smaller and probably faster than Vilkas, and he, like Mayenor, is likely to be laden with concealed weapons, but now, with his nonexistent claim on Mayenor threatened, Vilkas is itching for a fight.

Just then, the door opens, and Rayya steps onto the porch, looking between the men with an annoyed expression. They ignore her, gazes locked in a staring match, until she steps between them.

"Dinner's ready," she tells them firmly, and they, reluctantly, flick their gazes to her.

"I'll get May," Brynjolf offers, affability returning in the face of someone other than his competitor. He begins toward the side of the house, where stairs lead to the ground, but Rayya cuts him off.

"She'll come in when she's ready," the Redguard informs him, and the warning glint in her eye makes it clear that she, like Vilkas, suspects his lascivious intentions. "Go downstairs."

To Vilkas's surprise, Brynjolf obeys without argument, brushing past Vilkas on his way to the door. Rayya fixes her narrowed eyes on Vilkas.

"You too. Downstairs. I hardly think Milady would appreciate you watching her." Vilkas feels heat flood his cheeks, and he scowls, face a mask of indignation.

"I was not watching her," he retorts. "And I resent the implication."

"That was no implication," she replies flatly, jerking her head toward the door with an expectant look. He does his best not to look like he's been caught red-handed as he follows Brynjolf through the door.

They eat in silence, and, though Vilkas casts period glances toward Brynjolf, the thief acts as though they never spoke. He looks completely comfortable, lounging at the table in the main hall as if in his own home, and his familiarity with Mayenor's personal space vexes Vilkas to no end.

Mayenor returns as Rayya is clearing the table, and Vilkas has to force himself not to stare at her. She's traded her armor for a plain dress, and her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the damp locks holding a slight curl. He's never seen her with her hair down, and he didn't realize how long it was. Now, seeing it statically cling to her face, her clothes, her collar bones, he can't help but imagine it haloed around her face as she lay beneath him.

He looks quickly down at the table, heart racing. He's fantasized about Mayenor – about holding her and touching her and kissing her – since she first joined the Companions, but he's rarely had such intimate thoughts about her save for in the private darkness of his room in Jorrvaskr. He's never before been overcome with a longing to push her down and bruise her with kisses, just from looking at her. But somehow, knowing that he isn't the only one who wants Mayenor makes him want her that much more.

"There's food leftover," Rayya says, gesturing to the pans resting on the hearth of the fireplace.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," Mayenor replies, and she gives Rayya a friendly smile that causes a stir of irrational jealousy in Vilkas. Rayya frowns, looking concerned.

"You haven't eaten since midday." Her tone is almost accusatory, and Mayenor chuckles.

"I'm fine. I had some fruit from the garden before I came in." Rayya hums, obviously not satisfied with Mayenor's response, but she lets it go, and Mayenor turns her attention to Vilkas, who cautiously meets her eye.

"We'll go see the Jarl tomorrow. Don't bother getting up early; Siddgeir is still hung over until midday, at least." She snorts, and Rayya purses her lips.

"You shouldn't talk about the Jarl like that," the housecarl chides, but her words are met with an indifferent shrug.

"I call it like I see it," Mayenor says primly.

"I defer to your judgment," Vilkas interrupts. "You know Falkreath better than I do." His tone is reverent, reminding her of her title, and she purses her lips.

"Right. I'm pretty sure I know where the bandits' camp is; Rayya and I had to scare off a few of them before they got the message that this place is not to be bothered. They always seem to come from the northwest, but we'll have to check with the raid reports to make sure I'm right."

"I saw some caves across the lake from Half-Moon Mill," Rayya supplies helpfully, and Mayenor nods.

"The mountains across the lake are full of caves. I've explored most of the ones around here, but I haven't had much time to map them all out." She pauses, then smiles at her housecarl. "Maybe you can investigate some of the closer ones while I'm gone? Maybe you'll figure out where those damned giants are coming from. I swear, if they carry off one more of my cows…"

"I'll see what I can do." Though her response is calm, Vilkas can tell that Rayya is eager to explore the caves. She's obviously a skilled soldier, and he can imagine that being bound to Lakeview Manor often leaves her feeling restless.

"See that you don't get yourself killed," Mayenor warns, arching an eyebrow at the Redguard.

"You should take your own advice, lass." Brynjolf breaks into the conversation with ease, and he smirks at the women as they turn to look at him. "What, did you forget I'm here?"

"I wish I could," Mayenor snaps, but her irritated tone doesn't seem to faze the redhead. She scowls and abruptly turns toward the stairs. "You should get some rest, Vilkas. I assume Rayya showed you your bed?" She doesn't wait for a response, instead pausing on the stairs to look at Brynjolf. "And I trust you can find your way back to Riften. Goodnight." And with that, she disappears into her bedroom.

Vilkas stands from his chair soon after she leaves, mumbling a vague goodnight to Rayya as he ascends to his own bedroom. To his surprise, Brynjolf follows.

"I'm not travelling back to Riften at night," the thief says, looking affronted, when Vilkas pins him with a suspicious look. "There are vampires out there." As the pair enters the bedroom, Brynjolf tosses himself onto the empty bed, leaning comfortably against the pillows. "You don't mind sharing a room for the night, do you?" Vilkas's eyes narrow into a venomous glare, and Brynjolf chuckles. "Didn't think so. Sleep well, Companion." Somehow, Vilkas's title sounds like an insult rolling off the thief's quick tongue.

Vilkas makes a point of ignoring the man as he extinguishes the lights and slips into bed, and, with the darkness blanketing him, his mind begins to drift. He tries to think about the task ahead, to review what he knows of the Falkreath terrain so he can guess what they'll be facing tomorrow, but his thoughts keep lingering on the fact that Mayenor is in bed mere feet from him. Even on the odd occasions she stays at Jorrvaskr, she's always down the hall, surrounded by Njada and Ria on one side and Torvar and Athis on the other. But here, she's alone, so close that he fancies he can hear her breathing in the quiet darkness.

For a wild moment, he considers joining her in bed. It would be so easy to slip into her room and get under the covers with her, to pull her hard up against him and quiet her with kisses before she even has time to question him, to finally lose himself in her as he's longed to do since he first laid eyes on her golden hair and stubborn chin.

He almost doesn't hear Brynjolf creep out of bed and sneak past into the hallway that runs between the bedrooms. He almost misses the thief's airy chuckle and gloating pause; he almost doesn't realize that Brynjolf wants to be heard. He wants Vilkas to see him; he wants him to know that Mayenor already belongs to someone else.

By the time Vilkas thinks to confront the other man, he's already padded down the short hall and turned the corner. Vainly, Vilkas strains to hear some sign of an argument, some indication that Mayenor doesn't want him in bed with her. Instead, he hears the quiet murmur of a conversation; trying to ignore the knot in his stomach, he blocks his ears with the pillow and forces himself into an uneasy sleep.