He wakes up shortly after dawn, habit forcing him into consciousness though he tossed and turned all night. As soon as he opens his eyes, he turns his head to look at the other bed, willing Brynjolf to be there.
He isn't, and Vilkas scowls. He can imagine the thief, lean body curled around Mayenor, her head resting on her shoulder and her tousled golden hair tickling his cheek. He can almost see the smirk ghosting Brynjolf's lips even as he sleeps, and the image makes Vilkas clench his jaw in jealous fury. It takes all his willpower not to storm into the room and rip the redhead from Mayenor's bed; instead, he marches to the back door and yanks it open, slamming it shut behind him as he steps onto the porch, quietly hoping that the noise will jar Brynjolf awake.
The morning air is refreshingly cool against Vilkas's anger-heated face, and he breathes it in, trying to calm his racing heart. He's always been fond of Mayenor, but this new desperate possessiveness over her almost frightens him, and that unfamiliar fear only makes him even angrier about the whole situation.
He forces himself calmer, crossing to the porch at the left of the house, where Mayenor has set up a small training area, complete with an archery target and a straw practice dummy. From a chest against the wall, he takes a greatsword, testing its weight. It's old and slightly rusted, but the balance is good, and he hoists it over his head, slashing experimentally. It's heavier than the sword Eorlund forged for him, and the weight surprises him; he stumbles, catching himself against the wall.
He wonders why Mayenor keeps the sword in her collection; it's so heavy, he can't imagine she's able to wield it. Then, he remembers Brynjolf's claim from the night before, that she's the best fighter he's ever met, and he wonders if there's more to the girl than she's let him see, if she's hiding her true strength from the Companions. If she is, he thinks bitterly, it won't be the first thing she's kept from them.
He steps away from the wall and grips the greatsword once more, squaring himself in front of the training dummy. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, focusing his mind on training with the ease of practice. He's spent the last two decades honing his two-handed skill, and now it's become an almost therapeutic activity for him.
He fights with the training dummy for over an hour before replacing the greatsword in its chest and heading down to the lake for a quick bath. When he returns, it's halfway to midday, and the air is already growing thick and hot. He reenters the house on the main level, expecting to find Mayenor eating breakfast and getting ready to confront the Jarl. Instead, Rayya sits alone at the large table, polishing her curved swords.
"Where's Mayenor?" Vilkas asks, plucking an apple from a bowl on a side table.
"Still asleep, I assume." Rayya's voice is low and dry, and Vilkas realizes that she knows Brynjolf spent the night with Mayenor. Vilkas swallows the rising wave of jealousy that threatens to overcome him as he once again imagines the pair intertwined upstairs.
"We need to get on the road. The Jarl is expecting us." He glances up the stairs toward Mayenor's bedroom, grimacing unconsciously. "I should wake her..."
"I'll do it," Rayya offers, standing and returning her sword to its sheath on her hip. Vilkas nods his appreciation, wondering if she can see his relief.
The housecarl ascends the stairs with a grim look on her face, shoulders squared as she heads into Mayenor's bedroom. At the table, Vilkas tries not to imagine the sight she's walking into.
He expects to see Brynjolf swagger from the room, looking smug, but minutes pass and the thief doesn't emerge. Instead, Mayenor bursts from the room, shoulders bare over the blanket that's wrapped around her slim form. She's frowning as she stomps down the stairs, ignoring Vilkas, who watches her search both the armory and the greenhouse before whirling to face him.
"Where is he?" She demands, glowering at him.
"Who?"
"Brynjolf!" She says, tone suggesting he should have known that. Vilkas looks surprised.
"I thought he was still upstairs."
"Shit," Mayenor curses, brow creasing in what appears to be worry. "Maybe he's outside..." She murmurs to herself, then turns on her heel and hurries bare-footed into the entryway; Vilkas, curious, follows her.
She's about to open the front door when she notices a small piece of parchment hanging from the wood. She pauses and rips it from its mooring, snapping it open so forcefully in her haste that she nearly rips it at the seam. As the paper unfolds, a small key clatters to the stone floor.
Lass,
I had to go home. We'll talk later, when things have settled. This is the only copy of your key Vex or I has. You know where to find me when you decide you want me to have it back.
Brynjolf
Vilkas watches Mayenor's face grow stony as she reads the note, sees her shoulders tense and her grip on the parchment tighten. Her eyes close briefly once she finishes, and she crumbles the paper into a ball. He eyes her fist warily as flames flicker into life in her palm, reducing the parchment to ashes. He, like most Nords, distrusts magic, and he's always uneasy when Mayenor uses hers around him.
"Is everything alright?" He ventures after a moment of still silence; her eyes snap open, and she opens her palm to let the ashes flutter to the ground.
"Nothing you need to worry about," she answers shortly, bending to retrieve the key that had fallen from the note; he can't bring himself to look away from the expanse of leg exposed by the blanket shifting around her.
"Then we need to get to Falkreath. The Jarl is expecting us." His tone is business-like, and he hopes it distracts from an excitement he's sure is visible. He needn't worry; she doesn't even spare him a glance as she pads back up the stairs, gripping the key tightly and frowning into space.
She returns a few minutes later, and Vilkas has to repress a smile when he sees her clad in her armor once more, her hair pulled back and hidden beneath her hood. As beautiful as she had been in plainclothes (and as beautiful as he's sure she is in no clothes at all), she looks most like herself in dusty, blade-nicked leather.
"Let's go," she says simply, not meeting Vilkas's eye as she heads for the door. As she passes into the entryway, Rayya emerges from the back of the house and moves to step in front of her.
"Eat," she insists, thrusting a sweet roll into her hands. Mayenor opens her mouth to protest, but the stubborn set of Rayya's jaw silences her.
"Thank you," she says instead, accepting the sweet roll with an appreciative smile. "I'll eat it on the road. Here." She rummages in one of the pockets dotting her tunic and pulls out the key from earlier. "Keep this safe."
"What's it to?" Rayya asks, turning the key over in her hand. For a moment, a shadow crosses Mayenor's face, but she hides it quickly.
"The house. It was Brynjolf's."
Vilkas feels his heart jump into his throat at these words. He had assumed, since Mayenor didn't immediately evict Brynjolf the night before, that the thief had stayed the night with her. But at this realization, he allows himself to hope that he was wrong.
Even Rayya looks surprised as Mayenor drops the key into her palm and shoulders her way past the housecarl and through the front door. After a moment, the Redguard regains her composure and puts the key in a pocket before turning to Vilkas.
"Make sure she eats," she says sternly, and he can't help but smile. "I'm serious. She won't if you don't make her. And watch her back with those bandits."
"She can handle herself," he reminds her, and she frowns.
"Just because she can doesn't mean she should."
"We'll be fine," he assures her, and she nods tersely; without another word, he follows Mayenor out the door.
Mayenor is true to their word; it takes them almost no time at all to get to Falkreath from Lakeview Manor. As they ride into town, the guards bow their heads to Mayenor as she passes; she ignores them, instead glancing around the town, almost like she's making sure everything is in order. Apparently placated, she dismounts next to a long, wooden building and hands her horse over to a waiting guard. Vilkas follows suit.
"Keep them saddled," she instructs the guard. "We won't be long."
"Yes, my Thane." The guard's reverent tone sends a look of irritation across Mayenor's face.
"Right. Is Siddgeir in?" The guard nods an affirmative, and she gestures for Vilkas to follow her up a short set of steps and into the building.
The inside of the longhouse is nothing special: stairs line either side of the building, and a large firepit monopolizes the space directly in front of the door; beyond that lies the Jarl's throne. A young man, only a few years older than Mayenor, if that, lounges on the throne, looking rather bored. He looks up as they enter, and his face brightens.
"Ah, Mayenor, you're here. I had hoped Aela would send you," he purrs. Though his words are chatty and familiar, his tone makes it clear he considers Mayenor little more than an errand girl.
"I was the logical choice to come." Her voice is cold; Vilkas wonders what Siddgeir has done to garner her disapproval.
"Of course, of course," the Jarl agrees, flapping a bejeweled hand dismissively. "And who's your burly friend?"
"This is Vilkas, a senior member of the Companions," she answers before Vilkas can speak for himself.
"Ooh, you've got yourself a little assistant now? I knew you had to get lonely, being on the road all the time. Of course, my offer of a warm bed and a little fun still stands…" He drifts off with one eyebrow quirked, and Vilkas bristles, feeling his shoulders tighten as he readies to defend Mayenor's honor. She shoots him a look of bemused amusement before addressing the Jarl once more.
"A tempting offer, I'm sure, Siddgeir. But right now we're here about the bandits. I assume you mean the ones coming from the northwest?"
"Are they coming from the northwest?" He asks, looking genuinely surprised. "I haven't even looked at the reports. I'll have Nenya bring them to you." He turns his head to locate his steward, but she's already slipped off into the war room under the stairs.
"We'll look them over in the war room," Mayenor replies, following the Altmer woman.
The war room is typical by the Jarls' standards, though Siddgeir's, while clean and polished like the rest of the longhouse, is obviously little-used. Nenya retrieves a sheaf of parchment from a drawer and places them on the war table for Vilkas and Mayenor to look at.
"They're in chronological order, with the first attacks on top and the most recent ones on the bottom," she informs the pair, and Mayenor nods, gracing her with a smile.
"Thank you, Nenya."
"Of course, my Thane. Will you require anything else?" Nenya's stiff formality never falters in the face of Mayenor's friendly praise. Mayenor begins to shake her head, then glances at Vilkas.
"Some mead, please. Blackbriar Reserve, if you have it."
"Certainly." With a nod, the Altmer retreats to the main room of the longhouse. Vilkas gives Mayenor a curious look.
"I thought you didn't like mead?" He says, and she shrugs, already beginning to lay out the raid reports.
"I developed a tolerance for Blackbriar Reserve while I was in Riften," she tells him distractedly.
"Riften? What were you doing there?" Vilkas knows what Brynjolf has told him, that she is part of the Thieves' Guild, but he wants to hear it from her own mouth. She looks up at him, sharply, and a minute frown tips down the corners of her mouth.
"Business," comes her flat reply, and she turns her attention back to the raid reports, pointing to one in particular to draw his attention to it. "Look," she says, "this is from the first attack. And here, and here—" she points to several more reports, "these are all from the beginning, concentrated around the Shrine of Akatosh. The raids were all around that area for the first few weeks, then the spread out across the Hold."
"They must have been feeling out their territory," Vilkas says, moving beside Mayenor to look at the reports for himself. "If there was a map of the Hold around here-" He stops as Nenya returns with a tray laden with a pitcher and two cups.
"Blackbriar Reserve, as you requested, milady," she intones, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "Did I hear you're in need of a map of the Hold?"
"Aye, it'd be a great help," Vilkas agrees, and the Steward opens another drawer and withdraws a large sheet of parchment, which she spreads over the war table. Four decorative stones are places on each corner to act as paperweights. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" She asks once she'd done, cool eyes flicking between the Companions. Vilkas eyes her a bit warily: like all Altmer, Nenya has the same air of closed superiority that had made the Altmeri Dominion so threatening.
"We're fine, thank you," Mayenor assures her. She waits until Nenya passes through the doorway before turning her attention to the map. "I don't trust her," she confides quietly, flicking her gaze sideways toward Vilkas. "Or Siddgeir, for that matter."
"Then how did you become his Thane?" Vilkas asks in return, moving closer so they can converse more softly.
"It was a matter of strategy," she explains. "I needed Falkreath to be somewhere I could pass through safely. The easiest way to do that was to get in the Jarl's good graces." He looks at her, curious and a bit suspicious.
"Why do you need to pass through Falkreath so often? Most of the major Holds are up north." She gives him another of her calculating looks, green eyes narrowed.
"Business," she repeats in the same flat, final tone she'd used before. He bites back a sigh, knowing she's not likely to tell him her secrets. So, he bends to pore over the map.
It doesn't take long for them to mark all the bandit raids on the map, and Vilkas can see now that Mayenor had been right. The attacks were clearly done in a sweeping pattern originating from a single point: an unmarked bit of forest halfway to Rorikstead. They double-check their findings one more time before rolling up the map and stowing it in Mayenor's rucksack; then, they head for the door, ignore Siddgeir as they leave.
"Gone so soon?" Siddgeir calls after them. "You haven't even had lunch!"
"We'll have to take a raincheck, Siddgeir," Mayenor replies over her shoulder as Vilkas holds then longhouse door open for her. "We've got some bandits to kill." The sickeningly feral grin she flashes startles even Vilkas.