It started to rain halfway to the area they'd marked on the map. By the time they were ready to leave the path and delve into the woods, the sky had darkened to a murky grey, the sun hidden behind an impenetrable wall of thick, angry clouds. Together, they dismount their horses at the edge of the forest, huddling close to their mounts for some meager warmth.
"It's too thick to get the horses through," Vilkas grunts, mood souring as he feels a drop of water trailing down his spine. Despite his heavy, fur-lined armor, his underclothes are soaked and plastered to his skin.
"Then we'll tie them up here and I'll set some warding spells," Mayenor snaps in reply. She's just as irritable as Vilkas, and she's fared rather worse than he: her light leather armor has been thoroughly soaked and hangs heavily on her shoulders; her hood had blown back in the wind at some point in the ride, and her golden hair drips water into her eyes. Vilkas can't help but think, even with her shoulders hunched against the wind and her arms crossed over her chest, that she looks somehow ethereal in the rain, like some damp goddess caught away from her shrine.
She dismounts quickly and leads her mare under the cover of the trees, muttering what sounds to Vilkas like an apology for leaving her in the rain. He dismounts as well and follows her until they find a particularly dense cluster of trees, where they tie up their mounts. He steps back and watches in cautious awe as she walks in a circle around the beasts, leaving a shimmering trail behind her. When she completes the circle, the trail glows bright for a moment, then disappears. She nods, satisfied, and turns to face Vilkas.
"Let's go. The sooner we get out of this rain, the better. I'd kill for a nice campfire right now…" She grumbles darkly and turns in the supposed direction of the bandit camp, setting off without checking that Vilkas follows. He does, closely, and tries to focus on the task ahead. But he can't; instead, his head is filled with visions of Mayenor huddled by a fire, hugging her knees to her chest, and he resting beside her, holding her close to his chest in an attempt to warm them both up. At the moment, he'd kill for a campfire, as well.
It doesn't take them long to find the bandits' camp: they can hear it—and worse, smell it—before it even comes into view. As they slow to a crawl and crouch low in the underbrush, Vilkas sees Mayenor wrinkle her nose in disgust at the distinctive odor of the camp, a mix of rotting flesh and unwashed sweat. They reach the top of a hill, and she suddenly drops to her stomach in the grass; almost immediately, he follows suit, inching along on his belly to draw even with her. He can see now why she stopped: the spiked wooden walls of the camp jut into the air above them.
"How do you want to handle this?" She whispers, turning to face him. His breath catches for a moment when he realizes their faces are mere inches apart. "It looks like they've got archers posted along the walls, and I'm sure there are men guarding the entrance to the camp. Neither of us is particularly skilled with a bow, so the stealthy approach seems most logical." She eyes him a bit dubiously. "Assuming you know how to be stealthy…"
"Of course I can be stealthy," he replies in a heated whisper, scowling. "But I don't like the idea of taking them all on without the element of surprise."
"Look at the size of the camp," she scoffs. "There can't be more than a dozen in there. We kill the guards at the entrance quietly so no one notices, then get on the walls and kill the archers. Then we can deal with whoever's left. No problem." Vilkas frowns.
"It's not that easy," he protests. "We don't know if there's a building in there. There could be a barracks in there with dozens of men, or a cave full of reinforcements. We can't go in there blind."
"Well then what do you want to do?" She snaps, exasperated. "Knock on the front door? 'Oh, hello! We're new to the neighborhood and wondered if we could borrow a head of cabbage,'" She rolls her eyes at him, and he nearly growls with frustration.
"If you'd shut up for a moment," he snarls, "I have an idea." Quirking an eyebrow, she gestures for him to elaborate. "We need a distraction. Don't you know a spell that'd be useful?"
"I could conjure a familiar," she replies, looking thoughtful. "But it'd be obvious it's magic, and they'd get suspicious. We'll have to use something real…" She drifts off, eyes narrowed in thought. Vilkas feels an uneasiness creep into his gut as he notices a dangerous spark in her eyes.
"What?" He asks suspiciously. She purses her lips for a moment, then apparently makes up her mind.
"I'll be the distraction," she says.
"What?"
"It's the obvious answer," she croons. He recognizes that voice as the one she uses when she's trying to get her way. "Bandits are known for kidnapping women. I pretend to be lost, they take me into the camp, and while they're all busy paying attention to me, you can sneak in and start taking them out. Once you bring me my sword, I'll help."
Vilkas starts shaking his head before she even finishes her explanation.
"No. Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"It's too dangerous. You could be killed before I get to you." She scowls.
"I know you don't think I'm a very good fighter, but I can handle myself just fine. If it comes down to it, I'll use my magic."
"This isn't about your skill," he sighs. "Those are bad men in there. How do you know they won't attack you on sight?"
"If they do, I'll just lead them back to you and we'll kill them away from their camp. This is the best option we have, and you know it." Vilkas doesn't answer her, instead imagining all the ways this plan could go wrong. They could shoot an arrow through her throat as soon as they saw her on the roar. They could gut her when she stumbled toward the entrance to the camp. They could tie her up with ropes and take her to a torture room. Or, worst of all, they could throw her into a room and have their way with her again, and again, and again…
"No," he says again, more firmly this time. "No. I'm responsible for your safety, and I won't let you do this."
"You're not responsible for shit," she snarls, "and I don't need your permission. This plan makes the most tactical sense. This is the plan we're going with."
Before he can respond, she eases her way back down the slope and out of the camp's line of sight. He follows quickly, determined to talk her out of this ludicrous plan. Once he scrambles down the hill, he reaches to catch her arm.
"This is a terrible idea," he tells her, trying not to make it obvious that he's terrified of her getting hurt.
"But it's the only idea we have," she replies seriously. "I can take care of myself even without my sword." She pauses, then looks him full in the eyes. "And I trust you. I know you'll watch my back." She pulls away and continues into the woods, but he's stuck, frozen in place. Her words echo in his mind: I trust you. He's longed for some show of affection, some sign that she doesn't hate him, and he's almost positive he's never heard her say that to anyone else, even Aela. And, though his mind screams that he's an idiot for letting her have her way, he follows her.
When he catches up to her, she's kneeling on the muddy ground, rooting through her rucksack.
"I have some civilian clothes in here somewhere," she tells him distractedly, elbow-deep in the seemingly bottomless bag.
"You have to take some weapons in," he replies.
"I have a pocket knife and a hunting bow. I'm just a hunter trying to feed her family." She doesn't mention his sudden acceptance of her plan; she'd known he would come around.
"I'm not sure you can pull off looking harmless," he grunts, and she looks up for a moment to eye him, unsure if he's trying to be funny.
"You'd be amazed," comes her answer. She yanks her hand out of the bag, producing a faded blue dress and a pair of worn but sturdy boots. Before he can comment on her odd preparedness, she disappears behind a thick tree.
"I'm still not fond of this plan," he calls after her, resisting the temptation to see what else she keeps in that bag of hers.
"Stop worrying." Even from behind the tree, her voice carries a hint of exasperation. "You're underestimating me; that's a dangerous mistake."
"I've fought with you before," he reminds her. "And even the strongest fighter can be outnumbered." The rustling behind the tree comes to a stop, and a moment later, Mayenor emerges in the dirty dress, her armor neatly folded in her arms. She gives him a lopsided smile.
"You best be careful, Companion," she tsks, bending to store her armor in the rucksack. "We wouldn't want it to seem like you're worried about me."
"It's my duty as your Shield Brother to ensure your safety," he grunts, shifting uncomfortably. "And I'll never hear the end of it if Aela finds out I let you get yourself killed."
"Then I'll be careful," she says definitively, snapping shut her bag and rising to her feet. "We wouldn't want to give Aela any more reason to bitch."
He just stares at her then, drinking in her presence as eagerly as any man wandering the deserts of Elsweyr might drink water. She looks alarmingly small now, with her bulky armor traded in for a form-fitting, worn dress. Her greatsword lies at her feet, and without it strapped to her back, and with her wet hair freed from its tight bun, she appears to him for the first time as a little girl. She's skinnier than he'd thought, and shorter without the thick soles of her boots to add an extra inch. He looks at all the skin exposed by her dress—her arms, her neck, her ankles, her face—and realizes how effortlessly a skilled archer could plunge an arrow deep into her unprotected flesh. He considers how easily the thin dress would give way to the bandit men's wandering hands. He wishes he was clever enough to think of another plan before everything goes wrong.
"Take my bag." She thrusts the leather sack toward him, and he dumbly accepts it. "Make sure you bring it with you. It's got all sorts of things to help us out if we get in a spot of trouble. And don't forget this." She grips the hilt of her greatsword tightly for a moment before offering it to Vilkas. He straps it to his back, next to his own weapon.
"Do you have your bow and knife?" He asks. He can feel his throat tightening as the realization of what's about to happen sets in. She nods. If she's nervous, she hides it well. "Arrows?"
"Of course I've got arrows," she snorts. "What hunter worth her catch would carry a bow and no arrows? Stop acting like my mother and let's get going."
They search the woods for the path the bandits must use to get supplies to their camp. They hover on the edge of the trees for a moment, and she pierces him with a solemn look.
"Don't come in till you hear me scream," she reminds him, unnervingly calm. "And if things don't go as planned, don't come after me alone. Go back to Falkreath and get Rayya, at least."
"Just be careful," he says again, like a doting mother.
"I don't plan on dying today," she replies with a smirk. "Count on that." Then, she steps onto the small road and follows it back to the top of the hill. Vilkas, hidden in the forest, keeps an eye on her as she approaches the camp. The closer she gets, the more she seems to shrink, and he can't tell if she's genuinely scared or putting on a show. Either way, he thinks, he's terrified enough for the both of them.
As soon as Mayenor rounds the corner and comes into sight of the camp, the archers atop the wall snap to attention, arrows notched and ready to fly.
"Wait!" The shrill voice cuts the damp air, and Vilkas looks around for the source. By the time he realizes that anguished cry had come from Mayenor, she's flanked by bandit guards, talking frantically. After a few moments, they grab her arms and roughly tug her toward the gate; she twists in their grasp, and he can see her eyes wide with fear. Her lips are still moving as she chatters to her captors, but her eyes are still, focused in his direction. Though he knows she can't see him through the brush, he feels as though she's staring into his soul, silently begging him not to leave her alone.
As Mayenor had predicted, the archers are distracted by the unexpected appearance of a strange woman in their midst. Vilkas is able to creep, however slowly, to the camp's wall, and he presses himself against the boards, heart pounding. He's concerned about his own safety, of course, knowing that he's a prime target for any archer bothering to glance down; but, even more so, he's terrified of what's happening to Mayenor behind those walls. He hunkers down behind the spiked heads decorating the gate, trying to ignore the stench of bloated flesh as he waits for Mayenor's signal. The minutes stretch on for what seems like hours, and he begins to panic. What if they gagged her so she couldn't scream? What if she'd been dragged down into a cave in the mountainside and her screams were echoing unanswered against the stone walls? What if they had killed her?
She screams.