Vilkas isn't sure how to react when Mayenor welcomes them. It's not the fact that she's so callous, so cavalier about his and Brynjolf's mistreatment that stings. It's that treacherous word: home. So, this is where she's decided to settle, he thinks, ripping his gaze from hers and scowling at the blood-stained stones beneath his feet. She could have chosen to be a Companion, to be honorable—but instead, she's allied herself with murderers. He knows he shouldn't be surprised, but his heart aches at the confirmation that she will always belong to someone else.
"You going to let us down?" Brynjolf spits, and the venom in his voice distracts Vilkas for a moment. A smirk flickers across Mayenor's lips, but her eyes remain hard, cold.
"From what Nazir tells me, you've already let yourself down." Her eyes rake across the thief's chest, and Vilkas feels jealousy bubble unwanted in his gut though he knows she's only looking at his wounds. "You'll have to excuse Yannen and Erelie. They're among our newest recruits and don't get to torture prisoners often. They were a little too eager to punish you."
"Oh, no problem," Brynjolf snarls, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I'm glad they got to have a little fun. Now get us out of these things."
"I think you'd best stay where you are for now, thief," the Redguard—Nazir—rumbles. "I don't trust you to behave yourself."
"I just want to go home. I got lover boy here; my job's done. Let me go back to Riften." Vilkas feels his cheeks color with indignation at the all too accurate title Brynjolf assigns him, but Mayenor doesn't seem to notice.
"Nazir," she says conversationally, turning to the burly man, "why don't you escort our guest back to Dawnstar?" As she speaks, she reaches into the folds of her black armor, producing a long strip of blood red cloth. She tosses it to Nazir as he passes her, heading for Brynjolf, who eyes the other man suspiciously. As Nazir fastens the cloth around Brynjolf's eyes, Mayenor gives a tight smile. "It was so nice of you to visit, Brynjolf. Please give the others my love." Nazir undoes the manacles around the thief's wrists and ankles, then grabs his elbow and jerks him unceremoniously toward the door. Vilkas gets the feeling the Redguard isn't fond of his captive, and he wonders what interaction the Dark Brotherhood and Brynjolf's Guild have had in the past. Mayenor reaches out a hand and takes Brynjolf's other elbow, motioning for Nazir to step away. Eyes shining with an expression Vilkas can't place, she leans up and brushes a kiss against the thief's cheek. Vilkas sees the man tense, hears his breath catch; Nazir's eyes widen slightly with surprise.
"This is goodbye, Bryn." Her voice is soft and carries a hint of sadness; Vilkas's gut clenches. "Don't come after me again." With that, Nazir steps forward and sweeps Brynjolf out of the room before he has a chance to say anything. Mayenor stands in place for a moment, staring after the thief, then shakes her head and turns to Vilkas.
"You'd do well to take the same advice," she tells him, stepping closer. "You shouldn't have tried to find me. What were you thinking, trying to track down the Dark Brotherhood?" She's less than a foot away now, still coming closer, and his heart beats loudly against his chest. "I thought you were the smart twin." She reaches up a hand and passes it over his restraints; he feels a throb of Magicka, and the cuffs pop open. He tries to take a step and stumbles; she catches him against her shoulder, and her closeness sends an ache of longing tingling across his mind. "Don't try to walk. I think you've got a concussion; here, sit." She lowers him down to the ground, and he settles down with a low sigh as his sore muscles protest.
"Yannen shot you." At her words, he looks down at his sword arm, seeing the crusty crimson of dried blood on his bicep. "I'm sorry. I had no idea it was you—when I sent them to investigate, I never thought you would be here."
"I shouldn't be here," he rumbles, not looking at her. She puts a cool palm against his cheek, and he looks up to see her smiling at him.
"That's what I was trying to tell you. This isn't the place for a Companion."
"Then why are you here?" The words are out before he can stop them, and she pulls away from him, stung.
"I'm no Companion."
"So you're an assassin? Or a thief? A mage? The Dragonborn?" At his last words, she stumbles back, eyes wide, as though he physically struck her.
"How—How did you know?"
"They speak very highly of you in Riften," he answers solemnly.
"I don't deserve their praise. Some Dragonborn I am—the Greybeards summoned me nearly a year ago and I ran. I'm still running."
"Why?" Vilkas rocks onto his knees, wincing as his head gives a throb, and she flits back to his side, gently forcing him back to the ground.
"Let me heal you. It's the least I can do." She places her hands, palms down, over his arrow wound, and he feels the warmth of healing magic spread through him. Suddenly, his arm stops aching and the dizziness that had plagued his conscious fades away. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand up to finger the back of his head where he'd been struck: the wound is completely healed.
"Thanks," he mutters, dropping his hand back into his lap. She settles back on her knees, gaze flicking around the room and landing anywhere but him. "May," he starts, and the earnestness in his voice makes her look up in surprise. "What are you doing here? This isn't you."
"Isn't it, though? I know you've always thought I was brutal. Don't think I didn't see you looking away when I looted bodies. Death has never bothered me. Here, that's normal."
"Death is a part of life," he agrees, making her tilt her head curiously. "It's unavoidable; it shouldn't bother you. But that doesn't mean you should murder people for no reason."
"I have to assume there's a reason," she murmurs, eyes slipping down to the stone floor. "Else I feel guilty. Most of the time it's easy to see why people want my targets dead—they're evil. But some people just want to create chaos. Those are the ones I can't forget."
Vilkas feels something stir in his chest at the pitiful look in her eyes. It's true that he's always found some of her customs unsavory, but he's always believed—always clung to the idea—that she is basically good, that underneath her tough exterior lies a heart of gold. The sadness in her face as she recalls her jobs proves him correct. He covers one of her knees with one big hand, and she, after a moment of hesitation, places a gloved hand atop his.
"Come home." He means for the words to sound comforting, strong; instead, his voice rasps with desperation. She pulls her hand back as though his touch burns her.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Vilkas—" She stops and shakes her head.
"Tell me," he insists gently. Her lips purse into a thin line for a long moment before she draws a deep breath.
"Everywhere I go, tragedy follows. It's my punishment for running away from my destiny. At the College, I unleashed the Eye of Magnus, and it killed the Archmage. With the Thieves Guild, I killed the Guildmaster. And here—" her voice tightens, and she forces a low breath. "Everyone died because of me. Because Astrid hated me. Arnbjorn, Veezara, Festus, Gabriella—all dead, and it's my fault." She glares angrily at the wall to her right, then continues in a voice that's barely more than a whisper. "I can't let that happen to the Companions."
Warm affection swells in Vilkas's chest as she speaks. She hadn't been shunning the Companions, then; she was trying to protect them—trying to protect him. He wants to reassure her that her friends' deaths aren't her fault, that there's nothing she could have done, but he's too overwhelmed by emotion to form any words. Instead, he leans forward and puts a hand on her cheek; when she turns to look at him, he captures her mouth in his.
"You should leave," she says in the breath after they pull apart, and he nearly chokes, feeling his lips burn where hers should be. "It's time for you to go home." Though he hadn't protested, her words are insistent.
"Come with me." He's nearly begging, his gaze boring holes into hers. She ghosts her lips against his, and his eyes flicker shut.
"No." By the time he manages to get his eyes open again, she's standing and fastening the shroud back around her face. Her eyes shine brightly—too brightly?—in the candlelight. His throat is tight.
"Please. I—We're worried about you." He hesitates, hauling himself to his feet, and gulps back his pride. "I need you home."
"I'm sorry, but I can't. My life is here now."
Her words are so callous that they cause anger to rise in his chest, and he steps forward to snatch her wrist between his thick fingers.
"You left me," he hisses, all the pain and indignation he's suffered bubbling to the surface. She regards him calmly, as though she'd expected this. "You let me fall in love with you and then you just left. I deserve an explanation, at least."
"I never said anything to make you think I loved you," she answers evenly, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest. The color drops from his cheeks; his breath freezes in his lungs. Her eyes soften. "I do care about you, Vilkas. But I can't go back to Whiterun with you. Not yet."
He's about to press her, to ask what she means by not yet, but the door opens and admits Nazir. He regards the pair, taking in Vilkas's anger-heated face and Mayenor's wrist clutched in his hand, and steps forward, reaching to snatch Mayenor away from Vilkas. She puts a hand on his arm to stop him, then turns her gaze to Vilkas.
"What do you mean not yet?" He asks, and she shakes her head, peeling his fingers away from her wrist.
"It's time for you to go. Nazir will take you to Dawnstar."
"Tell me what you mean!" He insists even as Nazir steps over to him. She ignores him, instead stepping over to the door and passing through without a glance back. "Tell me!" He shouts after her, bolting toward the door. Nazir catches his collar and pulls him back, quickly binding his hands and covering his eyes with the same cloth that had blinded Brynjolf. Vilkas pulls at his bonds, heart pounding in his ears.
"May!"
His roar echoes back at him in the silence.