"Is that the best you've got?" He taunts, prowling in a circle with his fists in the air. The brunette before him laughs, the noise high and clear like tinkling glass.

"Well I don't want to hurt you," she answers coyly, blue eyes shining brightly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that she's beautiful, but she lunges forward and he dances away with a grin, concentration returning to the fight at hand.

"You almost got a hit in. Come on, don't hold back—I can take it," he insists. She cocks her head to the side, hair tumbling in silken rivulets over her shoulder, and gives him a worried, wide-eyed stare.

"Ok," she relents after a moment. "You asked for it." She darts forward—he admires her quickness—and swings a punch toward his jaw; he catches it in one hand, gives her wrist a hard twist, and steps away, leaving her fretting over her injury.

"That hurt!" She cries, giving him an accusing look. "That's my sword hand, you know."

"We'll be sure to keep you on light jobs for a while, then," he chuckles, clapping a big hand on her shoulder.

"Or you can just come with me. I'll let you be my protector." Her eyes are half-lidded, her words sultry and smooth, and he lets himself appreciate the feeling of being wanted for once, of being the one to walk away.

"Don't count on it, kid," he tosses over his shoulder as he heads through the double doors into Jorrvaskr. "I only work with Farkas. Now get your ass in here and let's have a drink." He doesn't turn to make sure she's following—she always follows him—before taking his usual seat around the table. As though in anticipation of his thirst, Tilma sets a full pitcher of mead before him, running a fond hand across his back as she returns to her sweeping. He settles into his chair with the ease of familiarity; beside him, the new blood pulls up her usual chair: the one to Vilkas's right.

"Why don't you work with anyone but Farkas?" She asks, biting into an apple while he downs half a tankard of ale. He eyes her as he drinks, but she's watching his adam's apple bob up and down with each gulp. "Don't you trust anyone else?"

"I trust all my Shield-Siblings," he answers, ignoring the rest of her question.

"Then why won't you go on jobs with us—them?" She corrects herself quickly at his quirked eyebrow. She hasn't even been on a single job for the Companions, but she already counts herself among their ranks. "Everyone else has multiple partners—even Farkas works with more than just you."

Vilkas sucks in a low breath, letting his gaze wander the hall. Athis and Torvald are, as usual, nowhere to be seen, probably down at the Bannered Mare trying to attract some poor woman's attention. Aela and Skjor had excused themselves to her bedroom before Vilkas had even gone into the training yard. Even Ria is off with Belethor's young assistant: she claims he paid her for protection while he gathers supplies, but they all know the truth. With spring in the air, everyone's been bitten by the love bug—all but the brothers, who remain firm bachelors. While the Breton girl stares at him with those little-girl eyes, waiting for an answer to her question, Vilkas reminds himself to keep his mind on the here and now.

"I just don't," he answers finally, and her full lips push into a pout.

"That's a terrible answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

"Just tell me why."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"But—"

"Drop it, Minna." She huffs and slumps down in her chair, arms crossed over her amble bosom.

Sometimes, Vilkas can't help but compare the girl to Mayenor. He tries not to think about his Shield-Sister, tries to pretend she never existed, and she's made that easier for him by staying away from Jorrvaskr for almost a year, now. But whenever he tries to be attracted to Minna, to give in to her advances, he remembers that she's not half the woman Mayenor was. She's stunning, almost to a fault, but she's spoiled, immature, untested. She's a terrible fighter—Vilkas is convinced Kodlak only let her in because he'd once fought beside her father—and is only interested in one thing: him. Flattered as he knows he should be, he couldn't be less interested.

"Hey, let's go to the Western Watchtower!" She says suddenly, pulling Vilkas from his thoughts. He furrows his brow.

"Why?"

"I heard that's where the first dragon in Skyrim was killed. I bet there are still scales on the ground—I bet we could find them!" Vilkas can't help but laugh at her eagerness, but he shakes his head.

"Not interested."

"You're no fun," she snaps, lips settling back into a pout.

"After you fight a few dragons, see how eager you are to hang around their hunting grounds."

"Do you really think I'll be able to fight a dragon one day?" Her eyes are shining with hope, and Vilkas almost bites back his answer. But he's learned that the truth can sting sometimes.

"Not if you don't build up your sword arm. It'd eat you alive." She scowls at him, but, just as she opens her mouth to retort, the huge front doors creak open. Vilkas ignores the newcomer, taking advantage of Minna's distraction to take another draw of mead, but her hand is shaking him to attention before the cup even reaches his lips. He sighs, trying to keep a hold on his annoyance, and glares at her.

"What?"

"I think we've got a new recruit." Minna's hand is still on Vilkas's forearm, and he brushes it off disinterestedly.

"Good for us," he mutters, finally managing a gulp of his mead.

"Hey," Minna calls toward the door, standing from her chair. "Hey, are you here to join us?" Vilkas spares her a flat look, bemused by her lack of ceremony. "Kodlak's not here right now. You can hang out until he gets back, though, if you want." Minna pauses, clearly waiting for some response, and frowns when her words are met with silence. "Hey, are you listening to me?"

"It's hard not to, isn't it?"

Vilkas chokes as a familiar voice stings his ears, and Minna turns to slap his back as he splutters on his ale. His antics are met with a chuckle, and, as he gasps for breath, he feels his pulse quicken. Soft footsteps thud down the stairs and around the table; hesitantly, he looks up, and green eyes smile back at him.

"Hello, Vilkas. It's nice to see you again." He struggles to keep his expression calm, determinedly maintaining eye contact.

"Mayenor. It's been a while."

"Mm. Nearly a year, I think." Their words are nothing if not cordial, but the tension between them is thick and heavy; Vilkas feels like he's suffocating on it.

"Mayenor? The Companion Mayenor?" Minna circles around the table to hover near Mayenor, eyes wide and full of stars. "I thought you were a legend! I've never seen you before; I didn't really think you existed!"

Mayenor lifts an eyebrow and watches the girl gush. Though there are only a few years between the two of them, they look eons apart, Mayenor battle-hardened and fierce and Minna inexperienced and impressionable. Vilkas can't help but pit one against the other in his mind: though Minna is beautiful, she looks more like a noblewoman than a warrior; Mayenor, with her lean muscles and scuffed armor, looks like a Nordic goddess.

"Well, I'm certainly real," she drawls, looking bemused.

"You never told me you knew her," Minna whines, rounding on Vilkas. "She brought down the dragon at the Western Watchtower, did you know that? I bet she'd go look for scales with me."

"Looking for scales?" Mayenor repeats slowly, gaze shifting between Minna's stuck-out tongue and Vilkas's clear unamusement.

"Yeah, I wanted to go looking for them but Vilkas wouldn't go with me. He said a dragon would eat me."

"He's probably right," Mayenor says seriously, expression solemn. "Dragons tend to do that."

"Really? They actually eat people? Not just, like, burn them?" Minna's blue eyes go wide, and she stares up at Mayenor in awe. Vilkas, mostly forgotten in the exchange, feels a smile tug at his lips: the thought that May looks like a mother telling stories to her child crosses his mind unbidden.

"Sure. They use all sorts of attacks, just like any other warrior. They spit fire or ice at you from a distance, then use melee up close, ripping you to shreds with their talons or flattening you with their tail or swallowing you whole. I saw an Elder Dragon bite a man clean in half once, gobbled down his torso while his legs sat on the ground, still kicking."

As Mayenor speaks, Minna's skin pales, and her admiration fades to fear. Mayenor, eyes sparkling with mischief, has to fight down a grin, and Vilkas sighs.

"Don't scare the whelp," he grumbles, slugging down half his ale in one gulp. "She's already afraid of frostbite spiders."

"Who wouldn't be?" The Breton retorts, glaring at Vilkas. "They're giant spiders. They're literally living nightmares. But I bet they're nothing compared to some of the things you've seen." She rounds back to Mayenor, and Vilkas glances up to find she's been staring at him while he and Minna spoke. He quickly looks at the table.

"I don't know what you've heard about me," Mayenor says, voice quieting. "But I'm just a girl. I haven't done anything that hadn't been done before."

"But you killed a dragon!" Minna argues.

"I was part of a group that killed a dragon," Mayenor corrects, and Minna frowns. Before she can say anything in argument, though, Vilkas interrupts.

"That's still more than she'll ever do if she doesn't train properly." Minna's scathing look sets him to smirking, and she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and flouncing into a seat—pointedly choosing one away from him. Pleased, Vilkas returns to his drink.

"So what are you doing back, Mayenor?" Minna asks, turning her back to Vilkas. "The way everyone talks, you've been gone a long time."

"I have," May admits, trailing around the table and leaning on the back of a chair not far from Vilkas. "But I had some business in the city. Couldn't visit Whiterun without stopping in."

"What kind of business?" Minna leans an elbow on the table, twirling a lock of hair around one uncalloused finger.

"It's… personal." Vilkas can feel her eyes on him, pulling his gaze up almost magnetically. Once they lock eyes, he knows he's stuck.

"Minna," Mayenor says, not looking away from Vilkas. From the corner of his eye, he sees the younger girl perk up. "You'll have to excuse Vilkas and me for a moment. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"You can catch up right here!" Minna blabbers, sensing her nonexistent hold on Vilkas's affection fading. "I'd love to hear you trade war stories—"

"We'll go to my room," Vilkas interrupts, standing slowly. He's at war with himself, willing his body to deny her: he's spent the last year and a half moving on from her, and he's done a damn good job. But, the moment she's in front of him again, he's completely powerless.

"Wait, no, stay here! I'll leave!" Minna's words are shrill, frantic; the implications of another woman in Vilkas's bedroom horrify her.

"We'll be fine," Mayenor assures the other girl, finally looking away and releasing Vilkas from her spell. She turns toward the stairs on the far wall, not even bothering to look back and make sure Vilkas is following.

He always follows her.