The Boy With The Crimson Eyes
Chapter 3 – Fianna
Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide
- Collide by Howie Day
Vilkas was distracted.
He swiftly parried a thrust of his twin brother's sword in the practice yard behind Jorrvaskr, his gaze following the Dragonborn as she moved up the path to Skyforge and then veered off it, into the tight cluster of orange trees behind Jorrvaskr.
It was almost nightfall. Where was the Breton going?
"You're distracted, brother. Do you want to stop?" Farkas asked, pausing in their daily training session.
"No… I mean yes," Vilkas uttered impatiently, absentmindedly, as his white-silver eyes searched for her. Faye had disappeared from his view among the trees and thigh-high grass. "I think I'll… ugh… why don't you train with Aela?"
"Okay, umm, if that's what you want, I guess," Farkas responded scratching his head, but Vilkas had already moved briskly up the path,toward the tight cluster of trees.
Once Vilkas reached the edge, he turned and streaked off into the trees, looking around.
Faye was nowhere to be seen.
What is she up to? He wondered with curiosity. There was no sign of her, yet he knew she had to be there. He urged his feet forward, his gaze roaming left and right repeatedly. "Faye?"
No answer.
He walked fast, searching, almost nearing the end of the tight cluster of trees. He felt a touch of worry then. The woman could not just vanish, even if she was the last Dragonborn. A terrible thought occurred. Had she tripped and fallen, hitting her head? Was she injured?
His tone turned sharp with panic. "Faye? Faye!"
A laugh sounded.
It was light and tinkling like that of wind chimes. It was hers.
Relief swept him. He whipped his head around, his short black hair falling into his light silver eyes. "Faye? Shor's blood, Breton, are you playing a game? Where are you?"
Another soft, feminine laugh, and then something hit his head, smack in the middle for his forehead. Vilkas' light eyes fell to the orange lying on the ground at his feet. Shocked, he jerked his gaze up to the treetop above him.
Faye smiled brightly down at him, green eyes twinkling, her long honeyed hair cascading in waves over her shoulders and down to her waist, her legs dangling from the high branch she was sitting on.
"What are you doing here, Vilkas?" The Dragonborn asked, the gentle question followed by another soft chuckle.
He smiled wide up at her. "What are you doing up there, Faye?"
"Picking oranges, of course," she answered sweetly. "Do you want one?"
His mouth opened to answer her, but before a word could escape she tossed one at him. He ducked, prepared this time, and it flew over his shoulder.
The eighteen-year-old Breton woman peeled the orange in her hand and popped a piece into her mouth, her eyes dancing mischievously. "Why have you followed me, Vilkas?"
"Why do you think?" His smile brightened at her impulsiveness. "Where you lead, I will follow. It is irrepressible."
Her head tipped back as she laughed.
A sultry smile curved his mouth as his silver eyes surrounded by black war paint dragged up her smooth bare legs to the leather skirt she was wearing. His eyes flickered up to her lovely face and his body heated at the look in her eyes. "Get down."
She raised a brow playfully as she popped another piece of her orange into her mouth. "But I am not done with my orange."
"Get down," he repeated, his tone sensually coaxing.
"If you want me, Nord, you will have to come up and get me," she called, and she climbed higher into the orange tree.
"I am a Nord," Vilkas said simply, unmoving. "Not a Khajiit."
"If you want me, Vilkas, then you will have to come and get me."
His body flushed, blood coursing hotly, anticipation building. He raced forward and hoisted himself into the tree. He heard her laugh above him as he moved higher, reaching for her. She eluded him deftly and within seconds dropped to the ground. She took off at a run just as he jumped to the ground right after her.
He darted after her. He lunged for her. She dodged, laughing. He reached for her, laughing as well, and she spun away. He feinted left and she went right and he caught her with a cry of triumph. He clutched her petite form to his chest and she wrapped her slender arms lined with muscles around his neck.
His head bowed as he leaned down into her, his mouth hovering above her ear. "Why did you run away, my little Dragonborn?"
"I wanted you to catch me," she murmured, her breath rustling his short midnight hair.
He hummed in response as his nose swept the length of her neck, breathing in her scent. "I wonder what it is you wanted me to do once I caught you?"
Her arms tightened around his neck and she shivered, his lips pressing tenderly to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. "Hold me. Kiss me. Love me." Her lips grazed his smooth cheek as she pulled back, her eyes stroking the depths of his - molten steel surrounded by black war paint. "I couldn't wait another second to have you."
"You want me, do you?" he exhaled softly as his lips grazed the line of her jaw to her chin.
Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut. "Yes."
"Then you will have me." Faye gasped as he knelt and pushed her onto the ground. "Here. Now."
Her cornsilk hair was splayed out around her head like a halo of sunlight as his lean body slid up hers, every hard inch of him coming into contact with her until his face hovered above hers. His body settled against hers, his white-silver eyes burning bright and hot into hers as he pushed her hair back from her face, his eyes melting with hers, the color highlighted by the blackness surrounding them.
"I love you," he uttered raggedly - words he'd only ever said to her, only ever felt for her, would only ever feel for her.
Her smile glowed - no, she glowed - as she traced the line of his clean-shaven jaw with her fingertips, eyes glittering up at him like starlight. "Show me."
"Until the end of forever." His smile matched hers as his fingers slipped gently through the golden silk of her hair as he brought his mouth down to hers. "Croí daor…" He breathed the two words meant only for her against her lips, and then into her skin, brushed them into her hair as he claimed her tendering, gently, lovingly on the grass beneath the orange tree.
Eyes still closed, Vilkas came awake slowly, drifting up from the bottom of a dark abyss of perfect memories that refused to stop haunting him. He hated them. He fought tooth and nail to keep them from surfacing, but he always failed. He loathed them because they reminded him of the man he once was. But that man didn't exist anymore. No one who knew him before what she'd done to him would guess at his identity now. Everything about him had changed because of her. He refused to wear his customary war paint around his eyes anymore because he was no longer a man of honor, but rather a merciless predator and homicidal cutthroat. He wasn't Vilkas anymore. He was truly Wolf, because Wolf had made certain nothing of Vilkas existed.
The raven-haired Nord became aware of the smell of wood burning and meat roasting, and the sound of a log popping in the heat of a fire. The burning itch on his chest made his fingers twitch to scratch it, raising his level of awareness, the remnant of pain hanging on the fringes of his sleep. Slowly, becoming more awake, Vilkas' eyes fluttered open to stare up at a dark ceiling. He grimaced as water dripped onto his long black beard from the dank ceiling. The sound of dripping water echoed eerily around him. He tried to swallow and it hurt. His throat felt raw. His head was groggy. It was hard to think. His chest was itching unbearably. He dazedly looked around the small cave he found himself in. There were various stalactites and stalagmites about, as well as water dripping down from the sides of the cave.
At least he was warm and comfortable, he realized. And wearing only pants. Something soft was covering the bare skin of his chest and arms. He looked down to find himself wrapped in bear pelts, lying carefully bundled beside an open fire in the cave. With his body aching and his head ringing, the Commander of the Blades forced himself to sit up, wincing while he did so, the bandages wrapped around his bare chest pulling tightly as his muscles flexed with the movement.
There came a sound he could not place and his head instinctively turned toward the sound. His half-opened eyes blur-focused on a small child sitting before the fire on a stone. The child's back was to the mouth of the cave, the flames of the open fire dancing in front of the child. The child was leaned over, not looking at the fire, little legs crossed and bony elbows resting on those little knees. A short, messy mop of raven-black hair with dark crimson streaks was sticking out over the top of a large, leather-bound tome that was hiding the child's face from his view.
"You're finally awake," came a high-pitched and cheerful voice that could only belong to a small boy.
The book closed with a snap and fell into the young child's lap, revealing his face. The little boy couldn't be older than six or seven and he was smiling at him from across the fire. It was a warm smile, filled with guiltless sweetness and kindness, brightening his young face. The raven-black color of his hair contrasted sharply with the ivory paleness of his skin, the unruly strands falling across his little forehead and into his eyes. His eyes were large, almost too big for his face, and were a stunning shade of green. Vilkas was sure he'd never seen such wide-eyed innocence in a human being before.
"You've been sleeping forever," the little boy whined, his little knees bouncing with overflowing excitement, unable to wait another second for the mysterious Nord warrior to awaken.
"Where am I?" Vilkas croaked, his ruined voice more raw and raspy than usual.
"In a cave!" the boy provided, his smile never dimming.
Vilkas gave the boy a pointed look. "I gathered as much."
The boy's head tilted. "Your voice sounds funny. Did you hurt it?"
Vilkas ignored the question as he braced an arm behind him on the fur pallet, the muscles in his upper arm and bare chest bulging, black-gray eyes tightening with suspicion. "Who are you, boy?"
"I'm Drake!" The boy stated cheerfully, his little face lighting up in an endearing boyish way.
Vilkas grunted in acknowledgment, not really caring what the hell the boy called himself. "How did I come to be here?"
"You were hurt and sick," he chirped pleasantly. "Mommy made you better."
Vilkas' iron-colored eyes held curiosity as he inquired, "And who is your mother?"
"The bestest mommy in the entire world!" the boy replied with unbridled love and adoration in his eyes.
Vilkas grunted as he looked around the small cave, his long black hair brushing across his shoulder blades. "And where is she now?"
"She went to get more firewood," the boy said, pointing a little thumb at the mouth of the cave behind him.
"Hn," Vilkas muttered absentmindedly as he reached a hand up to scratch at his bandaged chest.
"Don't scratch it!" the boy scolded. "Mommy will be angry with you if you scratch it!"
Vilkas' eyebrows drew together into a scowl as he grumbled an oath under his breath, not liking being told what to do by some child that was still a pup with his youthful face, boney elbows, and scrapped knees.
Curious despite himself, Vilkas lifted his gaze under his slashing eyebrows and studied the child sitting across the fire from him. He was a tall child with a slim, lanky figure and wore a crimson tunic, brown pants and small winter boots. Despite his light apparel, the boy didn't seem to be affected by the cold coming in from the mouth of the cave. His eyes ran critically over the child. He was also large for his age, and his bearing lent him stature.
He must be a Nord, Vilkas decided, recognizing his countrymen's natural resistance to frost in the boy. At least half Nord.
Vilkas' eyes scanned the cave a couple of times before coming to land on the massive dog that was sitting protectively in front of the boy. The dog was of great size and commanding appearance, a Nordic Wolfhound with a rough-coat that was grey in color.
"Who is that?" Vilkas asked with a nod of his head to the Wolfhound.
The boy looked down at the dog sitting in front of him that was three times his size and smiled fondly. The dog was his playmate, constant companion, and only friend. Well, besides his mommy.
"This is Meeko," Drake murmured as he stroked the giant warhound's fur lovingly. "He's my friend."
Vilkas raised a dark eyebrow. "He is very… big."
The boy giggled at the Nord warrior's wary statement and rubbed Meeko behind his ear causing the warhound to bark happily. "Mommy got him to protect me."
Vilkas' eyebrows drew together. "Why do you need protection?"
The little fledgling continued to rub the dog's fur, but his bright smile had slipped from his cheerful face, a somber emotion flooding his expressive features.
Vilkas' gaze turned questioning, but before he could question the boy on it the kid blurted out, "You thirsty?"
The boy stood swiftly and rushed over to a pail of water resting on the floor beside the fire. "Mommy left you some clothes to wear," the boy said without looking up from his task of filling a cup of water.
Vilkas' looked down to find the neatly folded pile lying in front of him. He lifted the black tunic and pulled it over his head before adjusting his loose black pants beneath the bear pelts.
"Here," the boy said before shoving the cup in Vilkas' face. Vilkas took the cup in his hand with a grunt of thanks.
The boy settled back on his stone before the fire, eyes never leaving Vilkas as he folded his legs to sit cross-legged. Vilkas lifted the cup in his hand and drank slowly, the water soothing and wonderful to his dry, parched mouth and throat.
"You don't talk much," the boy said after a long pause.
Vilkas' answer was stoic silence.
"What's your name?"
Vilkas said nothing, continuing to stare blankly into the fire as he finished off the water in his cup.
"Come on… tell me. Pleaseee…" the boy whined with an endearing pout and a bat of his eyelashes that Vilkas assumed the boy used more than once to get what he wanted.
Vilkas remained stoically silent, totally unaffected, watching the flames lick at the wood.
"Pleaseeeee…" the boy tried again, making his large emerald eyes widen even further into large innocent saucers.
Vilkas' jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek beneath his beard as he fought to ignore the boy's pleading across from him.
Drake's charming demeanor faded slightly and his little black eyebrows pulled together. "Please, mister. All I want to know is your name. Please. Please." The boy sucked in a sharp breath before shrieking. "PLEASEEEEE!"
"By the Nine, will you shut it!" Vilkas bellowed, his voice bouncing off the walls of the cave.
The child's green eyes fell slightly, his expression turning doleful as his little fingers played with the hem of his tunic. "I just wanted to know your name," he said in a little voice.
Vilkas looked to the dank ceiling as if searching for patience, his jaw tight. "It is only a name. Why do you care, boy?"
Drake's head tilted slightly. "Because we can't be friends until I know your name," he answered simply.
Vilkas snorted with derision. "And who says I want to be friends with you? You're a very annoying little whelp."
"I think we're going to be best friends!" The boy chirped pleasantly, his merriment and enthusiasm not diminished in the slightest.
Dark grey orbs fell to gaze sharply at the child sitting across the fire from him. "I will not be friends with a child. Especially one like you."
Bright green orbs turned questioning. "Why not?"
Vilkas groaned in irritation and rubbed his brow. "I tire of this. Leave me be."
The child sputtered. "But… but you have to tell me your name. Mommy says-"
Vilkas lifted his gaze under his slashing eyebrows and snapped, "If your mother was a fit parent she would had told you not to talk to strangers."
The boy snickered, the half smile on his face winning, displaying a playful nature. "But you're no stranger, mister. You've been here a super long time."
Vilkas' brows drew together as he pondered that. "How long have I been in this cave?"
The child's eyes rolled. "Foreeevvverrr."
"That's very helpful. Thank you for your input," Vilkas deadpanned.
Silence stretched between them, the only sound being the popping of the log in the open fire.
"Hey, are you hungry, Mr. Whiskers? Mommy made mommy soup. It's the bestest soup in the whole wide world!"
Vilkas gaze lifted sharply, a sharp glare on his face. "What did you just call me?"
"Mr. Whiskers!" The child squealed with delight, those brilliant green eyes widening and brightening with unbridled glee. "Because you have that big bushy beard!" His little finger pointed at his face with a radiant smile. "It looks like a squirrel hugging your face!"
A muscle in Vilkas' jaw ticked as he tried to master his temper. "My name…" he ground out. "…is not… Mr. Whiskers." His scowl turned fierce. "You got that, whelp?"
While most would start in fear at the look on Vilkas' face, the boy across from him merely exploded in a gurgle of laughter. "Well, what am I supposed to call you if I don't know your name?"
Smart ass, Vilkas thought, his scowl deepening.
"Come one, just tell me," the boy whined. "Pleas-"
"Wolf." That one word lingered in the silence of the cave that followed it. "My name is Wolf."
Silence stretched between them.
"I like that name," the boy said after a long pause with a resolute nod.
Wolf studied the little boy as he bent forward and petted his dog, his short raven-black hair hanging into his bright green eyes as he smiled lovingly down at his dog.
Wolf didn't like kids. No, he disliked the vulnerability of kids, the ease with which they could be hurt, lost, kidnapped, broken. He'd only met his three nieces once and it had been a very awkward experience that he wasn't eager to experience again.
He hated the thought of ever having his own.
Truth was, he didn't like people. Not anymore. He wasn't fit to be around them. He was so full of hate and bitterness. His hands were stained with blood and violence while a cold blackness surrounded his soul. Hell, giants were more suitable for social settings than he was. No one was less equipped than he was to-
"What does croí daor mean?"
The air gushed from Wolf's chest as if a boulder had been placed there. His posture changed instantly, as if the child's words jolted him like a bolt of lightning. His expression froze, a tight suffocating ache centering itself in his throat as those two words echoed in the chilling silence of the cave.
"You said croí daor just a few minutes ago while you were sleeping," Drake continued with a tilt of his head, eying Wolf curiously. "Is it ancient Nordic?"
Wolf's answer was taut silence, a dark veil falling across his face that was now harsh with strain. His eyes filled with a great sorrow that spoke of past pain that still lingered. He clenched his hands into fists. The Dragonborn's name rang like a litany inside his head, and with it brought a terrible feeling of emptiness and a familiar need for vengeance - a need to return the pain she had wrought a hundredfold.
"You're sad… or angry?" came a softly spoken voice no louder than a whisper. "Why?"
Wolf quickly schooled his expression to unreadable, realizing only then that he had inadvertently let his emotions show on his face, something he rarely did. He looked up to find those green eyes focused entirely on him, sharp and assessing, with a keen intelligence that seemed greater than the child's few years.
Suddenly Wolf was unable to breathe in the small confines of the cave. The awkwardness and unease he was feeling was smothering, suffocating. His skin was crawling. He had to get out of there.
"I should be leaving," Wolf grumbled harshly, abruptly, his ruined voice scraping.
His small face pinched with disappointment. "You could stay," Drake stated with a hopeful smile. "Mommy said you wouldn't be better for a few more days."
Wolf smothered a leap of impatience, unable to stand another second in this confined space with this child. "I must return to the Blades Fortress. My team will be anxious to see me." That was an understatement. The last time he went missing like this he was captured and tortured by the Dragon Cult for six months. Aela must be going crazy right now looking for him.
The boy looked at him and spoke urgently, "But mommy said a storm is coming. A really bad one."
Wolf scoffed. "I am a Nord. I am not afraid of the cold."
"I'm a Nord too!" The boy cried out, excited to have something in common with the powerful Blade warrior he was starting to admire.
Wolf raised a questioning eyebrow. "Your parents are Nords?"
"Well, my da is a Nord," the boy explained warily, his eyes shifting nervously from side to side as if he was uncomfortable with the subject. "But my mommy is a… umm… a…" the boy trailed off, searching for the right word.
"A what?"
The boy's eyebrows squished together. "Ugh… an Imperical."
"You mean an Imperial?"
"Yeah, that's it!"
"Good for you," Wolf uttered dryly. Grimacing from the pain in his chest, Wolf pushed to his feet.
The boy's eyes became as large as saucers, his disbelief apparent. "Wait… you're leaving?! But… but you can't leave yet!"
"And why not?"
"Because… because there's going to be a blizzard and you're still hurt," Drake uttered quickly, bestowing on him his youthful wisdom.
Wolf's gaze flickered to the mouth of the cave where snow was falling just outside of it. He frowned. He was still injured and the trip was long. He felt weak, thirsty, and hungry. Despite being a Nord, he didn't think it would be wise to travel in the foul weather that was brewing outside. But, Talos help him, he really didn't want to be here. He wanted to run and get far away from here. He wanted to return to his life as Commander of the Blades that was ruled by violence, blood, and death. Bitterness and pain. Loneliness and regret.
Sweet Mara, he needed a drink. And a woman. He had started using alcohol and warm female flesh to relax and take the edge off, and he sure was balanced on one hell of an edge right now.
Wolf's gaze returned warily to the boy sitting in the cave, staring at him with overwhelming interest and admiration shimmering in his large jade eyes.
Talos, he needed some air.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was midnight in Dawnstar.
It was a dark night, deep and frigid, with only a few fading stars and a full moon to cast any light. The rain was cold and smelled of winter as it fell unremittingly from the endless blackness above. A freezing wind blew from the north, a gust of flurry and ice.
The last Dragonborn trekked through the snow, huddled beneath her black winter cloak, checking the traps she'd laid around the cave for protection. Beneath her cloak she wore light armor that was skintight and made of red and black leather. It was Dark Brotherhood armor that she'd taken off of an assassin woman who'd tried to kill her six years ago. It was the first time Faye had given into temptation and stayed in a tavern for a warm meal and a good nights rest on a real bed. She'd removed her mask and took her hood off for bed. She learned that day never to make that mistake again for it was exactly what the assassin had been waiting for. Once her identity had been confirmed, the assassin had attacked.
Faye liked the Dark Brotherhood shroud armor and she wore it whenever she was around people because it had an attached black cowl that covered her hair and mask that covered her face. When she wore the armor, the only thing visible was her eyes. It was the only way she didn't have to worry about being seen and recognized.
The wind howled wildly causing the leafless trees to rustle violently and snow to rise from the ground, forming small whirlwinds that danced along the open expanse of whiteness that covered the ground.
A storm is coming, the Breton mused as she watched the frozen rain swirl and spiral violently to the ground around her. She needed to get back to the cave and indoors fast before she got caught in the blizzard that seemed ready to hit at anytime.
She also needed to get back to her son.
And her patient.
It was just her luck that the man she'd saved was a Blade.
A Blade!
Oh, the gods certainly had it out for her, Faye was certain now, she reflected with dismay. It only served to increase her growing feeling of panic and apprehension. She couldn't be spending time with a Blade. It could ruin everything. She needed to finish healing him and get rid of him as quickly as possible.
She must've been mad to decide to bring the Nord warrior back to the cave she and Drake were hiding out in and nurse him back to health. She'd seen his armor, she'd known what he was, and yet she couldn't just leave him there to die in the snow. Curse her heart! It was going to get her into serious trouble one day.
But that was just the half of it.
Of all the Blade warriors she had to save it had to be the Wolf of the Blades!
Wolf.
Faye had heard his name whispered with dread, heard tales. The Wolf of the Blades was the subject of fearsome tales and scandalous rumors. His exploits in battle were legendary and his reputation fierce. He was a vicious and ruthless man who coldly decided who continued to breathe and who was buried six feet under. And his name was Death. And the fires of Oblivion followed after him. But until the moment she saw him fight on that snowy battlefield and saw that he carried the sign of the wolf on his Blades armor she hadn't believed he existed. She would never forget her first sight of him five days before as he fought all of those dragon cultists singlehandedly. The Wolf had been a forbidding figure, brutal and merciless while wielding his sword with such proficiency and skill that he looked like a god of war. She now understood why grown men trembled in fear of him.
The Wolf was the Commander of the Blades and an infamous predator, a remorseless killer, and one of the most feared creatures in all of Skyrim. He was the reason people feared the Blades. They feared they were growing too powerful and that nothing would be able to keep the Wolf and his Blade marauders at bay, leaving them free to take the Snow Tower for themselves while it lied sundered and kingless. It was also no secret that the Blades were working with a dragon, Alduin's brother no less, which struck fear in the hearts of the people of Skyrim. They feared Paarthurnax was the one who had absorbed Alduin's soul and the Blades were doing his biding while he returned to his full strength.
All Faye knew was that it was her duty and responsibility as the last Dragonborn to deal with Alduin. She would find a way to get rid of him once and for all. She couldn't trust Paarthurnax. She couldn't trust the Blades. She couldn't trust anyone. This task was hers and hers alone. And she would finish it. Alone. She was a formidable force, protecting her son from so many terrible things she hoped Drake would never have to witness, and, oh she loved her son more than life itself.
Faye had only been eighteen-years-old when she'd left Vilkas six years ago - eighteen, pregnant, an orphan, and alone. She'd been so depressed, heartbroken, missing Vilkas with an ache that was marrow deep. Her heart had been dying, and she had been living half alive.
She'd learned quickly how hard life could be in Skyrim when you were a young woman, pregnant, single, and penniless. She'd soon discovered that the citizens of Skyrim were more conservative than she'd originally given them credit. She found the assistance of the countrymen for the barest of necessities difficult when you were an unmarried young woman who had gotten herself pregnant, especially when you were of a different race.
No one would help her or offer her work or shelter. In order to survive, she'd married her childhood friend, Brynjolf. Her marriage to the Guild Master of the Thieves Guild had given her the respectability to endure. It also acted to hide the identity of the father of her child since Drake was born eight months after her marriage and everyone assumed Drake was Brynjolf's. Her marriage had also given her son a strong Nord last name, as well as allow her to change her own last name, eliminating Faye Ashhart for good. But each day had been a fight for survival. Terror and uncertainty had hounded her during the days and nights of her pregnancy. Each day had been filled with fear, confusion, and heartache. She'd been so young and alone and so… lost.
But she'd never cried. Not once.
Faye remembered her own pain and the midwife's hushed tones the night she'd given birth to Drake. Even when she'd almost died in childbirth, she'd suffered the pain with a white-lipped, white-knuckled silence that so frightened the midwife that she had threatened to leave the birth chamber.
But then everything had changed.
Five winters ago, now almost six, she'd taken her son into her arms while he wailed, and in that moment she was made whole. Her little boy had brought with him a sense of purpose and fulfillment into her life. He put the light back in her eyes, and instilled a love so deep it touched her soul.
Drake was such a strong willed little boy with a kind heart. He had his father's intelligence and raven-black hair, and her green eyes and stubbornness. He was the cutest little kid with the sweetest disposition. Sweet Stendarr's Mercy, there was no question about it, Drake was going to be a heartbreaker when he grew up, just like his father.
The Dragonborn's heart swelled just thinking of Drake. She loved him so much. Her sweet little sparrow. Her reason for everything. She made every sacrifice a mother could for her child, though she wished she could give him more, better. They did everything together, enjoying each other, and laughing almost all the time. She never once regretted her decision to keep him, to keep him safe, to have him. Never. And she'd never let anything or anymore take him from her. If it took her last breath, she would not fail her son.
Faye gritted her teeth against another icy blast, shivering beneath her winter cloak. Her face lifted to watch the thin clouds cut across the face of the moon.
Even after all of these years, Vilkas had never been far from her thoughts. Nor the lonely pain of missing him. So many times she questioned her decision to leave him until she'd thought she'd go mad. But she couldn't change the past, couldn't change her decision. She didn't want to anyway. She wouldn't take back the choice she made to keep her baby, but it was hard to say there was nothing she regretted. Given the choice, she would have done the same thing again in spite of all it had cost her.
Yes, she got lonely. She was human after all, despite what people thought of her. But when she did she wrapped her memories of her time with Vilkas around her like a warm, comforting blanket until the chill of loneliness eased. But when she thought of Vilkas living in Whiterun with his beautiful Nord wife and his three children, it wasn't the loneliness that hurt the most. It was the feeling of being forgotten by someone she couldn't forget.
Powerful snow flurries whipped harshly through the air against her. Her ebony cloak shone slick with the damp. Her slender hand lifted in front of her, snowy flakes landing on the palm of her gloved hand. The movement had caused the sleeve of her black cloak to pull back to reveal a black tattoo.
Sky above me, earth below me, fire within me.
The Dragonborn had those very words tattooed in dragon language on her wrist, a reminder of who she was, that everything she needed she had with her. Her open palm closed tight around the snowflakes she'd caught, her hand dropping heavy back to her side.
With the moon shining in the cloudless night sky above her as her only source of light, Faye prodded warily across the shifting, icy landscape, checking her traps and searching for enemies. The young Breton woman carefully threaded her way through a thicket, avoiding the numerous rocks and hidden roots beneath the snow that threatened to trip her.
Suddenly, footsteps like claps of thunder came at her from her side. The Dragonborn stood her ground and turned to face the oncoming frost troll. The smell of burnt rotten eggs was overcame her. Faye braced herself against the horrible, familiar smell. The white-furred troll came around the bend and came to a lumbering stop. Compared to the petite Breton woman, the troll was massive in stature. Thick drool dripped from the troll's mouth as Faye unsheathed her blade.
Moments later and Faye was breathing deeply as she wiped the troll's blood off of her short-sword before sheathing it at her hip, puffs of white mist blooming in front of her masked face every time she exhaled.
That took too long, she berated herself. Dammit. I've grown soft.
When she'd faced Alduin all those years ago she'd been eighteen with a girl's body and as physically fit as one could get. But after having Drake and reaching her body's full maturity, she now had a womanly figure with feminine curves, wide hips, and full breasts that had ever been there before. From being hidden beneath cloaks, hoods, and masks her skin had turned from a sun-kissed tan to a pale ivory. Her voice had deepened and she had even grown a few inches, stretching from a tiny four-foot-ten inches to five-feet and three.
But such change in figure and growth was typical for a Breton woman after giving birth. To be honest, she hardly recognized the girl in the portraits of the Dragonborn she occasionally saw scattered around Skyrim. That girl looked nothing like the woman she was today, especially with the thin white scar that ran from the outside tip of her right eyebrow to her chin. That scar was one of many, and just another reminder that so much had changed in the six, almost seven, years she'd been living on the run after leaving her life behind, leaving Vilkas behind.
Faye's heart twisted as it always did when she thought of Vilkas, when she thought of his white-silver eyes surrounded by black war paint, his warm laugh, his bright smile, and slim, lean body. She hated how she was slowly starting to forget him, wishing not for the first time that she had a portrait of him. She also hated the fact that he would never know about Drake, which only added to the ache of guilt within her that had been her constant companion all these years. But unlike Vilkas, Faye had not seen the conception of a child as a burden but as a blessing. How many times did Vilkas say that he didn't want children? That he didn't like kids. How many times had his lip curled at the sight of a toddler running rampant in the streets of Whiterun while he pointed out to her that was exactly why they were better off without any rugrats. A thousand memories washed over her like waves of broken glass, each one stinging and leaving behind a wound.
But most of all she remembered the unforgettable words he'd spoken to her the day they'd faced Alduin together. Those words had been what made her run, and continued to keep her running. Because of those words, Vilkas would never know about Drake. Never. If he ever found out about the baby she'd kept from him, it might cost her the son she loved with every molecule of her being.
With the full moon shinning against the midnight sky, casting a silver aura on the whiteness blanketing the earth and trees, the Dragonborn continued on her way and checked the last of her traps. Afterwards, she did a second check of the perimeter, her clover-colored eyes searching the frost-covered forest around her for enemies.
Deciding that the area was secured, she started to head back to the warmth of the cave that contained the most precious person in her life, as well as the mysterious Blade that she had to get rid of as soon as possible. Snow illuminated white on the ground in front of her as she treaded softly through the snow, lost in her own thoughts, almost to the mouth of the cave.
A snapping of twigs alerted Faye that she wasn't alone. Panic pricked up her spine as she searched the dark forest around her, moonlight creeping in through the branches overhead.
Nothing… no movement at all. There was no sign of any enemies, no dangers lurking in the dark. Nothing moved around her except the moon-drenched canopy of pines above her head.
It must have been a small animal, she thought.
Another snap, right behind her. This time it sounded too close and too loud to be a small animal.
The Breton's body tensed as she strained her ears. There wasn't a sound for what felt like an eternity.
There was a faint rustle of clothes behind her.
Taking a steady breath, she gripped the hilt of her short-sword at her hip and spun around. Faye suppressed a gasp when her eyes landed on a tall, dark figure. With her heart beating wildly, she stared transfixed at the motionless form that stood only a few feet away from her, shrouded in a blanket of darkness. The figure took a step toward her, stepping into the moonlight, and Faye's eyes widened.
It was him.
Wolf.
Her eyes scanned him, surprised he was even standing. Tough bastard, she admitted with reluctant admiration. He'd been ambushed by over a hundred dragon cultists, had fought them singlehandedly, had been poisoned, had almost died only five days ago, and now he was standing in only loose black pants and a black tunic in an approaching blizzard as if it was nothing.
Even across the distance that separated them, Faye could feel his towering, masculine presence. He was a daunting figure - a massive, muscle-bound, mountain of a man with a body made up entirely of tightly corded muscle and dormant strength. Gods, he was bigger than Farkas, which was saying something.
His hair was thick and pitch-black, untamed, hanging well past his broad shoulders and stopping at his shoulder blades. A long thick beard covered most of his face, but from what she could see, his hard features were sharply chiseled and ruggedly handsome.
He reminded her of a young Kodlak.
Wolf's dark, stormcloud gray eyes held the intensity of an apex predator as they tracked every movement she made, every draw of breath. With that relentless eye contact, he held her pinioned where she stood. For what seemed like a lifetime he stared at her, not moving, not speaking, the only sound being their breathing and the whip of the winter wind around them.
Faye was ridged as a board as she took a step backward, every natural instinct within her screaming warnings and alarms. A dark aura of danger, menace, and power surrounded him that stemmed from more than simply his imposing height and formidable bearing. Even though she'd never actually spoken to him before since he'd been in a feverish and unconscious state for the past five days, she recognized danger when it stood right in front of her. One glimpse would tell any thinking person that this was a man who would kill and maim, and probably enjoy every moment of it.
The wind howled and picked up slightly, swirling flurries of snow around them, causing her black cloak to whip around her body. At least he can't see my face, Faye thought, thankful she was wearing the Dark Brotherhood shroud armor, the hood covering her hair and the mask covering her face.
A dagger suddenly appeared in Wolf's hand and a frisson of fear ran down her spine as the obscure, ominous figure moved toward her so fast he was a mere blur.
What in Oblivion is he doing?! Faye screamed mentally as she ripped her short-sword free of its sheath as the Nord warrior lunged at her, striking like a panther. There was a clang of steel - metal hitting metal - as she blocked his dagger with her blade. Is he bloody insane?!
Wolf's unequalled strength quickly overpowered her own and Faye's booted foot struck his shin. He grunted and she shoved his dagger away with her own, spinning away. He came at her again and she moved fluidly, her movements graceful like those of a dancer, her sword constantly swinging in controlled arcs. Her hands tingled with the constant vibrations from the power behind his swings. He had strength, but she had speed. She moved so fast, ducking, weaving and diving around and under the flashing blade in his hand.
Faye had no idea why Wolf was attacking her, especially after she'd saved his life. Perhaps he was delirious. She didn't want to hurt him if he was still feverish and hallucinating. She also couldn't unleash a Shout as that would give away her identity. It would appear she would just have to knock him out and get him back to the cave and heal him again. It shouldn't be too hard, she figured, since he was still injured.
Faye's sword blurred, snaking out, but Wolf's dagger crashed into hers, the impact knocking her back. Faye stepped back to regain her balance. The Blade smashed his sword down at her from above, and she parried his blow firmly. Their blades separated, the massive Nord slashed at her throat, she ducked out of the way. She pivoted on her foot and slammed her elbow into his face. He cursed violently as his hand went to his eye where her elbow had hit him. She lunged with her short-sword and he turned, catching her wrist with his hand. He twisted, hard, her shoulder throbbed. He slashed his sword at her extended arm in his hand. She smashed the hilt of her blade onto his forehead before his dagger made impact. He fell backwards, regained his composure.
The Nord charged her, his massive bulk and strength overpowering her, but he was not as agile as she was and she held the superior weapon. Darting around him, Faye forced him to continually change direction. He persisted. They exchanged a number of attempted blows. Their blades clanged. The Dragonborn swung her sword down at him, he parried. Lightning-fast, his large hand clamped around her throat like a band of steel. Faye's breath caught as her feet lifted off the ground as she was shoved backwards, her back slamming painfully into a tree trunk. She winced as the bark bit painfully into her back through her light armor and cloak. The hand around her armored throat tightened and lifted her up another foot on the tree, her feet dangling. Her head shot up and her eyes clashed with his.
They remained silent and unmoving as the snow continued to fall from the black sky above them. For a score of heartbeats, Faye stared up at him. In the unnatural calm following the violence, she studied the harsh-visaged Nord warrior who loomed threateningly over her, his towering height dwarfing her. He was more intimidating up close, the sense of hardness, of danger about him, overwhelming.
Overlong, untamed raven hair framed his face. His wild, black beard obscured much of it, but from what she could see, his face was hard and remote, with a ruthless mouth that exhaled white mist into her face. Those flint-gray eyes were as piercing as a feral wolf's as they surveyed her intently beneath sharp black brows. Suspicion and distrust filled their icy granite depths, as well as the promise of death that lingered like a haze of smoke deep within them.
"You know who I am?" His voice was rough and gravelly, as if each word came out scrapping across broken glass and sandpaper. No normal voice sounded like that.
Breathing was like inhaling ice, and her throat was dry and brittle, his hand still clamped securely around it like an iron manacle. Faye exhaled into the black cloth covering her face and answered honestly, "Yes."
His coldest feature is his eyes, Faye decided as she stared into them. It was like he was trying to freeze her soul or hypnotize her under his control. They were creepy and she got chills from staring into them.
"Who am I?" His voice was low, commanding, compelling her to answer him.
"The Wolf of the Blades," she answered simply. She lifted her chin as she stared him down, her forest-green eyes glistening in the moonlight beneath her cowl. "Your reputation is legendary."
He slanted one dark brow in a wry manner in answer.
"I've heard fearsome things said of you," she continued. "Tales over the years. Tales of the Wolf's prowess in combat." Her lowered voice carried to him on a gentle gust of wind. "They say he is ruthless, cruel, and unimaginably powerful, his name alone able to strike fear into grown men. They say he kills everything that gets in his way without mercy. He is compared to a demon more than a man."
His lip curled back in a savage snarl. He looked wild, feral even, and dangerous with his teeth bared at her, raven-black hair hanging around his face like a curtain, and sharp black eyebrows pulled low and tight over dark-fringed, storm gray eyes that were so brutal in their intensity that she felt them boring into the back of her skull.
"Do I look like a demon?" His deep, grating voice sounded as if it had been dragged up from the depths of Oblivion.
"Yes," Faye replied quietly, a frisson of dread dancing down her spine.
"Do you fear me?" Wolf asked quietly, as if reading her thoughts, his hardness and intensity unsettling.
"No," she answered in truth, though she could taste apprehension in her mouth.
Wolf applied pressure with his thumb and fingertips, allowing her to feel the leashed strength in his powerful hand that almost completely circled her throat.
"You should be." The words were a mere rumbling growl escaping the back of his throat, raw and primitive, threatening.
A wisp of cloud drifted across the paleness of the moon, casting ghostly shadows on the mysterious woman who's eyes rounded as they stared up at him, the only part of her visible to him. In the frigid silence, he could hear her heaving lungs as they filled with air, her enormous eyes remaining focused on him.
Cocking his head, Wolf felt the pulse in her throat beat a frenzied rhythm beneath his fingertips, even through the armor covering her throat. He could snap her delicate little neck right now like that of a baby birds, yet she remained surprisingly calm. There was no fear in her eyes, not even a flicker of it. Grown men quivered in fear at the sound of his name, but this small woman did nothing of the sort. Her head was held high, eyes meeting his in defiance. Wolf wavered somewhere between outrage, disbelief, and admiration.
She might not look like much, but she had skill and courage, and something else he couldn't name, something that glittered like a warning in the back of her eyes. It was as if she had an ace up her sleeve but didn't want to use it unless she absolutely had to. A pulse of power flowed from her, and Wolf wasn't sure he wanted to find out what power that was, what exactly it was she was holding back.
The wind blew, causing flurries of snow to whip around them. Long onyx strands of hair brushed against her cowl and mask.
Her eyes caught his and then let them go.
They were the perfect shade of green.
Wolf's free hand reached up between their almost touching bodies, his long fingers reaching for the top of her mask to pull it down and reveal to him this mystery woman's face.
Those green eyes narrowed fiercely beneath her cowl. "I wouldn't do that were I you."
Wolf's fingers paused, a hairsbreadth away from her mask as he felt something hard and unforgiving pressing into the sensitive spot between his ribs. He looked down to find her short-sword in her hand, the blade pressing into his torso, promising death should he try to remove her mask again.
"And kindly remove your hand from my throat," she stated evenly. "I don't appreciate being manhandled."
Wolf's hand fell away from her mask, but his other hand remained around her throat. Silence engulfed them as he regarded her for several heartbeats, assessing her. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
White mist bloomed in front of her mask in the wintry night air. "Where did you?"
His jaw came up, his mouth tightly compressed. "Don't trifle with me, woman. It'll just piss me off." His fingers tightened slightly on her throat. "And you won't like me when I'm pissed off."
Faye felt a flash of anger, which she quickly tamped down. "I don't very much like you now, seeing as how you've got your hand around my throat." Her chin came up, eyes flashing. "Would you kindly remove it?"
His gaze became narrowed and measuring. "And why should I? I don't know you. For all I know, your just another assassin sent here to finish me off."
For a moment she could only stare at him in stunned silence. "I'm no assassin."
He gave her another frowning glance, this one rifle with skepticism as his gaze fell purposefully to her Dark Brotherhood armor. "You look like one. You fight like one."
"I found this armor on a dead woman in a tavern," she explained, leaving out the part where she slit the woman's throat.
"And why should I believe a word you say?"
She stared at him in disbelief. "You've been in my care for five days now. A few hours ago you were dreaming on my fur pallet, my son's dog licking your face." Her lips curved beneath her mask. "If I wanted to kill you, Blade, I would have done it already."
His searching gaze was intense and distrustful. "I don't believe you."
She scoffed. "Are you always this gracious with the people who save your life?"
The Nord threw her an incredulous glance. "I don't remember you saving my life. The last thing I remember was the fight."
"But it's the truth!" she cried incredulously. "You would be killing the woman that saved your life!"
His lips twisted in a sneer. "No, I would be killing the assassin sent here to kill me."
The Breton's mouth pinched beneath her mask. "You're very senseless for a Nord."
"And you're very small," he shot back.
"I'm an Imperial. We tend to me shorter than your countrymen," she lied, another measure to protect her identity.
A faint smile curved his mouth that was as unexpected as it was disturbing. "Do you really think this banter will save your life?"
A cloud drifted across the moon, shadowing his face. It made her feel uneasy. After a long pregnant pause, her throat worked and her voice came out softer than she liked. "Are you really going to kill me?"
He seemed to hesitate before casting her a brief, enigmatic glance. "I don't know yet."
Her eyes held his, flickering between them. "You're only alive because I refused to let you die."
"And what were your motives behind such an act of generosity?" The Blade cast his eyes upon her as if to judge her worth.
In the distance a coyote howled, the sound drifting to Faye on the winter breeze that smelled of ice. "You're very distrustful," she stated evenly.
His narrowed, slate-gray gaze held her immobile. "I have no reason to trust you, woman, even if you did save my life."
She forced herself to meet his gaze that was filled with shadows. "I did it because…"
"Because?" He prodded when her voice faded out.
Though he couldn't see it, under the cowl that covered her face, a sad smile curved on the Dragonborn's lips as she thought of Kodlak. "Because you remind me of someone. A man who was like a father to me."
Wolf gave her an unreadable glance and said nothing. Her mouth became so dry she couldn't swallow as he just kept staring at her, unblinking, trapping her in the quiet intensity of those impenetrable gray-black eyes.
"I won't kill you," he stated finally after a very long pause. "For now," he added harshly.
Wolf released her throat, letting her drop to her feet in front of the tree. Faye sheathed her blade and rubbed her throat.
The Blade continued to stare at her. He was frowning, as if puzzled. His brow became creased with deep lines, his mouth pulling tight. His narrowed eyes shifted subtly back and forth between hers. "Who are you?"
Faye remained silent, a breathless fear causing her throat to tighten and her palms to sweat. This was her fear when she'd decided to save his life. That he would start asking questions.
"Who are you?" There was a hard edge to his tone.
Her voice went reed thin. "Nobody."
Wolf's eyes reflected the still iciness of the snow-bound winter night outside the cave. "Tell me your name."
Faye bit the inside of her cheek, her mind racing for something to say, her mask smothering her.
"Tell me your name," His tone was somewhere between cold and frigid, just like his eyes.
Faye tore her eyes from his, unable to stand their strange and unnerving intensity and coldness. "I don't see any reason for us knowing each other's names."
"Tell me." he commanded in an indomitable tone. His bearded face was fierce with irritation, utterly uncompromising. "I will not ask again."
"Fianna," she whispered, the quiet sound getting swept up in the whirl of snow that rushed past them. It was her mother's name, the name she'd been using for the past six years.
"Fianna." Wolf said her name slowly, as if testing it on his tongue, and the roughly graveled syllables caused a chilling tingle to trickle down her back.
After what seemed an interminably long while, his hard expression shifted as he studied her speculatively. A curious gleam entered his eyes that made her uneasy. His eyes fell, searching the cowl covering her face, as if trying to see beneath it. His eyes then flicked up to hers and stared, probing, searching for… something.
"Do I know you?" His voice sounded strangely constrained, almost taut.
Fianna searched his eyes for some trace of familiarity or humanity and found neither. They were filled with nothing at all. She didn't know this man, if he could even be called that.
"I think not." She forced herself to swallow the dry lump lodged in her throat. "I would remember meeting a demon like you."
Some dark emotion flitted across his face before he hid it behind a veil of ice, his scowl deepening. Wolf stepped back from Fianna, looking away from her. He did not seem interested in prolonging their discussion. "I must return to my responsibilities with the Blades."
Her arms folded, eyebrow raised. "You won't get far."
His eyes met hers. "Meaning?"
"A blizzard is coming and your still injured. You'll bleed out before you reach the bottom of the mountain." Fianna shrugged, indifferent. "It matters not to me what you do. If you die, my conscience will at least be clear this time."
Despite her words, Fianna's teeth gritted against her rebellious conscience that refused to let the stubborn Nord trail off down the mountain and get himself killed after the five days she slaved over him, bringing him back from the brink of death.
Cursing her soft heart for the second time this week, Fianna forced the words out, "You can wait out the storm with us." Her invitation was grudging. She didn't want this man anywhere near her or her son.
With a thoroughly disgruntled expression playing upon his face, Wolf walked to the edge of the cliff and stared thoughtfully down the mountain at the city of Dawnstar. A cold wind blew through the trees, rustling his long beard and thick raven-black locks that hung past his shoulders.
"It would appear that I am stuck here," Wolf muttered bleakly. Those piercing black-gray eyes slanted to her. "At least until the storm passes."
"Wonderful," Fianna muttered dryly, unable to shake the feeling that she would come to regret this.
Author's Note: "Croí daor" has a very special place in my heart. It's what my husband calls me. He's Irish. You can look up the meaning, but I beg you to wait and keep reading. I will reveal the meaning and I think it will be more meaningful to learn it from this story than from a translator. In this story I will say the words are ancient Nordic, but they are actually Irish. Also, this chapter has a soundtrack: Collide by Howie Day. You can hear the whole song for free on YouTube.