Falka and Vilkas left the corpses of the three Thalmor soldiers behind them, and soon afterwards snow again began to fall, albeit less strongly than those few days earlier in Whiterun. Their going became even slower than it had been before. Shortly before nightfall, the two travellers were ambushed by a small band of Forsworn.

"And this is why I still support Ulfric," Falka panted after the last of the attackers had fled.

"Huh?"

She sheathed her sword. "This." She gestured at the two bodies that lay sprawling on the ground, blood dyeing the snow red. "It cannot be a permanent solution that no man may walk the roads of Skyrim without fear for his life. The two of us are barely able to make it from Whiterun to Solitude, and I know few who might surpass our skills."

"And we haven't even made it there yet."

"Aye…" Falka agreed. "But we should be close to Dragon Bridge by now, and the inn there is quite nice."

"You know – I wonder why we have not crossed Farkas' path yet," Falka mused that night as she and Vilkas lay in bed in their rented room.

She could feel Vilkas shift next to her, and then the moon's soft light was blackened out by his frame. "Aye."

"Vilkas?" A feeling of uneasiness stirred inside Falka. "Are you worried?"

"I've way too many worries these days," Vilkas grumbled cryptically. "I'll be going grey long before my time if you keep this up."

"Me?" Falka smiled into the darkness and reached out a hand to bury her fingers in Vilkas' hair. "I will always be here—"

Vilkas bent down and cut her reply off with a kiss.

"You know, I think I might know why Farkas is late," Falka mumbled sleepily once she was nestled in Vilkas' arms.

Vilkas' fingers stopped tracing their invisible patterns on Falka's arm. "Mh?" Lazily, he scraped his teeth against Falka's earlobe.

"Ay— Ay—" She yawned heartily. "Aye. I think a certain young Dunmer is the reason for that."

Vilkas chuckled softly into Falka's ear, making her squirm. "You may be right," he mumbled against the skin behind her ear. "Maybe that'll finally make him stop his complaining."

The next morning, the two Companions set out for Solitude. The little snow that had fallen over night did not block to roads too severely, and the closer to the city they got, the easier their going became. By midday, Falka and Vilkas passed through the huge gates of the city and onto the vendor's street. After asking for directions, the pair rented a room at the local inn. Once they had retired to the room, Vilkas discarded his heavy armour and made himself comfortable with a bottle of beer. Falka pulled a tightly folded bundle from her bag and gently unravelled it.

"You brought a dress?"

The horror in Vilkas' voice made Falka chuckle. "I can hardly meet the Jarl in this now, can I?" She spread her hands, displaying her armour. On Vilkas' insistence, she had let both the impressive work from Eorlund – a fine set, proudly sprouting a wolf's head and ornaments closely linked to the Companions – as well as Avenicci's masterpiece – crafted from the bones of two dragons – in Whiterun. Instead, Falka had chosen her newest set: a medium tier armour much less symbolic, if not less attention-getting.

"'s pretty good, I'd say."

"Not for the Blue Palace, and not for the Jarl." Falka shook her head decisively while unceremoniously doffing her armour on the floor. "And especially not when I come as emissary of Whiterun."

"'s not fair Balgruuf gets you in a dress," Vilkas complained in mockery as he watched her change. "What would I have to do to get you into one?"

"You already saw me in a dress once," she retorted, sauntering over to the bed on which Vilkas was slouching.

Vilkas pulled her into an embrace. "Mmmh. Wasn't enough," he mumbled.

"Too bad. Maybe you should have picked a sweet little doll then instead of me."

"Never."

"Good," she breathed. "Now let me get dressed."

Reluctantly, Vilkas complied.

"Where'd you get that?" he gasped as he took sight of his wife in the light-yellow coloured garment.

"Adrianne."

"The smith?"

"Aye. I think she, Belethor, and Danica had it made for the occasion from someone's wedding dress or something. Some dye to match Whiterun's, a few adjustments here and there" – Falka adjusted the neckline, grinning at the look on Vilkas' face – "and here we go. They even packed a matching cloak. What do you say?"

"You're so going to wear that again, Red."

"And what would the Harbinger of the Companions do with a dress such as that?"

Vilkas got up and crossed the space between them. "I can think of a few things."

"Anything Farkas would approve of?"

"I highly doubt that."

The two parted ways at the Bards College. Vilkas watched Falka's cloak, proudly sprouting the banner of Whiterun, disappear up the road to the Palace, then entered the College. His gaze briefly swept across the books on display around him as he made his way across the entrance hall. His steps echoed in the huge foyer, making a young bard look up from her book. She watched him closely as Vilkas made his way over to where she was sitting.

"Vilkas of the Companions," he introduced himself.

A muscle on her face twitched momentarily, but apart from that the bard's mien remained impassive. "Yes?"

"Can I find Farkas here?"

She cocked one delicate eyebrow in a practised way, tilting her head ever so slightly to one side. "Who?"

"My brother. Slightly taller, broader, longer hair, but looking quite like me." An interested look briefly crossed the woman's face. "Your twin brother?" she asked, and Vilkas warily noted her growing interest.

Fighting the desire to roll his eyes, Vilkas confirmed her question.

She held her thought one moment more before gracefully shaking her head in denial. "I do not believe I ever met someone fitting this description."

"'s Calla here, then?"

"Calla?" Idly, she twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers. Pink lips had parted slightly, and Vilkas was forced to suppress a sigh.

"Young Dunmer Bard, runs a sidejob as Courier between Winterhold and Solitude."

"Oh, you mean Cal."

"Aye, her. 's she here?"

"Not that I know of." The young woman touched her chin with forefinger and thumb – another rehearsed gesture, one that only fuelled Vilkas' impatience. "I haven't seen her in weeks, actually."

"But she has to be here!" Vilkas exploded, tired of the bard's airs. The young woman flinched. "She passed through Whiterun last week, travelling on to Solitude! She must be here!"

"What is going on here, Aia?" another voice interrupted.

Vilkas turned to see a richly dressed woman glide down a flight of stairs. Just as the younger woman earlier, she took her time studying Vilkas as she came closer. Vilkas suppressed another annoyed sigh, and for a moment regretted sending Falka off to the palace.

"This is Vilkas of the Companions, Dean Pantea," the young woman explained. "He is looking for Cal."

"Is that so?"

"Aye." Vilkas nodded, forcing himself to stay calm.

"Then I am sorry to inform you that Calla has not been here for some weeks now," the older woman stated.

"But she must be here!" Vilkas insisted. "She said she'd come to the College!"

The Dean shook her head. "We haven't seen her, I am afraid."

By now, they had drawn a small crowd, and the Dean turned to meet the gathered students. "Has anyone present seen Calla recently?"

"No."

"Can't say that I have."

"Nope."

"Nay."

"You do know she should have been here days ago?" Vilkas asked through gritted teeth.

"Companion," one of the younger students spoke up. "Cal owns a house in the city. Have you tried there?"

Vilkas' gaze zoomed in on the speaker, making the young Nord take a step back. "Where?"

Only instants later, Vilkas was jogging down the road towards the house indicated to him by the bards. He never stopped to consider everything that had transpired in the College in the brief time he'd been there, as his mind was set on finding Farkas and Calla. That almost a week had passed since anybody had last seen them made him anxious, and a feeling of dread stirred in his stomach.

"Farkas!" Vilkas banged against the door. "Calla!"

Nobody answered.

"Farkas! Calla!"

He tried the door handle. It was locked.

"Calla! Farkas!"

Vilkas felt his fear for them spread through his body. His hammering grew more frantic.

And then, finally, a Nord woman opened the door, a cautious look on her face.

Vilkas' arm froze in mid-air. "Uh…" He lowered his hand. "I'm sorry for the disturbance, but I was told this is Calla's house."

"Aye, 't is," the red-headed woman confirmed. "But who're you? 'nd why're you hammering on the door like a madman?"

He took a deep, steadying breath. "'m Vilkas, of the Companions."

The woman's eyes widened in recognition.

"Calla passed by Jorrvaskr last week," Vilkas continued. "She stayed for one night, then rode on to Solitude. But the bards say they haven't seen her arrive."

Stonily, the Nord waved Vilkas inside. She shut the door behind him, then lead the way through a working area before climbing the stairs to the next floor. Though young, the short flight of stairs gave her visible trouble, and Vilkas' experienced eyes recognized the lingering impairment of a long-lasting injury. They came into a kitchen where the woman motioned for Vilkas to take a seat. She herself took two bottles from a shelf, then took the other chair.

"I'm Jordis," she finally introduced herself as she handed him one of the bottles.

Vilkas, drinking from his own beer, inclined his head.

"Now tell me what happened," Jordis asked.

"Calla came to us last tirdas, late at night, bringing a letter for our Harbinger. A heavy snowstorm was raging across the plains, and she waited it out at Jorrvaskr. She rode off the next morning, accompanied by my brother."

Jordis raised an eyebrow, but allowed Vilkas to continue.

"There isn't much more to tell, I'm afraid. We haven't heard of the two since, and my wife and I have just come from Whiterun, taking the same route they did. But we didn't meet either Farkas or Calla on our way. And the bards say they haven't seen her in weeks."

Jordis drank deeply from her beer before speaking. "That is bad news, Companion. I haven't seen Cal since Morning Star, either."

"I feared as much." Vilkas exhaled deeply, taking his time before speaking again. "Is there any chance they might have gone somewhere else?"

"As far as Cal's concerned – unlikely. Your brother?"

"No," Vilkas shook his head. "He's…" He hesitated. "Not that kind of man. Are there any unusual activities going on round here?"

Jordis snorted a mirthless laugh. "'part from the Stormcloaks taking over?"

Vilkas glared at her. "Activity from the Thieves Guild? The Brotherhood? Any local bandits?"

"None."

"You know the hold better than I, Jordis," Vilkas continued. "Where could they be?"

Jordis finished her beer, taking her time to formulate her next thought. "We'll check the harbour first."

"Farkas would never—"

"Neither would Calla," Jordis interrupted. "But I'd like to make sure nonetheless. Maybe they did pass through there. And even if they didn't, there's still the stables and the farms and the mill nearby, maybe somebody there has seen them."

"Alright then," Vilkas conceded. "We'll start there." He finished his own beer, placing the empty bottle on the table. "Let's go."

When Falka returned from the Blue Palace in the early evening, she was surprised to find a short note from Vilkas waiting for her at the inn.

Went to look for Farkas. Meet you at the inn for supper later. Vilkas.

Falka shrugged, and settled down on one of the tables with a tankard of mead.

The meeting with Balgruuf had gone better than she'd expected. They had treated him well here in Solitude. He was healthy, sane, and – much to her luck – bored out of his mind. As envoy from Whiterun, Falka had presented him with the gifts Belethor and Adrianne had pressed into her hands, all the time aware of his cold glare on her. Finally, she had laid the axe he'd given her as her sign of office back when he'd made her thane at his feet. They had talked, and debated, and at one point even shouted at each another, but in the end Balgruuf had made her retake the axe before she'd left.

With a weak ice-spell, Falka cooled the warming brew in her tankard. She took a deep draught.

"Who're you, my beauty?" one of the patrons addressed her, resting his hand on the back of her chair.

"No interested," Falka, giving her best impression of one of Vilkas' forbidding glares, replied.

Catching the message, the patron raised his hands, palms facing her way, and retreated. Satisfied, Falka nodded and gestured for another tankard of beer.

Balgruuf had been wary of her, but at least he had been politician enough to swallow his own feelings and hear her out. Falka had known she would have to be open with him if she ever hoped to get back on passable terms with the man, and so had lengthily explained her motives for joining the Stormcloaks, her naive misjudgement of Ulfric's aims in the Whiterun crisis, and the current situation. Balgruuf had listened, and for that Falka had thanked Kyne with all her heart.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the maid bringing her fresh tankard of beer, and Falka took another draught, making sure to take only a small sip this time. And cringed as before her inner eye, she saw the other Companions howling with laughter at her display.

"Shor take them all," she grumbled under her breath.

A cold gush of air passed her, bringing with it a familiar smell. Falka raised her head in time to see the inn's door close behind two figures: Vilkas and a woman she'd never seen before. Vilkas looked wary and tired, deep lines furrowing his forehead. A slight smile, though, curled his lips as he made her out in the crowd.

"Jordis."

Jordis followed behind the Companion as he wound his way through the room. And even though she'd rather not admit it, she was a little nonplussed when Vilkas did pull a woman who'd been sitting at one of the tables into his arms. The woman was tall, almost of same height as himself, her dark skin showing her roots from Hammerfell, with hair dark as night, a few strands braided and others loose. She wore a dress that pulled looks from quite a number of the men present, were it not for the cloak with the embroidered emblem of Whiterun. In short, not exactly who she'd imagined her to be. Instead of a classy glass of wine though, a tankard of ale stood on the table. Jordis suppressed a slight grin. Maybe, the woman wasn't so alien after all.

"Jordis," Vilkas' clipped tone interrupted her thoughts, "this is Falka, Harbinger of the Companions. Red, meet Jordis, Calla's housecarl." Vilkas sighed deeply before he spoke again. "Red, Farkas and Calla never arrived in Solitude."