Aela ran. Below her, the wet snow of spring splashed and squelched. The huntress inhaled deeply, tasting the multitude of lingering scents. Still nothing.

Farkas never made it to Solitude.

The line echoed inside her head, over and over. She snarled at nothing in particular, hating the fear that drove her.

Farkas never made it.

It was Vilkas' voice now whispering in her mind.

He never made it.

With an angry shout, she sped up, ploughing through the heavy snow. A few steps behind her, she could hear Athis and Leif panting as they struggled to keep up with her taxing speed. She should have left them back at Whiterun, gone in her wolf form instead. No doubt she'd already met up with either of the brothers by now, or at least she'd be hard on their heels. But as much as she hesitated to admit, there sometimes was strength in numbers. It still didn't ease her irritation at chasing across the country in human form, though.

Farkas never made it.

"Faster!" she growled at the two men behind her.

Shortly after passing through Rorikstead, the Companions came across the carcasses of three Thalmor soldiers. It was obvious that a few days had passed since they had fallen; the tracks of innumerable animals criss-crossed the vicinity and all three corpses showed distinct feeding marks. Leif choked at the sight of it, quickly averting his eyes from the gruesome spectacle.

Aela took the time to study the scene. She had smelled the decaying bodies from afar, and by the time the three had arrived at the scene, she already had a rough idea of what awaited them. Her gaze wandered over what remained of the men. The natural course of things had already taken over, but one fact still lingered: These men had not been killed by animals. Weapons had taken their lives, steel and magic had been the fate of the soldiers.

Farkas never reached the city.

Could it be?

Her nostrils flared as Aela inhaled deeply. Despite the fresh temperatures, the smell of decay stung in her sensitive nose.

He never made it.

Pushing past the stench, she sought more familiar notes.

Be quick.

Aela's eyes narrowed, and a deep growl rose from the back of her throat. Decay, feeding animals, and time had worn away any trace either of her shield siblings might have left.

"Athis?" she snapped impatiently. "Found any traces of them?"

"None," the Dunmer shook his head.

"Yeah." Another impatient growl. "Me neither."

Farkas never made it.

With one last sweeping look across the site, she turned on her heel. "Leif, come on. Let's be off."

And I fear for the worst.

Vilkas leaned out from behind cover, casting a quick glance up the stairs towards the temple's entrance.

"Archers," he growled, flattening himself back against the stone wall next to Falka.

"How many?"

"Six."

Falka sheathed her sword.

"If they are what stands between us and Farkas…"

With a determined look on her face, she pushed off the wall they were leaning against.

"May Kyne guide your weapons," she mumbled and placed a kiss on Vilkas' lips.

"And yours," he replied, strengthening the grip on his own weapon.

With a last look in his eyes, Falka pushed away from him. She spread her arms, and within an instant, hot, white flames burnt in each of her palms. Looking more like an avenging spirit from Oblivion than a mere mortal, Falka stepped out to face the warriors.

"Forsworn!" she bellowed, her Thu'um mixing into her natural voice. The fire in her hands danced wildly. "We want your prisoners!" Flames licked up her forearms. She smelled of fury and resolve, of ashes and power.

"You came too late!" one of the warriors replied after what seemed like an eternity for Vilkas. "Soon, he'll give his heart for our cause!"

The world around Vilkas slows to a halt. He springs out from behind cover. A barely human scream tears from his lips. He skirts around Falka, races up the stairs. Muscles clench, steel sings, and his lungs scream.

Dimly, he registers one of the archers going up in flames. The dying archer screams in pain, but it is drowned out by Vilkas' feral roar.

Vilkas' sword tears through steel and limbs.

Another warrior bursts into flames. The smell of liquid fire fills his nostrils. His blood sings in his ears.

Vilkas raises his sword, blocking a blow. Swords clash and lock. He snarls at his opponent. He pushes and wrenches his blade free. The man stumbles backwards, brings his weapon up for a block. Vilkas screams, and his sword sings as it cuts through air. Fear widens his opponent's eyes. He screams. The scream is cut short. A limp body falls to the floor.

Panting heavily, Vilkas' gaze travelled over all the bodies lying on the ground all across the temple's front yard. He alone was left standing, and more than the six archers lay dead at his feet. Silence rang in his ears, the air stinking of burning flesh and dying men. And from somewhere to his left, erratic gasps reached his ears.

"Red!"

She was lying flat on her back, arms at her sides and her heels digging into the floor.

"Sssiii—" she gasped, her breathing short and unsteady. "Silvvv—" Her breath hitched. "Sssilll—"

The shaft of an arrow trembled in unison with her irregular breathing.

"Silll— Siiilvvv—"

"Hush. 'm here."

Falka, though, didn't recognize him when Vilkas sank to his knees beside her, nor did she respond to his touch. Her fingers kept on curling and uncurling while her body writhed on the floor and her eyes stared off into the distance. "Silvvv—"

Unchecked little flames licked along her arms.

"Siiil—"

"Stop talking!"

A shudder ran through her body. "Sssilver!" she gasped, her voice hitching and strangely light. "Sssil—vvver!"

"Keep still," Vilkas barked. "And stop casting!"

The arrow had hit her side; might have even missed her but for a hand's breadth. It had torn clear through her armour, the impact almost powerful enough to tear through her flesh entirely.

"Siiil—" Falka gasped in between flat breaths, her back arching, her body writhing snake-like. Her erratic pulse hammered in Vilkas' ears.

"I know!" he snapped. "Keep still!"

Vilkas shed his gloves and emptied the contents of the pouch he carried across the floor. From it spilled three small bottles filled with red liquid, two small bundles of cloth, and a few more items that he quickly shoved out of the way. He unrolled one of the small bundles of cloth and soaked it with the contents of one of the three bottles. All the while, the woman in front of him continued her eerie behaviour, her entire body arching and convulsing, her heels scraping across the stone floor. "Sssi— Sss—" Vilkas forced himself to work faster.

When he had set the prepared dressing aside, Vilkas took a steady grip on the arrow.

"Now change!" he ordered.

"No!" Falka gasped, horrified. "Silver!"

"Change!" Vilkas bellowed again.

Through the burning agony that was the silver buried in its side, Falka's wolf spirit recognized Vilkas', recognized the command it carried and the help it promised. Pushing human and dragon aside, it forced its way forwards and initiated the transformation. Falka shrieked in pain.

With bated breath, Vilkas watched the wolf take over. The arrow in his hands trembled. He took a firmer grip on it. Falka writhed under the agony of the transformation. She shifted towards her animal form, bursting her armour in the process. With gritted teeth, Vilkas forced himself to ignore the visible torture Falka was going through. When her bones started to break in order to adjust to her wolfish form, he snapped the feathered end off the arrow, hoping the additional pain he had to cause her would diminish behind the strain of the transformation.

But the silver nested inside her body hindered a clear transgression from human to wolf. Instead of completing the process, her body erratically meandered between human and wolf form. Now it grew to the animal's larger bulk, now it shrank back to it's human size. Wisps of black fur grew broke from under her skin, then vanished again as she toppled back towards her familiar form.

"Change!" Vilkas growled. His own inner spirit responded to her agony as well as his growing desperation, howling and battling against the human dominance. "Change!" His voice was raw, his wolfish spirit almost audible behind the human speech.

Again, her bones started to break, her limbs to lengthen, her spine to bend. Black fur shoved itself free from underneath Vilkas' fingers. Falka, in that state between man and animal, howled in pain. And Vilkas pushed the arrow further into Falka's flesh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered under his shaking breath.

Again, Falka screamed in pain, and again, Vilkas pushed the arrow deeper. And then, the tip cut through black fur. One more push, and the piece of silver came free.

And free from the paralysing metal, Falka's wolf spirit howled into the night.

In the final moments of the transformation, Vilkas pulled the rest of the arrow free of the wound.

"You almost made it, Red," he soothed her, "You almost made it." And he pressed his palms against the two wounds left by the arrow. Black fur filled the space between his fingers. Tearing his eyes away from the injury, he gazed at the prone form in front of him.

"Now come back so we can heal you," he whispered after some moments.

The wolf whined weakly.

"Red." Cautiously, he flexed one finger in a stroking gesture. "Red, change back." He buried his fingers in the thick coat of fur. "The silver is gone, it won't be as painful as before."

The wolf sighed, and the black coat began to recede. Her proportions shrank back until once again, they were the familiar form he was so well acquainted with. And all through the transformation process, Vilkas kept a tight pressure on the wounds in her side until his fingers were dark and slick from her blood.

The moment the transformation was over, Vilkas removed the pressure from one of the wounds. To his relief, blood did not immediately flow freely from the injury. Grabbing the first healing potion, Vilkas tore its cork off with his teeth and held it to her lips.

"Drink."

Still dazed from the events, Falka obediently emptied the little bottle.

The contents of the next bottle, Vilkas poured over the wounds in Falka's side, cursing at his clumsiness as it almost toppled from his hands. At first Falka tried to shrug away, but Vilkas held her in place.

"It's a healing potion, Red, to seal your wounds."

After that, she held perfectly still, allowing Vilkas to pour the contents of the entire flask over her injured side. Afterwards, he wrapped the readied dressing over the wound, and pulled her close.

"By the gods, I'm sorry," he mumbled into the crown of her head.

Falka made an inquiring noise.

"For causing you so much pain."

"Saved me."

Pain burnt in his throat and constricted his chest. "I feared for you," he confessed in a low whisper. "I feared for you."

"'m hard to kill," came the reply from inside his embrace. She was weak and tired, but alive.

A chocked laugh tore through Vilkas' throat. "Aye, that you are," he admitted.

They remained silent for a few moments. Vilkas rocked Falka's body, drinking deeply from her scent, relishing the warmness of her presence.

"Heal me?" the woman in his arms whispered.

Vilkas stopped to look at her.

"Know you can," she breathed, looking up at him.

Vilkas bent down to place a kiss on her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, and fell shut. Drawing a deep breath, Vilkas concentrated on the only spell he knew. A faint golden light grew on his palm, and he poured its mending power into Falka's wearied flesh.

She sighed contently. "'n't stop."

"I'm sorry I don't have another healing potion for you," Vilkas mumbled. He found that, once he had managed to conjure the little golden ball of light, it wasn't that difficult to maintain the flow of energy.

"'m not," Falka mumbled in his arms. "'s nice."

He pulled her even closer, and only when his all his magical reserves – small though they were – had been drained did he allow the spell to dissolve.

"'s cold," Falka stated after a moment of silence.

Vilkas looked down onto the shivering bundle in his arms.

"I bet you are," Vilkas nodded, and a faint smile cracked the lines of sorrow on his face. "Running around in nothing but your skin. Have you finally gone native?"

Falka snorted weakly. Goosebumps were travelling up and down her naked flesh.

"All right, I'll see what I can find."

By the time Vilkas returned with a bundle of warm clothes and armour to where he'd left Falka near the temple's door, she was alternately healing herself and taking huge gulps from another bottle, this one filled with blue liquid. With Vilkas' help, she dressed and buckled on the protective armour that had previously been owned by some unlucky Forsworn.

"There," she smiled weakly, "now I look like one of them."

Vilkas shook his head, toying with the furs wrapped around her chest. "Mmmh. True Forsworn shieldmaidens don't wear half as much."

"If I weren't so worn out at the moment…" Falka sighed wearily, leaning against the temple's outer walls to support her weight. "I shudder to think what would have come of that, had I worn such armour." And she indicated the place where she had taken the arrow. "I hope it has not cost Farkas his life."

"Hey." Vilkas took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. "We've been searching for days. One more hour won't matter, if he still is alive." He kissed her.

"D'you think you're strong enough?" he breathed against her lips.

"Aye," Falka nodded faintly.

"Then let's go," Vilkas stated, pulling away from her. He moved to push open the heavy door. "And stay behind me."

The two warriors came into a small antechamber. Fire burnt in a brazier, but apart from that it was empty. One lone corridor led deeper into the temple.

"Seems they all rushed out to meet us," Falka mused as they passed along the deserted passageway.

Vilkas mumbled an incoherent reply from in front of her. With drawn blade he pushed himself along the walls, carefully sidestepping pressure plates and trip wires. Falka couldn't help but notice his faint limp. What had hit him back there? she wondered, for no spell she had ever come across could inflict that kind of weariness of limb.

After numerous twists and turns, the passage ended in another, larger chamber. Light spilled from torches set into the walls, illuminating a small apartment. It was occupied by a cloaked figure.

As Vilkas burst into the room, the figure turned from the table she had been working on. Almost instantly, raw energy sprang from her fingers. Vilkas was saved the brunt force of her spell as, right at that same moment, his weakened foot gave way under him. He sank down on his knee, the majority of the spell soaring by past his head.

"Oh, another one," a woman cackled gleefully. "They send another one."

Forcing his limbs to shrug through the shock of the spell, Vilkas lunged to his feet and swung his huge sword in a wide arc. The hag, too careless or maybe too confident in her own skills, wasn't fast enough to escape the sword's reach. Fine steel cut through cloth and skin, drawing blood.

"And just as fierce," the woman screeched. Ignoring her injury, she raised her arms to ready another spell. Blue energy grew in her palms, swirling and crackling.

And then, fire sprang from her robes. Her spells died as frantically, she sought to suffocate the flames. Another burst of heat hit her. Hungrily, the flames licked about her form. Gone was her mad cackling, replaced by desperate, pained screeches.

With a few short strides, Vilkas crossed the room. One strike with his sword, and the mad woman's shouting died down. Only the flames sizzled as they devoured her flesh.

Leaning in the doorway, Falka lowered her hands.

"By the gods, woman, why's it always the most gruesome deaths with you?" Vilkas, gagging on the spreading smell of burning flesh, complained.

"Always glad to help an old warrior," she shrugged, but there was no effort behind her jibe as she staggered across the room. A table sat in one corner, and Falka carefully lowered her aching body into one of its wooden chairs. Hungrily, she eyed the food that had been set out. She sniffed at the bread. It was stale and dry, but did not seem poisoned.

"Here, take this instead," Vilkas interrupted her, placing a Healing Potion into her hands.

"Where—?"

"Over there." He jerked his thumb at another corner, where a shelf filled most of the wall. "Stocked quite well with all sorts of potions and poisons." Taking one of the other chairs, he tore the cap off another of the small potions. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Eagerly, Falka swallowed the bottle's contents, praying her empty stomach would accept at yet another of the foul-tasting concoctions.

"That is still that spell you took, aye?" She nodded at his outstretched leg.

"Aye. But we're almost there, 't only needs t' hold a little longer."

Golden light sprang from Falka's palm. She reached out, directing the energy at his leg.

"No, Red, don't," Vilkas objected.

"Sssh," she silenced him. "At least one of us has to be able to fight, aye?"

"Aye," Vilkas conceded.

Wearily, he pushed himself back to his feet. Extending his hand, he then helped Falka stand. She winced at the sudden movement. The wound had cost her greatly. And if the weakness of her healing spell was anything to go by, she wouldn't be of much help in any upcoming fight, either.

The two warriors left the apartment through a wooden door, one limping and the other favouring her side. Again, they came into a long hallway. But this time, no traps hindered their progress and soon, the passage opened up into a wide, natural cavern. Braziers were set at irregular intervals, creating pools of light in the vast darkness. Falka craned her neck, but was unable to fathom the sheer size of the cavern. A pathway led further into the natural cave, ending at a huge stone altar where two shrivelled and gnarled creatures were busily at work.

"Hagravens."

And on the large stone slab lay the prone figure of a man.

"Farkas!"