III.
Vilkas plunges to his knees, his hand opens and his sword drops to the rocky floor. The blade clangs as it hits the ground. The noise echoes.
Your hand is still in the air, paused from the moment you threw the dagger.
At first you are reluctant to bend down to him. Not knowing what to do. Vilkas is proud. You don't want him to push you away, as if you're some fussy mother hen.
The hesitation doesn't last long.
His back is bent. His head is bowed. Strands of his dirty chestnut hair straggle his face.
You grab hold of his left hand.
Blood dribbles down from the wound and splatters his gauntlets red.
His blooded fingers slip against yours. You call his name, squeeze his hand.
Slender strips of light filter in from tiny gaps in the chasm ceiling. Wisps of web float on the breeze like silken drapes. You're reminded of the world above.
You want to quit this mission. Leave this place. Now. Every part of your brain screams at you to do this. You want to drag Vilkas to the surface where the sun will nourish you both and give you the light you need to tend to Vilkas' injury.
Again, you squeeze Vilkas' hand, waiting for a response.
Head still bowed, you hear him draw breath. His chest rattles, he coughs, hacks up phlegm and spits it out.
Grabbing a hold of his shoulder, you give him a soft shake.
His head snaps up, and as if he has only just become aware of your company, he turns his head. Through bedraggled stings of hair, Vilkas glowers at you.
No longer are his eyes grey like the snow clouds that shroud the mountains at the Throat of the World. Instead they are as yellow as the Last Seed sun and as fierce as flame.
His eyes cut through you, searing your soul like a blast of arctic of wind. You swallow hard, steady your grip and keep your hand on Vilkas' shoulder.
The glare feels familiar, and you realise why. If Hircine were unmasked, this is the look he would give you.
Covering the unease you feel with a firm voice, you call his name. Finally, Vilkas squeezes your hand.
Yellow eyes dilute back to grey. You wonder, how far Vilkas was from letting his wolfish nature take form?
Vilkas wipes his face with a trembling hand, smearing blood across his cheeks, bottom lip and beneath his nose. He turns away from you.
You pull out potion bottles, ointment and salves, and lie them on the floor. You circle Vilkas, take a hold of his arm.
'I'm fine,' he says, and snatches his arm from your reach.
It's as you thought. Vilkas is proud.
His hand covers the bite. Blood oozes through his fingers, but all you can do is sit, your hand clutching a bottle of ointment that shimmers a reddish glow.
Uncomfortable silence descends, the type you get when someone laughs loud in a chapel.
'You want to help, make me a dressing. Stem the flow.'
You tell him you want to more than help. You want to examine the bite. Has he been poisoned? You could build a fire, warm a blade, cauterise the wound.
Vilkas shakes his head. He isn't just proud, he's stubborn.
'No time,' he says. 'We'll do it later, when we're back out in the open and out of here.'
After a pause he says, 'I feel... uneasy, like Ysgramor's watchful gaze is blind in this place.'
From the bag around your waist, you full out a piece of grey gauze. You tear strips from it and wind it around your hand.
Vilkas wears wraps upon the upper part of his arm, to cover the flesh that can't be reached by his gauntlets. These are now soaked through, like a sponge left in a tub for too long. They're heavy and damp in your hands and make a splattering sound when you drop them to the floor.
There are two puncture wounds on Vilkas arms. Both an angry red, like two mouths open in a permanent scream.
You don't ask whether it hurts. There's no point. You can see the answer for yourself, and Vilkas isn't one for small talk. Particularly now. So you stay silent.
There's a cork in the top of the salve bottle. You cap your mouth over the top, pull the cork out between your teeth, and then spit it across the cave so that it hits an egg sack and dangles and spins from a strand of web.
As you pour the solution over Vilkas' arm, it bubbles and hisses as it washes over the puncture wounds.
Vilkas grits his teeth. Clenches his hands into fists.
With an extra bit of gauze you dab at the holes and then apply the bandage.
'I appreciate this,' the Nord says. 'I would be able to do it myself, if it weren't in such a place.'
You roll your eyes, tell him that you don't mind seeing to his wounds. After all, he's helped you out many times.
You wrap the gauze, pull it tight.
Vilkas' breathing is heavy. His breath brushes your face. It's warm, smells of ale. You stop winding the bandage, hold it in place, and turn your head.
His face is close to yours.
The relics of battle fleck his face. Welts and scars that create craters and gorges in his skin.
'Very impressive,' Vilkas says, in a rough whisper. 'The fire. I liked the bit where they turned crispy and died. Reminds me of when Skjor tried to cook.' A smirk creeps across his face.
You stare at each other. With your thumb, you slowly wipe away the smudges of blood on his face.
'Harbinger,' he says. You lean forwards, waiting for his next words.
Vilkas takes your hand from his face. Presses his thumb into the palm of your hand.
You breathe deep, smell sweat and horse and damp.
From somewhere further back in the caves, a drop of water hits a puddle and creates a splattering noise that ricochets.
'The farmer. Engar. He's here, somewhere.'
He lets your hand drop and scrambles to his feet.
The blood has already come to the surface of the bandage.