.

Keljarn

Purity of Revenge

Jorrvaskr

Vilkas had asked all the remaining Companions to convene at Jorrvaskr, saying he had important news. There was no mead being drunk, no bawdy tales being told. Even Farkas was quiet and pensive as they sat at one of the tables, the only remaining members of the Companions, with the exception of Athis, who was still recovering from his injuries. Aela had told him about the tragedy, and he'd predictably wanted to leap from his bed to join the march for revenge, but Aela had forbidden it. The man's ribs were broken, after all.

So it was only Aela, Farkas and Keljarn sitting in the mead hall, in silence, waiting for Vilkas. It was late evening, and the torches flickered low, making the mead hall dark and cold.

They'd lost many, far more than Keljarn had ever thought possible. Ria, Njada, Kodlak, Skjor, all dead. Half their number, including the initiates. The future. He'd only been with the Companions for a short time, but still, he felt the loss as deeply as his fellows.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting," Vilkas announced when he came in, closing the double doors behind him. "But it was with good reason."

"So brother," Farkas called out. "What news?"

"I found them," Vilkas said, clutching a map in his fist and holding it up to the others. "Those murdering Silver Hand fanatics. I know where they're holed up. It's time to bring the fight to them."

"Let me see that," Aela promptly commanded, taking the map from her fellow Companion and unfolding it. "Driftshade Refuge," she muttered, her finger following a line on the map. "This is where we'll be going then."

Vilkas nodded. "For victory or death."

"I prefer victory if it's at all possible," Farkas grunted, also staring at the map.

"So then," Keljarn said to the group. "How 'bout we share what may be our last bottles of mead together?"

"There's a thought," Farkas' face immediately brightened up. "I don't care if I'm hungover tomorrow, no head-ache will take away the pleasure of finding the one whose hands have our Companions' blood on them and slowly crushing his throat between my fingers."

Aela gave a determined nod. "Tomorrow, either the Silver Hand gets wiped out, or it will have no more reason for existing. We hunt down the last of the Hand, or we hunt for eternity with Hircine."

There was no Ria or Njada to bring the mead, and again their absence was felt, but Keljarn simply rose and went to fetch two bottles. It'd be enough for now. Maybe Farkas didn't mind drinking himself into a stupor, but Keljarn wanted a clear head tomorrow, as tempting as just going on a full-out binge with his Companions sounded.

"I wonder if we will know," Vilkas mused as Keljarn filled his cup.

"Know what?"

"Who it was that actually did the deed. When we raid the Silver Hand tomorrow. Will we know who the actual assassin was that murdered our Companions like a coward?"

"I don't know, Vilkas," Aela sighed. "But if we leave none alive, we're certain to get the murderer too. And after all, the assassin is only the tool. The real one responsible is the one who sent him."

"Krev the Skinner," Farkas growled in pure anger. "I'd ask you to leave him for me, but you have as much right to kill him as I do. Whoever gets him though," he drank from his cup and clacked it back down on the table, "make sure it hurts."

"We'll make sure it's painful for every single one, brother," Vilkas assured him. "We should be wary though. They're bound to have silver weapons. Enchanted against shapeshifters, no doubt."

Aela nodded, giving the others a grave look. "Going in already shifted is a bad idea. All it takes is one silver arrow to stop us in our tracks. We go in like this. Our blades will speak for us until our claws can." She raised her mead cup. "But for tonight, let's just enjoy this evening together. No more talk of the Silver Hand until tomorrow."

"Agreed," Vilkas said, raising his cup to hers. "And if anyone has anything to confess or to say, tonight's the time. What's left unsaid remains that way."

Keljarn took the advice to heart. Not at first, at first they simply all drank mead and exchanged tall tales and ribald jokes, but later in the evening, the two brothers had to go for new mead at the local brewery, a few minutes' walk into town, and Aela and Keljarn had a moment to themselves.

"You know Keljarn," Aela said, already tipsy but doing a good job of not showing it, "You've only been here a short time, but... it feels like we've known you for years."

Keljarn, his head not exactly level either, simply answered, "Must be my charm."

Aela grinned and refilled the cups with the last of the bottle. "Ria certainly thought so."

"You think?" He knew it as well as she did, but it would be presumptuous to simply attribute emotions to a dead person.

"Mm-hm. Was pretty obvious." She sighed. "What Vilkas said is right, though. What's left unsaid remains that way."

Keljarn stared into his cup. He might never get the chance again. "This may be... our last evening together." He felt his heart begin to beat faster.

"Or it may not be," Aela reminded him. "But I know what you're getting at. Better that we all say what we think needs being said."

"I... don't want things to remain unsaid, Aela," Keljarn said, his heart now pounding. Now or never. What was the worst thing that could happen, he tried to reason. The worst thing that could happen is that he or Aela or both would be dead tomorrow, and that he'd never gotten to speak his true feelings. Because he'd had them for Aela since the beginning.

"So say them," Aela said, her face unreadable.

He took a breath and conquered his fear. "Aela, I've been having – "

Bam!

"Brewery was down to its last bottles but we managed to beat him down to eighty septims per bottle," Farkas exclaimed proudly as he and his brother barged into the mead hall, clearly having emptied one of the bottles on their way home. "He thought he'd take us for a ride, but I showed him."

"Yes, Farkas' shrewd bargaining skills were a glory to behold," Vilkas laughed.

"No." Keljarn said. It was out before he realized it. "No, I will not have this go like in some stupid comedy play." He briefly let his gaze go past Aela's face, and she looked surprised and amused at the same time. "You two are interrupting something important. Step outside for a few minutes. Please."

Farkas struck an exaggeratedly defensive pose. "Whoa there. We couldn't smell that you were having a little moment of privacy there."

"We didn't mean to interrupt, Vilkas grinned. "By all means continue whatever foul and depraved conversation you were having."

"Come brother," Farkas grunted, in pretend anger. "We'll just have to empty this bottle without them."

"Indeed," Vilkas agreed. "At least the mead never asks for a moment of privacy."

As they left, Aela grinned broadly. "Buffoons."

Despite the gravity of what he wanted to say, Keljarn chuckled as well. "That they are."

"Keljarn," Aela said, serious again. "You know... well, what things are like, don't you?"

She meant Skjor, and her feelings for him. The guy was recently dead, and Keljarn had no intention of disrespecting the man's memory, but on the other hand, it wasn't his fault he felt the way he did, and the only reason he said it was so he wouldn't take it to his grave tomorrow. He had to do this. "Aela. I'm just going to come straight out and say it. I'm in love with you."

She looked like she'd been expecting him to say exactly that. She probably had been. "Keljarn, I'm really flattered. I mean it. And..." Hope flared up in Keljarn's chest, "... I could see myself feeling the same way. But not now. It's... too soon."

He hadn't expected any different, and her words were heartening, because there was hope. Well, unless... "Then from now on, you are expressly forbidden to die tomorrow, is that clear?"

She smiled. "I had no intention of doing so." Then she brought her face closer and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You're a good man, Keljarn, in more ways than one. Give me time, that's all I ask."

"You've got all the time you need." He had time too. No need to rush, just knowing she considered it possible to reciprocate his feelings in the future was enough. He'd never hoped for her to jump his bones, the business with Skjor was too recent, but this was a better outcome than he'd hoped for. He made sure to show it by smiling broadly. "After we kick those bastards' asses tomorrow."

"And kick them we will," Aela said. "Now go tell those idiots they can come back in."

There were, thankfully, a few bottles of mead left, but Farkas and Vilkas had added deed to word and drained another one while outside. They fished after the contents of the private conversation, even though Keljarn was certain they knew well enough what it had been about, but prolonged dodging by both himself and Aela made the conversation shift, first to the degree of attractiveness of hairy armpits on women, then to the criteria of a good razor, then Eorlund's smithing, and finally a drunken battle plan for the assault tomorrow. It was a horrible plan, but Keljarn knew none of them would remember it the day after.

What he did remember was walking Aela to her room and wishing her goodnight after a kiss on the cheek.

It was with a surprisingly small hangover that he rose, only a faint pulsating pain in the back of his head. His mouth was dry and his eyes were caked shut, but those were small problems and easy to remedy. Good. He didn't feel like dying with a sore head.

Time to crush the Silver Hand. The sheer desire for revenge was enough to drive the sand from his eyes and the pain from his head. He got up, got his clothes on, and went to the mead hall, chugging down a bottle of water he'd taken off a table in the corridor. With the mead hall empty, he went for a breath of fresh air. It was still relatively early, dawn had just finished breaking and the sun's rays were visible, shining from the horizon, over the thatched and wooden roofs of the houses in Whiterun, giving them all a shining halo. A good sign, Keljarn supposed. Then again, the sun shone for the Silver Hand too. It was then that he realized how idiotic it was to interpret the weather as a sign.

He stood there, breathing in the morning fresh air for a few minutes – it might be the last chance he'd ever have, after all – and then he went back into the mead hall. Farkas was up already, and he looked up from his meal of bread and dried meat when he saw Keljarn. "You lookin' forward to it, Companion?"

"Looking forward isn't the best way to describe it," Keljarn said. "I wish it had never happened at all."

"Aye," Farkas grunted. "Truer words. Still, it is what it is."

Keljarn swallowed the remark about how he hated that expression and simply said, "Yes it is. Sadly. And yes, they deserve a good thrashing and we're going to give it to them."

"You said it. Eat, this kind of hunger needs to be sated first."

As they ate, first Vilkas and then Aela came up, joining them for their meal. Vilkas told them about the place the Silver Hand was holed up: a camp on a hilltop, with a few trees here and there. Similar to the place Skjor had died, from the sound of it. Would be difficult to approach, and once they did, they'd be fighting out in the open, which would mean arrows and crossbow bolts all around. Not exactly ideal. Still, he was assured, the Companions had battled more dire odds before. Keljarn was pretty certain they just said it to give themselves and each other courage. He had suggested a thinking about a more patient or more cunning approach, but the suggestion had been immediately passed off as unacceptable. Hircine wanted these cowardly bastards slaughtered, he wanted his wolves to descend upon them and annihilate them in a whirlwind of blood and claws, the survivors hunted down and caught, ripped to shreds like the dogs they were. At least, that's what Vilkas said. Hircine would watch over them this day, if they paid him appropriate tribute.

This tribute was to be paid in the Underforge, and Keljarn already had a vague idea of what it would entail. In the gloomy, cold air of the Underforge, Alea spoke, "Lord Hircine, Father of Manbeasts, Great Huntsman, grant your favour to us, your hunters, protect us so we may descend upon those who would, like cowards, strike at us from the shadows. Let us erase the stink of their depravity with the scent of fresh blood, spilled for your glory, against those who seek to defile you and your gift."

With that, Aela swept the knife over the palm of her other hand, slashing it open to the bone, then held out her arm and made a fist, so the blood ran into the red font in the centre of the Underforge.

"Lord Hircine, Great Huntsman," Vilkas said, "Protect me so I may shed blood for you, today and forever, in this world and the next." He too slashed open his palm and let his blood mix with Aela's.

"Father of Manbeasts," Farkas intoned, "Make me your champion, give me the strength and protection I need to wreak bloody vengeance in your name." Another cut, and his blood, too, ran into the font.

Keljarn wasn't clear on what to say when Farkas gave him the knife. Aela calmly said, "Say what you want to say. So what comes from the heart. Then cut deep. Shallow cuts do not please our Lord."

Keljarn took a breath and then said, "Lord Hircine. Honestly, I don't care about you very much. But the dogs who killed Njada, Ria and Kodlak must pay. Grant me protection, not because of who am I, but because what I will do. You have every interest in seeing us succeed."

The three other Companions looked at him like he'd spoken blasphemy, but he disregarded their alarmed eyes and brought up the knife. Clenching his teeth, he made it slash downward as hard as he could, and he felt the immense pain as the blade sliced through his skin and the flesh in the palm of his hand, sliding over the bones as it laid them bare. Biting the pain, he raised his hand, and let his blood join that of his Companions.

He felt it, and he knew the others did too. It was subtle, but it was definitely there. A change in the atmosphere. The air getting a little thicker. The metallic smell of their blood a bit sharper in their nostrils.

"It's done," Aela said. "Our Father will decide if we are worthy. Let us leave Him to his sacrifice."

They waited until they were outside and the door mechanism as closed again, before binding the wounds on their hands. "The injury will heal as we shift shape," Aela explained. "Lord Hircine will see to that, if we are worthy."

Keljarn also bound his hand, ignoring the stinging pain as the bandage came into contact with his raw, open flesh.

"No need to pack bags," Vilkas said. "I've got a pouch of food and we should get there at dusk if we hurry. Either we walk through the night to come back, or... we don't come back at all."

Aela nodded. "Let us depart then."

Grimly, Farkas closed with, "Death or vengeance."

Their walk was completely silent, Vilkas leading the way, the others following. There was a brief, also silent stop for eating at noon, and at dusk, perfectly according to Vilkas' calculations, their point man motioned for them to halt. They were in a small grove, just before the treeline.

"Look there," Vilkas said, kneeling and pointing forward and upward. The three Companions sat by their shieldbrother and looked where he pointed. A hill lay in front of them, clear of trees except for the occasional lone trunk here and there, and it was covered with purple mountain flowers. Between the sparse trees, they saw a few tents, and some moving shapes.

"It's them alright," Aela said, her sharp eyes investigating the camp. "Haven't seen the Skinner yet though."

"How do we recognize him?" Keljarn asked.

"Got a massive severed werewolf claw across his chest," Farkas grunted, sounding disgusted. "Like a fucking ornament."

"He's bound to be among them," Vilkas said. "I suggest we capture him alive. Wring him for information."

"If we must," Farkas said, obviously disappointed. But when he's told us all we need to know, he dies. Painfully and bloodily. Are we clear on this?"

Aela briefly moved her head sideways. "Oh, we're clear."

"Don't worry brother," Vilkas added, "He will die, and it will hurt."

Keljarn briefly felt apprehensive at the bloodlust, but he pushed the feeling deep down. They needed to be beasts if they wanted to survive this. And despite all the 'vengeance or death' talk, Keljarn really did hope to survive this, along with his fellows. But he knew how unlikely this was.

"Despite our Lord's protection," Aela said, then briefly added, "if He thinks us worthy," and continued, "we will not be invulnerable, and you can be certain they'll be armed with silver weaponry. Which means we do not shift until we can safely do so, or we have to."

"Silver hurts us far more in wolf form," Vilkas briefly said, as an aside to Keljarn. "If we're in human form, it's still very painful, but it won't paralyze or weaken us as it does when we're shifted, or worse, in the process of shifting."

"So shift at the right time," Farkas said.

Aela added, "But definitely shift at one point. It's how we honour Hircine."

"Right. So what's the battle plan?"

Farkas chortled. "Battle plans are for shiny-armoured bucketheads who are too puny to fight for the glory of Hircine."

His brother nodded. "To honour Hircine is to descend upon your foes like a raging tide of destruction and mayhem."

"Some tide," Keljarn said with a chuckle. "Four people."

With a grin, Aela said, "Ye of little faith. Believe me, when Hircine finds us worthy, even four of us can turn that camp into a ruin of rags, wood, blood and bone."

She was right, he supposed. He had to trust his fellows. They seemed certain enough. "Alright then. Let's get it done."

They spread out in the tree line, crouched and waiting for Aela's signal. Her eyes were sharpest, and she could see when the mongrels sat down for dinner. They didn't know the Companions were coming, so they had no reason to be extra attentive. They had formed some sort of battle plan, which involved Aela and Vilkas attempting to take out the sentries silently before the charge began, giving them more time to close with their prey. As soon as the first arrow flew, they would descend upon their enemies, giving them no time to get ready. Hircine wanted blood and destruction but there was no rule saying their enemy couldn't be flat-footed and still have a wooden spoon in his hand when they tore him apart. The sentries would doubtless make noise, but they wouldn't alert the camp as quickly as they would if they just saw them coming. The sky slowly darkened to twilight. Good, the darkness would make it easier for them.

Abruptly, an arrow flashed out of the tree line, followed quickly by another one. Vilkas' shot struck the first sentry through the throat (remarkable, or very lucky, at such a distance), shutting him up as he staggered and fell, but Aela's shot got the other sentry dead in the chest. Certainly a lethal shot, but not one that would stop him from making a lot of noise on the way down.

Next to him, Farkas took off, his axe high, and he saw Aela and Vilkas drop their bows and spring from the trees as well. After briefly thinking to himself, let me fight with honour, he too threw himself forward and began running.

The first sentry, Vilkas' kill, had collapsed and now came rolling lazily down the hill, while the other kept to his feet, the arrow that stuck through his chest, in his fists. Before falling, he let out a loud wail, alerting the entire place.

It didn't matter. Keljarn and his Companions raced up the hill, their legs propelling them forward in bounds. His vision shaking from the force of his boots connecting with the earth, Keljarn saw shapes rising up between the tents, and soon the cries of alarm rang out, people scrambling for their weapons and armour. As he ran up, Keljarn came past the body of Vilkas' sentry, and almost without thinking, he brought his boot down hard on the dead man's head, feeling the vibrations go through his foot as his jaw and several vertebrae broke.

His velocity unabated by his pointless act of cruelty, he reached the camp along with his fellows. One of the Silver Hand bastards hastily tried to nock an arrow, but Keljarn's axe came down, chopping into his skull and splitting it open all the way to his teeth, his brain flying in chunks from his head when Keljarn yanked the axe out.

Maybe this was Ria's murderer.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Aela fall upon another enemy, thrusting her dagger forward, punching it through the mouth and out the back of her enemy's head, the dagger point sticking through her blond hair.

Another Silver Hand, his breastplate only strapped at one side, lunged at Keljarn as he continued his charge, but Keljarn's felt a gentle nudge against his side, and responding to the barely perceptible push, he jerked his body to the side, dodging the slash and swinging his axe, chopping through the man's beard, and into his throat, almost beheading him in a single blow.

Maybe this was Ria's murderer.

His speed dragged him on, and he crashed into another Silver Hand, knocking her frail body to the ground and rolling on top of her. The weak Bosmer woman was powerless as he sat up, raised his axe, and let it come down straight into her green tunic, crushing her breastbone and splitting her ribcage. She let out a horrible, breathless wail, but Keljarn's axe cut it short, coming down straight into her face.

Maybe this was Ria's murderer.

He rose and felt a massive force slamming into him, taking him back to the ground. The Redguard who'd body-slammed him raised his mace, but Keljarn was faster, giving him a short punch in the face, then following up with his axe, coming down on his enemy's shoulder, chopping through the collar bone, and down into his ribs. As the man fell off him and came to his feet, staggering with a dazed expression on his face, Keljarn let his axe swing low, catching the man in the abdomen, chopping into his bowels with a wet thud. He pulled the axe free, gutting the man where he stood and watching as he fell to his knees, his good arm shifting from his shoulder to his insides.

Maybe this was Ria's murderer.

Instead of killing him, he kicked the man hard in his exposed insides, sending him to the ground with a loud gurgle as the guts ruptured further beneath his boot. Let him die slowly and painfully.

A Khajiit came at him, but this one clearly had no idea how to fight. Keljarn caught the mongrel by the throat, instantly stopping his lunge. This couldn't be the one who'd murdered Ria, Njada and Kodlak, so he made it quick even though he knew he could take his time, swinging his axe sideways and striking the Khajiit in the middle of the face, splitting its muzzle and destroying its brain.

A mass of rust-brown fur and claws flew past him, falling on a screaming Silver Hand member and obscuring Keljarn's sight on the explosion of blood that followed.

Following Aela's example, he too shifted, feeling a sense of approval wash over him. He knew they had won. Nothing could stop them now. It was far less painful than last time, but maybe he simply didn't feel the pain as his bones broke and realigned and his muscles swelled. He heard the ripping sounds of his clothes as they tore from his body.

As his vision became as red as the blood he smelled so much more strongly now, screams and cries of pain sounded on all sides of him, and he knew his Companions were still killing. An injured Silver Hand member knew all was lost, and he tried to hobble away, holding his side.

In a few leaps, Keljarn had caught him, even before he'd gotten clear of the camp, and he fell on him, taking him down and savouring his cries of pain as his fangs sunk into his soft, rich Altmer meat and tore a massive chunk out of his shoulder. His prey squealed, but his jaws closed again, this time over his head, crushing and wrenching until it came off, and the blood from the stump of his prey's neck sprayed against his fangs, chin and rump, drenching his fur.

The noise had stopped, and Keljarn spat out the mangled head, letting the torn mess of skin and bone roll down the hill. He stomped back to the middle of the camp , briefly surveying the battlefield. All were dead and nothing moved.

Vilkas shifted back, his clothes in tatters, his shirt entirely gone, and his breeches split at the thighs, strips of cloth hanging from his calves. Farkas stayed in werewolf form a little longer, looking at the hulking form of Aela, still in wolf form like him, holding a limp figure between her teeth, face up. Even between the blood and shreds of skin, Keljarn saw the severed werewolf paw, now red with the Skinner's own blood. He was still alive, though barely, his bald head also dripping with blood. He wasn't long for this world, and that wasn't right. It had to hurt. Even more than Aela's fangs in him, tearing his skin and organs even further with every move his body made.

Farkas, also still in wolf form, growled in anger and disappointment at the Skinner's impending death. Aela had been too rough with him, although the bleeding cut across her snout told him she'd had no choice. At least it hadn't been silver.

Keljarn released his animal instincts, and felt himself shifting back into his human form, pain wracking through his body, but he bit it, because he had only one question. "The assassin," he demanded to know as soon as he could move again, sweeping his arm across the carnage. "Which one?"

The Skinner merely grinned his bloody teeth bare, chortling briefly before groaning from the pain as everything tore further with ever move his body made. "Never... find..."

"Which one?" Vilkas snarled, shouting in his ear. He knew, like Keljarn, that hurting him more was pointless. Any pain Vilkas could inflict on him would drown in the sea of agony Aela's teeth were making.

Another gurgling laugh, cut short by his own pain. "Not... one of... us."

"But sent by you!" Keljarn shouted. "Who?"

No response.

"Fucking tell us! Who?"

The Skinner's defiant grin became even wider, and it remained even when the face it was on had died.

With a loud roar, Aela hefted the body in the air and sent it smacking down, bursting its skull on a large rock. Krev the Skinner's brains spattered from his head, drenching the grass with red.

"Fuck!" Keljarn shouted, kicking down a tent in pure rage. They'd destroyed the Silver Hand, but blood still ran through the hand that had murdered the others. And with all of them dead, the chance of ever finding the killer was lost. He roared again, kicking a pewter cup so hard it flew into the air.

"Justice has been done, Keljarn," Vilkas said. "We got the one that gave the order, and that's what's important. We'll get the assassin yet."

"Skinner wasn't lying," Farkas grunted. "Wasn't one of them. Saw it in his eyes. You can't fake that kind of petty, evil defiance."

Keljarn agreed. Krev the Skinner hadn't been lying.

"Come," Vilkas said, putting his arm on Keljarn shoulder. "Let's give Aela some privacy to shift back.

As he trudged down the hill, he knew he should be glad that the Silver Hand was destroyed and none of his Companions had died. But something was missing. The victory felt incomplete. And he knew why, knew it would darken his mood during the celebration that would be held when they returned home.

The assassin was still out there. Living, breathing. And no matter what it took, Keljarn would set it right.