Her decision to drop off Skjor's jobs that night, it seemed, was a good one, because he seemed to have disappeared by morning. Predictably, Aela was gone too. As she waited to hear from one of them, Lysanor tried to keep herself busy, training in the yard and skimming through the old books that were scattered around Jorrvaskr. There was only so much one could train, though, and reading wasn't her forte. As the days trickled past like a dried-up stream in one of Skyrim's warm months, Lysanor began to wonder if they had left without her.
She was out in the yard, trying to adjust the grip of her shield, when Aela suddenly reappeared. She looked flustered and out of breath, but she was grinning.
"Are you ready? Let's go!"
Lysanor straightened up, bewildered. "Now?" She looked around. The only others she could see were Vilkas and Ria at the other end of the yard, by the archery target. "Where have you been? Where's Skjor?"
"Skjor already left to scout the place. Come on, we need to catch up to him."
"Wasn't he going to come with us?"
"So many questions," Aela tsked. "Our job isn't to interrogate him, it's to follow him. Now, are you coming, or not?"
"Alright, alright. Calm down." Lysanor sheathed her weapon. "Just give me a minute to get my things."
"Be quick. I'll meet you by the stairs outside." She was gone before Lysanor could protest. It was just as well, anyway. There was no arguing with Aela.
She sped off to the Jorrvaskr living quarters, shield still in hand. There probably wasn't enough time to run by Breezehome and pick up extra potions. Food wasn't a concern, not with the huntress herself by her side. She wouldn't need all that much time to get ready after all. In her bedroom, she grabbed her satchel and coin purse, tying them to her waist, and rummaged around her chest. She slipped her heavy Skyforge sword, her first real weapon, into the other sheath at her waist, strapped her bow and shield to her back. As a finishing touch, she adjusted her armor and swept her ragged fur travel cloak over her shoulders.
Ria bumped into her, quite literally, as she was heading back up the stairs.
"Sorry, Lysa," she said tiredly, smoothing her hair out of her face.
"It's fine." She paused for a moment, looking her over. Ria was slumped over, breathing hard, and her hair and face were damp with sweat. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." She leaned against the side of the stairs, apparently having lost the will to stand straight. "Vilkas is teaching me how to use a greatsword."
"A greatsword?" During her training, Lysanor had handled the things a few times herself. While they were certainly powerful weapons, she never did get used to the immense weight and ended up falling over more often than dealing any damage with them. Ria was built similarly to her—lean, average height, not particularly muscled. "Are you strong enough for that?"
"Of course I'm strong enough. Why does everyone keep saying that?" Ria grumbled. "Farkas said I should use something lighter, too." She sighed, rubbing her eyes. Her maroon war paint, thinned with sweat, smeared across her face in heavy streaks. "It's not the sword that's the problem." She lowered her voice and growled, "It's Vilkas."
"Mm." She respected Vilkas as much as any other of her Shield-Siblings, but even she had to admit he could be an utter pain. Training with him was even more of a nightmare than it was with his brother. "Why don't you ask someone else? Vilkas isn't the only one around here that uses one of those swords."
"Yes, but he's the best at it," Ria sighed. "Farkas is too busy trying to whip Torvar into shape, and Skjor is barely ever around anymore."
"Skjor…Oh, Talos. Aela is going to kill me. I have to go."
"Bye," Ria groaned, not bothering to ask. When there was a chance that Aela would be angry, there was no time for questions. Lysanor rushed up the stairs and out the door, where a rather irritated-looking Aela was waiting for her.
"What took you so long? Skjor's probably already at Gallows Rock by now," she complained.
"Sorry. Just getting my things together." Lysanor flexed out her shoulders under her cloak. "Come on, let's go."
They received a number of warm smiles and "good journeys" as they walked through the market, into the gates of the city. Though Lysanor knew the Companions were the butt of quite a few jokes amongst the townspeople—she had heard far too many "Do you fetch the mead?" jokes when she was the new blood—they were still respected, if only out of fear. The other members of the Circle were also quite well-liked; Skjor and Kodlak were clearly the heroes of the town, and many of the older townspeople like Fralia Gray-mane had fond stories of Vilkas and Farkas as little boys. Over the years, Lysanor herself had earned a bit of respect, too.
As they waited for the guards to push open the gates, Aela said conversationally "Excited to be getting out of town again?"
"Not really," Lysanor muttered. The sharp winter wind buffeted her hair as the doors to the city creaked open. The guard nodded to them and she offered a faint smile in response. "I've spent more than enough time away from home."
"You'll have fun, just you wait. Nothing gets the blood racing like the feel of the hunt."
As they walked out of town past the stables, the horses recoiled and whinnied fearfully. Aela took her arm, hastily pulling her down the path and muttering for her to hurry up. Lysanor vaguely recalled asking Farkas about the horses on one of her first jobs. They were headed to the Rift, quite a ways from Whiterun, but the Companions owned no horses and Farkas wasn't willing to rent one from the stables. She remembered thinking it was strange that a famed group of warriors that traveled all over the province didn't own a single horse. When she had asked him, all he had said was, "Horses don't like us." Now she knew why.
So they walked (or rather, ran) for much of the way. It would be a day or two to Gallows Rock, Aela had told her, less if they kept moving through the night. That was the benefit of traveling with other Circle members, Lysanor realized as the sun crept lower in the sky. No need to stop regularly, to set up camp and pretend to sleep through the night. She had only just been initiated into the Circle herself when the dragon attacked Whiterun and she was whisked off; she was still learning.
As it began to grow dark, Aela slowed her pace and teased, "Getting tired yet?"
"Not a chance," Lysanor scoffed. If there was one thing she had grown excellent at, it was travelling.
"Well, I am. Let's stop and eat." Without waiting for an answer, Aela veered off of the path, pushing past the sparse grass and heading for a secluded bundle of trees. She kept her knife out as they approached, looking around warily. When she came to the conclusion that there wasn't anything unpleasant lurking in the shadows, she sheathed her knife and dropped her satchel to the ground. She stretched slowly, arching her back like a cat. "Come on. Let's hunt." Instead of readying her bow, though, she slipped it off her shoulders and let it drop beside the satchel, followed by her quiver. Oh. Oh no. Lysanor swallowed.
"Maybe we should hunt…the traditional way," she offered. Aela looked up at her, her eyebrows rising.
"The traditional way?" she echoed.
"Without turning."
Aela was silent for a long moment, her eyes narrowing. "Why? It's much more difficult that way, you know."
"I know, I know," Lysanor said hurriedly, holding her hands out. "It's just…we're right next to the main road. The last time I turned so close to the pathway I was nearly seen."
Aela stared at her.
"Better safe than sorry."
The silence stretched on. Lysanor was almost about to back off when Aela slowly nodded. "You're right. Skjor has been telling me to be a little more discreet, anyway." She bent over, picked her bow up again. "Come on. I think I heard some deer over that way." Lysanor breathed a quiet sigh of relief, dropping her own bags and creeping along after her.
Though Lysanor was not much of a huntress, it was barely a few minutes until they had taken down a decently sized doe. Aela's hunting skills were unmatched, after all. They dragged the beast back to their makeshift camp and as Aela set to work skinning it, Lysanor gathered wood for a small fire. She knew Aela didn't mind raw meat-perhaps even preferred it-but she had never gotten used to the taste of blood, herself.
The fire finally sprung to life with a muttered spell and a few embers that leapt from the tips from Lysanor's fingers. Rich warmth washed over her, thawing out her cold limbs and face. She slipped off her gloves to warm her hands by the fire. Eventually Aela handed her a few hastily carved chunks of meat, which she skewered and held above the crackling flames. They fell into a companionable silence as the food cooked.
"Aela," she asked quietly, watching the edges of the meat brown as wisps of fire curled over it.
"Hm?"
"Is…is there…" She closed her eyes, clenched her fists. She couldn't back down this time. "Is there a cure for lycanthropy?"
"A cure?" Aela scoffed. "What nonsense. You're starting to sound like the old man."
"Aela," she said, looking up at her with a faint frown. To her credit, Aela looked chagrined.
"I…I shouldn't say that," she muttered. "I love Kodlak. I…respect and follow him."
Lysanor turned back to the fire, brows furrowed.
"But he's wrong about this," Aela continued, her voice stronger. "I know he thinks the beast blood is a curse. He's wrong. This is a gift that we've been granted. We've been turned into the greatest hunters, the greatest warriors of the land! We can't just throw that away for some-some mead-swilling afterlife in Sovngarde." She shook her head, her eyes wild, fiery. "Where is this even coming from, huh? You didn't have a problem with our gift before you left."
"I was away for a long time, Aela. I had a lot of time to think." The way the world looked when she gave in to the blood, a mass of blackened colors and shapes and sounds, felt burned into her eyelids. When she was turned, she couldn't seem to hold on to her thoughts for more than a moment before they flitted away like torchbugs. It was all wrong. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I was just asking."
Aela fell silent, but her body was still drawn as taut as the string of a bow. She wordlessly accepted the overcooked chunk of meat that Lysanor passed to her.
"Is Kodlak looking for a cure?"
Aela glanced back up at her, eyes still hard. "Probably," she said after a moment. "He's said he wants one. I don't know if he's found anything yet."
Lysanor didn't ask anything more. She probably wouldn't have gotten any more answers either way. They stared at the fire, each lost in her own thoughts. Now that she thought about it, she had never really discussed the beast blood with Kodlak. Skjor and Aela had been the ones to turn her, and she had been on hunting trips with them; Vilkas occasionally offered quiet advice about how to deal with the nastier aspects of their boon; and after her first turning she had stumbled first to Farkas, bewildered and nauseous. Kodlak had never really spoken to her about it. All she could remember was the disappointment in his eyes when Skjor and Aela told him that she, too, had turned. She chewed her meat slowly, thoughtfully.
Finally, Aela stood, brushing dirt off of her armor. "We should get going," she said evenly. "If we want to catch up with Skjor." Her voice was still guarded, purposefully calm, but at least she didn't look angry anymore.
"Let's go, then."
They gathered their things, strapping on their bags and readying their weapons. Lysanor carefully lit a torch on the fire before she kicked dirt over the flames. When nothing was left but smoke and embers, they turned and headed back to the cobblestone road.
"How much longer is it to Gallows Rock?"
"Why? Are you getting nervous?" Aela said humorlessly. She glanced at her out of the corner of her eye.
"Just wondering."
Aela was quiet for a moment, her eyes flickering over their surroundings. "Shouldn't be much longer. We're just following the river east and crossing at the bend." She used her torch to point ahead of them. "See that smoke there? It's a giant camp. We'll cross the river around there."
They trudged through the grassy plains at the border of Eastmarch in relative silence, beating off the occasional night creature that got in their way. The rush of the battle seemed to improve Aela's mood, because by the time they reached the riverbank, she was just about back to normal. Lysanor, on the other hand, was grumpy that they couldn't find a bridge-in the Skyrim cold, getting wet was a dreadful mistake, even for a Nord-but she decided she'd irritated Aela enough for the night. So they held their cloaks and torches aloft, as far above the water as possible, and waded through the shallowest part of the river. From there, Aela said, it was only a day's trek to the fort. Sure enough, as the sun began to creep over the horizon in the early hours of the next morning, the crumbling stone walls of Gallows Rock came into view.
"Put that away," Aela whispered, gesturing for her to lower her torch. She put it out in the dirt and tucked it into her belt. They crept over the rocky, snow-dotted ground, weapons readied. The entire outside of the fort, however, was suspiciously silent; there were lit fires still crackling, leather still laid out over tanning racks, but not a sign of life anywhere. As they moved in the watery-blue, early morning light, Lysanor stumbled over something and cursed quietly. She glanced down.
"Oh." She straightened up, toeing the decapitated figure in the gut. "Aela. Look."
Aela crept over to her, stepping delicately over an overturned chair. "Huh," she muttered, staring down at the man. "I guess Skjor already got to them."
"Where did he say he was going to meet us? Inside?"
"He didn't say. Must be around here somewhere." The sun continued to rise into the sky, casting dim rays of light over the fort. As the heavy darkness was lifted, Lysanor realized the dead man by their feet wasn't the only one-they were surrounded by them. Nearby lay a woman with her throat slashed open, her neck and chest crusted with drying blood; another was slumped over a table with a gaping wound in his abdomen. Lysanor looked up at the decrepit tower, squinting and shielding her eyes from the pale slivers of sunlight that crept through the cracks in the stone. No sentinels.
"Looks like we're alone," she muttered. She and Aela looked at one another for a moment, silent.
"Skjor must be inside," Aela said finally. "Come on, let's go before he finishes them all off without us." She turned away the dead man and headed back to the wooden ramp, delicately leaping over rubble and more bodies. Lysanor followed, kicking the bodies aside. No point in being sneaky now. By the time she got down, Aela was already waiting for her by the heavy stone entrance to the garrison. "Can you be any slower?" Aela mumbled, shaking her head. Lysanor ignored her and tightened her grasp on her axe, pushing the door open with her shoulder and creeping inside.
The stone hallway was silent, deserted, and very dark. Lysanor's newly-lit torch quickly illuminated the room. Barely a few feet from the entrance, the hallway was blocked off with a heavy spear gate. Aela scoffed quietly, walking closer to it.
"Look at this. Cowards," she sneered. "They must have locked down the rest of the fort when Skjor charged in."
"Is there any other way in?" Lysanor approached the gate, pulling lightly at the rusty iron spears. They didn't budge, of course.
"Doesn't look like it." They were both silent for a moment, feeling around the walls surrounding the gate. Lysanor had been sent to abandoned forts several times on jobs before; bandits and criminals flocked to them like moths to a flame. These gates always had a pull chain or a lever somewhere close by. Vilkas's favorite saying was "Every door has a key," after all. She finally found it-on the other side of the gate. She forced her arm between the spears, grunting as she reached for the pull chain. Her pauldron caught on the metal, screeching loudly.
"Fuck," she grumbled, pulled her arm back. Aela laughed quietly.
"Why don't you yell a little louder, hm? Let them all know we're here?"
Lysanor shushed her, unsheathing her sword. "Here. See if you can reach that pull chain." Aela took the sword, clearly uncomfortable with the heavy weapon, but slid it through the spears anyway. Her much lighter armor had no trouble slipping between the metal bars. She struggled for a moment, grunting and reaching out, then hooked the tip of the sword in the pull chain and thrust downwards. The spears retracted, groaning and creaking. Lysanor took her sword back with a pleased smile.
"Couldn't outsmart our Dragonborn, huh?" Aela chuckled.
"Of course not." They exchanged a smirk. "Come on. Let's go."
The pathway past the gates was a bit better lit, with the occasional torch or lantern attached to the wall. It was filthy, though that was expected, and smelled far worse than Lysanor had come to accept of bandit hives. Aela seemed to be thinking something similar as they moved along the hall, her lip curling contemptuously at a bloodied silver weapon that had been carelessly abandoned on the ground. "Scum," she muttered under her breath.
A set of stairs led into a large room surrounded by huge stone pillars. Aela crouched behind a pillar and held out her arm, gesturing for her to stay down. Lysanor leaned past her to look into the room. It was immense, dimly lit, and mostly stone, though she could see the occasional wooden door embedded in the wall. A campfire crackled in the middle of the room. A few men sat around the fire, talking quietly. Aela grinned.
"Look," she whispered. "Live ones." She drew an arrow from her quiver, silently nocked it, and let it fly.
The arrow whizzed through the air, hurtling into one man's shoulder. His yelp of pain echoed through the stone room. Lysanor glared at Aela, who cackled. "I was aiming for his neck!" she exclaimed, leaping up and reaching for another arrow. Lysanor rolled her eyes.
"By Ysmir, Aela," she grumbled and drew her axe, charging into the room. It wasn't much of an entrance, to be honest-every man inside had already been alerted to their presence. Still, she could see real fear in their eyes, quickly followed by rage as they recognized her armor.
The first man hurtled forward, the distinctive silver sword glinting in the firelight. Lysanor hurled him back with her shield arm. She lashed out with her axe at a second, tearing a gash in his worn leather armor, and smashed the first one with her shield again. This time, the crack of snapping bone rang out. One down. The second man quickly fell, her axe embedded in the side of his skull, and Lysanor whirled around to face the first again. He was already lying on the ground with a telling stillness. A third warrior was dead in his chair by the fire, blood gurgling past the arrow lodged in his throat. She turned to Aela, who was lowering her bow.
"You're just like the men. Too slow," she grinned.
"Not much of a fight," Lysanor muttered. She sheathed her weapon, strolling to the other end of the room. Wooden shelves lined the stone walls by the campfire. She ran her fingers along them, inspecting the bottles and books that the bandits had lined up.
"Of course not," Aela scoffed. "They're the Silver Hand. What did you expect?" She walked over to the bodies on the ground, toeing one of their silver weapons. "Look at this. Think they're going to cleanse Skyrim with these things."
"Mm." Lysanor turned back to the shelves, squinting at the label on one of the bottles. Looked like a healing potion. She popped open the cork and took an experimental sip. Warmth rushed through her and she sighed at the feeling of all of her aches and pains disappearing for just a moment. Healing potion or not, everything felt a little better, so it was good enough. She twisted the bottle shut and tucked it into her satchel.
"Come on, Lysa, what are you doing?"
"Just looking. Never know what you might find in these places." She grabbed a coin purse that was sitting on the shelf, holding it up as she crossed to the other end of the room. "See?"
Aela rolled her eyes. "What, our jobs don't pay you enough?" she muttered, trailing after her. "We need to catch up to Skjor, Lysa, come on."
"Just a second." The stench that had been thick in the air from the moment they stepped in grew stronger as she approached a pair of doors at the other end of the room. "Gods, what is that?" she mumbled, holding her free arm to her nose. She pulled on one door, but it was clearly barred from the other side. Turning to the other, she wrenched it open and peered inside.
"Ugh," she hissed, taking a few steps back and covering her nose.
"There's a dead one, isn't there?" Aela asked, strolling over to her. She grimaced as she took in the limp form nailed to the wall. "Thought so. Nobody we know, by the smell…could have been anyone."
"Are those…" Lysanor gestured to the table beside the mangled werewolf. A roll of leather lay there with a number of gruesome-looking metal tools, most of them covered in blood. Aela winced.
"Let's go," she muttered, taking her arm. This time, Lysanor didn't protest.
A third door at the end of the room behind the campfire proved to be more promising than the other two. They crept down the long corridor, weapons out. As they followed the hallway down a wide set of stairs, Lysanor turned to Aela.
"Why were those three still alive?" she whispered.
"What?"
"Why were they alive?" Lysanor repeated. "If Skjor's already been past them?"
Aela stopped for a second, her eyes wide in the dark corridor. They stared at one another. "They must have arrived after he did," she said finally.
"Right," Lysanor replied after a moment, nodding and looking away. They didn't speak of it any more.
The next room was guarded by a pressure plate, which they nimbly leapt over-or at least, Aela nimbly leapt and Lysanor stomped. It looked, quite simply, like a prison. Tall metal cages lined either wall, shrouded in heavy shadows. It was too dark for them to see what was inside them, and honestly, Lysanor wasn't sure if they even wanted to see. She quietly pointed out a Silver Hand sitting at a table in the center of a room to Aela, hissing don't miss this time. Her Shield-Sister sent an arrow flying through his brain, and then the throat of the man that stood up in shock immediately afterward.
"Anyone else?" Aela said softly, creeping into the room. It was silent. They followed the corridor, peering into the dark cages as they did.
"Look," Lysanor murmured. "There's another one."
"There are probably a lot of them. There always are," Aela said. "Keep moving."
Lysanor gave the werewolf's crumpled form one last look before moving along. The room was eerily quiet; it was silent but for their own footsteps and heavy breathing. The dripping of water in one of the damp corners echoed through the room. Suddenly, something inside one of the cages hurled itself against the bars at them, snarling and clawing violently through the gaps.
"Talos!" Lysanor gasped, clutching at her arm, which was oozing blood. Aela yanked her back, out of reach of the cage.
"Didn't think there'd be any live ones," she hissed. Lysanor raised her torch, heart thrumming violently against her ribs. The werewolf was still snarling, foam dripping from its maw. "Some can't separate the beast from themselves," Aela explained, her voice calmer. "Go feral."
"It's…feral? You're sure?"
"Yes."
Lysanor looked the thing in the eyes, grimacing. She couldn't see any trace of a person there. Without another word, she drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly into its skull. She paused and lowered her bow. When it stopped twitching, she put the bow on her back and drew her axe, hurriedly leaving the room.
The few Silver Hand loitering around the next room were quickly disposed of, as was the man in the corridor leading away from it. The battles were nothing to worry about, but Aela was clearly as tense as she was; she had fallen silent long ago, forsaking her usual chatter. They had to stop after the next room, an enormous two-leveled chamber with Silver Hand shooting at them from all angles, to recuperate. As she bandaged a nasty gash on Aela's shoulder, her Shield-Sister finally spoke.
"We should be getting close now," she whispered. "We'll need to be careful. The leader here, they call him 'the Skinner.'" She winced as Lysanor tightened the bandage around the still-bleeding wound. "I don't think I need to tell you why."
"Drink some of the potion," Lysanor murmured, reaching into her satchel. Aela shook her head.
"I don't need that," she replied, struggling to her feet. She gave her shoulders an experimental flex, seeming satisfied with their functioning. "Just keep your eyes open, alright?"
"They're open, Aela."
"Good." Aela whipped out an arrow and nocked it in her bow. "Let's move."
The corridor they were in was as dark and damp as the rest of the fort. Lysanor's torch illuminated the hallway just enough to cast light over their path. The hall showed signs of a struggle; overturned furniture and smashed vials littered the floor and the walls were streaked with blood. When they reached the end of the corridor, Lysanor set down her torch, held up her shield, and, at Aela's signal, pushed open the heavy wooden door.
She wasn't able to see very far into the large, circular room; broad stone pillars surrounded the chamber, blocking her view. She could hear movement, and voices, and she could see silhouetted figures stalking the length of the room, but that was the extent of it. From Aela's grimace it was clear that she couldn't see much, either.
"Just go," she whispered. "I've got your back."
Lysanor didn't need any more urging. She gritted her teeth, stood, and sprinted in.
Once she was past the pillars she could see the room more clearly, but there was no time to look around. The bandits seemed almost ready for her. They were already armed, and several men leapt from their seats by a fire and rushed toward her as soon as they caught sight of her. That was one too many. She lashed out at the closest man, aiming for his throat and missing, and backed up as he recovered. Her shield arm flew up instinctively to deflect the swing of a heavy battle axe and pain shot through her shoulder. Fuck.
"Aela?" she yelled, aiming another blow at the nearest Silver Hand. His sword flew up to meet the strike, then lashed back out like lightning. These ones were quicker than the others. She barreled her shield into one man's middle, not stopping to see if he'd fallen, and swung out at another with her axe. Arrows whizzed over her head-whether or not they were aimed at her, she had no idea. She was so consumed by the heat of the battle that she didn't bother to look behind her until a searing pain shot through the junction of her neck and shoulder. She cursed, ripping the dagger out of her flesh and jamming it into the throat of the man directly in front of her.
"Aela, what in Oblivion are you doing?" The wound burned as if the knife was still embedded, white-hot, in her flesh. She ground her teeth together to keep from crying out. It must have been the damned silver weapons. Skjor always had told her to avoid the Silver Hands' weapons as much as she could—they used silver for a reason. An arrow whooshed through the air behind her, followed immediately by a telltale thunk as it met its target. Thank Talos. At least Aela was doing something.
As a second man fell from before her and the wall of human flesh thinned, she could finally get a better look at the room. Directly in front of her, past a large campfire and several tanning racks, stood a large Redguard with an even larger silver sword in heavy steel armor. Aela was in front of him, flinging her bow aside. Instead of unsheathing her shortsword, though, she hissed something that Lysanor couldn't decipher, her body tensing and her fists clenching. Even the man locked in combat with Lysanor turned for a second to glance at the source of the animalistic snarls and growls. Aela's muscles rippled gruesomely under her skin, flesh stretching and twisting, armor melting away, coarse black fur sprouting from her bare skin. Even the Skinner's eyes widened with fear.
Lysanor took advantage of the final man's momentary distraction and struck out at his neck. This time, she didn't miss. His head flew back, as if on a hinge, still attached to the rest of his body by a few lucky tendons. She leapt over the bodies of the others, drawing her bow as the Skinner lunged for Aela. The first arrow flew past his head, narrowly missing Aela's furred arm. The second embedded itself in his side. It didn't matter, though-no man was a match for the beast. Aela's claws ripped through his uncovered throat like knives through butter.
"By Talos," Lysanor muttered, lowering her weapon and wiping the sweat from her forehead. Once the Skinner stopped moving, Aela's fur began to creep back under her skin. Within a few moments she was back to her normal size, flexing out her arms and wiping blood from her face.
Lysanor staggered over to a tanning rack and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her entire breastplate was coated in blood. She groped feebly at the wound on her shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding. With her other hand she felt around her satchel, pulling out the healing potion she had snagged earlier and ripping off the cork with her teeth. A few swallows of the potent drink was all it took for her labored breathing to ease a little.
"Lysa?" Her head shot up, hand instantly going to her axe. Aela's voice was strangled. "Lysa. Come here."
Aela was kneeling on the platform the Skinner had been on, her shoulders hunched painfully. "Are you okay?"
"They…they…" Aela's voice caught in her throat. Lysanor climbed up the stairs and crouched next to her, looking her over for any serious injuries. She was so busy making sure Aela wasn't dying that she didn't even realize that her sister was cradling a body in her arms. She recoiled in shock, her stomach twisting painfully inside her.
"No," she whispered.
"The bastards," Aela said shakily. "They…somehow they managed to kill Skjor."
Lysanor's hands rose to her face, shaking as they covered her mouth. Skjor's stomach and chest were drenched with blood, his distinctive armor torn at the seams of the plates. Those clever grey eyes were glazed, empty. She swallowed hard. "How?"
"I don't know," she said, her voice soft. "He was one of the strongest we had, but…numbers can overwhelm." She took an unsteady, labored breath. "He should not have come without a Shield-Brother."
The room was noiseless but for the sound of their breathing for a long, painful moment. Finally, Aela turned to her. She wasn't crying, despite the tightness that had been in her voice. Her eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Lysanor was sure her own face must have betrayed the same rage. They gazed at one another silently for a moment; there was nothing that needed to be said.
"You and I…we have work to do," Aela whispered. She gently lowered Skjor's body to the ground, slipping her arms out from underneath him. Her palms were reddened with his blood. "Get back to Jorrvaskr. Tell the others. I'm going to see if there's any information to be gotten from the bodies."
"What about Skjor?"
She glanced back down at him, her face blank. "Don't worry about him. I'll bring him back," she said softly. "You go."
Lysanor bit her lip. She didn't want to leave Aela all on her own, not after this. She had never known any two as deeply connected as Skjor and Aela had been. It was as though they were two halves of one person. If she were in Aela's place, she would have already driven a knife through her own throat by now. As if reading her mind, Aela gently shook her head.
"I'll be fine, Lysa. Get out of here."
She peered into Aela's eyes. They were still clouded with grief and anger, but she couldn't detect any dishonesty in her gaze. She took a deep breath, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
"Be quick."
Aela nodded silently. Lysanor's eyes flickered over Skjor's limp body once more before she turned away. She tucked her axe into her belt and walked away without another word. She felt strangely numb, cold, as if she'd been drenched in icy river water and then whipped by the harsh Whiterun winds. Her feet led her back down the path they had just been down, now silent and littered with bodies. She couldn't think. It was fortunate that they hadn't left any bandits alive, because she didn't think she would have been able to lift her weapon, let alone kill anyone. She took one more deep breath, pushing open the door of the fortress and stepping out into the midday light.
Jorrvaskr loomed darkly over the Wind District, already shrouded in shadows by the time she made it back to Whiterun. What time was it? She had no clue. She wasn't even sure how long she had been walking. Her head had been spinning since she left Gallows Rock; the second it seemed like she was about to grab hold of a thought, it fluttered away. She dragged herself inside.
The mead hall was silent, dark. Not even the twins were still up drinking. Lysanor's feet led her to the stairs, into the living quarters, down the dim corridor. Finally she stood in the open doorway of Kodlak's room, breathing shallowly.
"Oh, Lysanor. Good evening."
She blinked rapidly, her eyes focusing. Kodlak and Vilkas were sitting inside, speaking quietly, just as they had been when she had first arrived at Jorrvaskr, desperate for some coin and a place to rest. Were they arguing over the beast blood tonight, too? Kodlak rose, concern spreading over his face.
"Are you alright?"
Both men approached her. Vilkas took in her bloody, bedraggled form, his eyes narrowing. "Weren't you on a job with Aela and Skjor? Where are they?"
She turned to him. "He's dead."
"What?" Vilkas growled. "What are you talking about?"
"Skjor. He's dead."
Vilkas's eyes flickered over her face frantically, wild and panicked. He looked enraged that she would even suggest such a thing. Kodlak laid a hand on her shoulder, leaning down a little to look her in the eye. His expression was dreadfully serious, the lines between his brows and around his mouth deepening, but his eyes were as gentle as they had always been.
"What happened, Lysa?"
She closed her eyes. "We were going to go to a Silver Hand lair on a job. Skjor went alone…we were going to meet him there. They must have…" She paused, swallowed. "We found him inside."
"Well, where is he?" Vilkas's voice was shaking. "Where is Aela?"
"She said she would bring him back. She told me to leave without her."
"You left them there?"
Lysanor's eyes flew open, her body snapping taut with barely contained rage. "Skjor is dead, Vilkas!" she snarled, her voice trembling. "I wasn't about to stand there arguing with Aela over how to bring his body back!"
"Skjor is dead?"
Her head whipped around. Farkas stood just a few feet behind her, his expression utterly devastated. How had she not heard him approach? She rubbed her hands over her face, unable to look him in the eye.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
"How…how did…" Farkas began, his words catching in his throat. Kodlak shook his head, held his hand out.
"Enough," he murmured. "This is…this is a day where our souls must cry, and our hearts will answer." He took a deep breath, turning back to Lysanor. "Go. Grieve in whatever way you know. We will await Aela's return."
Lysanor didn't need to hear anything else. She turned before Vilkas could start on her again, clipping Farkas in the shoulder in her haste to get out. He reached out and grabbed her wrist.
"Where are you going?" he said softly. He sounded so heartbroken.
"To my quarters." She wrenched her arm from his grasp. This time, he didn't try to stop her. The lanterns had been turned on in the corridor and she could hear voices, movement. Ria and Njada were shifting in bed when she walked into the room. Her shouting must have woken them up.
"Lysa? What's going on?"
She didn't respond, feeling along the wall in the darkness for her bedside table. Her knees finally bumped against the wooden edge of the bed. She unfastened her armor, tossing piece after piece onto the ground. As she was wresting off her boots, Njada lit a lantern and dusty yellow light flooded the room. She winced.
"You don't look that well," Ria said softly. "Is everything okay?"
Lysanor tossed her gloves onto the table and gently lowered herself onto the bed. Her amulet of Talos dug painfully into her back when she lay down. She moved the pendant so it lay between her breasts. "Skjor is dead."
"What?" That was Njada. "Dead? What in Oblivion happened?" The door to the room directly across from them swung open. The men were awake. Lysanor took a deep breath, lowered her head onto the pillow, closed her eyes. She heard the men rush into the room, heard the fear and horror in Ria's voice as she repeated the news, heard them stumble outside into the hallway. Vilkas's voice rang out from the corridor, then Kodlak's. Someone was crying-probably Ria. She could almost smell the grief in the air.
Her eyes flickered back open, and she stared silently at the ceiling.