Aela trudged back into the mead hall late the next evening, Skjor's body slung over her shoulder and her face clouded. The cries of grief that resounded through Jorrvaskr were unlike anything Lysanor had heard before. Other than Kodlak, none of them could remember a time when Skjor wasn't at Jorrvaskr; he had been a warrior for decades, longer than many of the whelps had been alive. They had naturally gravitated to him for guidance. There was no loss like that of an old warrior.

Once Skjor's body had been slipped off of Aela's back and onto the soft rug before the fire pit, she retired to her room and locked herself in without another word, leaving the others to gather around him and grieve. Lysanor didn't move from her quarters—she hadn't since she had gotten back. The morning after Aela's return, though, Ria gently shook her shoulder, apparently trying to jolt her awake. She looked awful, grim and gaunt, her eyes still puffy and red. Ria had grown up hearing stories, legends of Skjor. She had lost a hero.

"I'm sorry to wake you up," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and weak, as if she had fallen ill. "They're…we're going up to the Skyforge. To say goodbye to Skjor."

Lysanor sluggishly pushed aside her furs, reaching up to rub her face. The skin of her cheeks and eyelids was taut, stiff. Her war paint was still caked on. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her back cracking painfully as she sat up. Ria stood, fetching a washbasin and handing it to her wordlessly. She watched as Lysanor scratched the paint off of her skin, leaving tender pink lines down the length of her face.

"Are you okay, Lysa?" she murmured. "You've been…quiet."

"I'm fine." Lysanor leaned over, placing the bucket of dirtied water back on the ground. She took a slow, deep breath. Ria reached out and gently pushed her damp hair out of her face, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear.

"Let's go."

The mead hall, for once, was completely silent. Even the fire pit was dull, its crackle subdued and its light dimmed. It probably hadn't been tended to all day. She lingered for a moment, her feet dragging and her eyes flickering over the eerily empty corridor. Ria slipped her arm over her shoulder and gently pushed, urging her toward the door.

Whiterun, unlike Jorrvaskr, looked perfectly normal. From their vantage point at the very top of the Wind District they could see most of the rest of the district and the marketplace, where the people of Whiterun were milling about. The harsh midday sun shone painfully into her eyes as Ria led her up to the Skyforge.

Every head turned to them when they finally ascended to the flattened top of the mountain. Each of her Shield Siblings was gathered around the huge forge, along with a few others-Brill and Vignar were at the other end of the platform, Tilma hung back with her head bowed, Eorlund stood by the crackling embers of the forge itself. Ria kept her hand at Lysanor's back, pushing her forward until they stood before the forge. Lysanor looked up. On the forge, atop a pile of neatly stacked wood, lay a body covered in a thin white sheet. She shivered and bowed her head.

"Let us begin," Kodlak murmured. He took a deep breath and lifted his head, looking up at Skjor's body. "Before the ancient flame…"

"We grieve," the others chorused.

"At this loss…" Aela whispered.

"We weep."

Vilkas spoke next, his voice hard. "For the fallen…"

"We shout."

"And for ourselves…" Farkas's words were choked, barely audible.

"We take our leave," Lysanor whispered with the rest of the voices. The silence that followed was deafening. Every eye was trained on Kodlak as he stepped forward, torch in hand, and lit the wood at the base of the pyre. They were quiet, watching flames lick over the darkening wood, then the crumpling white cloth.

Aela turned away first, her head bowed and her fine, reddish brown hair shrouding her face. She slipped past the crowd of people and stepped down the stairs without another word, gone in an instant. Her movement seemed to snap everyone else out of the spell. The others began to trickle off of the Skyforge as well until Lysanor was one of the last people remaining, standing there and staring at the crackling flames.

The quiet clunk of metal boots against the stone sounded, approaching her. Lysanor glanced over at the sound. Kodlak's face was tensely calm.

"Lysanor," he greeted, standing beside her and looking up at the forge. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Harbinger. Thank you."

Kodlak didn't push. He was not, and never had been, a nosy man. He clasped his hands behind his back, quiet for a moment. "His life was long," he said finally, eyes still focused on the fire. "And his death was honorable. We cannot ask for anything more."

She was silent.

"Take care of yourself, lass," he murmured, resting his hand on the back of her head for just a moment before turning away. Lysanor watched him descend the stairs, limping faintly. She turned back to the forge. The only ones left were Eorlund, adjusting his worktable, and the twins, who were huddled closely together by the fire. She took a heavy breath and finally turned around herself, stumbling down the cold stone steps.

The mead hall wasn't as empty and silent as it had been on her way up-someone, probably Tilma, had tended to the fire and it was now burning strongly, and there were a few tired souls sitting around the tables. It didn't really matter. She wasn't going to be sitting in there anyway. She followed the stairs down to the living quarters and slipped into her room, nearly bumping into Njada on her way in. For once, Njada didn't have a nasty comment to offer.

Ria looked up at her as she lowered herself heavily onto her bed. She pulled back her furs, kicking off her boots. She hadn't put her armor on that morning, so there was nothing much to take off. She gestured to the lantern in the corner of the room.

"Can I put that out?"

"Yeah, alright." A frown marred Ria's gentle features as she watched Lysanor lean over and blow the lantern out. "Lysa…are you sure you should be going back to bed?"

Lysanor paused, lowering her furs again. "What?"

"You just…haven't done much since you got back, that's all. Don't you want to go upstairs for a little while?"

"Not really." Lysanor slipped under her bedclothes, exhaling softly. "I'm tired."

"I know you are. But you're starting to scare me," Ria whispered. "You haven't eaten or anything."

"I'm fine, Ria," Lysanor grumbled. "Just let me be for a while. I want to rest." Ria's face was still troubled, her brows drawn tightly together, but she stopped protesting. After a moment, she rose from her bed and quietly walked out of the room. Lysanor took a deep breath, closing her eyes. Perhaps she shouldn't have snapped at the girl. She would feel bad about it later, when the throbbing at her temples eased a little.

It seemed as though her eyes had only been closed for a moment when she heard someone walk back into the room. These footsteps, however, were much heavier than Ria's, and the telltale clinking of metal armor accompanied the sound of boots on the ground. There was the slight clunk of something heavy being set down on the floor next to her bed, and a few seconds later, the bed dipped under someone's weight as they lowered themselves onto the empty space by her hips. Her eyes flickered open.

Farkas offered her a small, halfhearted smile. "Hey."

"Hi." She squinted up at him, waiting for eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her vision grew a little clearer and she could see the heavy shadows beneath his eyes, the smudged, streaked remnants of his war paint over his cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

"Ria told me you're not getting out of bed."

Lysanor sighed heavily, reaching up to rub at her eyes. Stubborn girl. Ria was so much like a little girl sometimes-whining and prodding until Lysanor snapped at her, then rushing off to get Papa and make him fix the problem. "I'm just tired, Farkas."

"Well, it's not like you're going to get much sleep." He leaned over, reaching out and hesitating for just a moment before gently smoothing his heavy, calloused palm over her hair. "Come up and get something to eat, Lysa," he said softly. "You'll feel better."

She kept her eyes down, staring silently at her furs as he stroked her hair. She wondered if she should swat his hand aside, but the pressure was more comforting than she wanted to admit. Her eyes drifted closed. "Do I have to?" she whispered.

"Yes." Farkas took his hand from her head, patting her knee instead and rising to his feet. "You might be able to intimidate Ria into leaving you alone, but not me. Come on, get up." He folded his arms across his chest, sternly staring down at her until she tossed her furs off of her and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Good," he murmured. Ignored the irritated look she gave him, he continued to wait as she adjusted her clothes and tied her hair in a loose knot.

"Let's go," he said, resting his hand between her shoulder blades and carefully guiding her out of the bedroom, the way Ria had done. The living quarters were dead silent, even though it was the middle of the day. Glancing down the corridor she noticed every door was tightly shut, the lights dimmed.

Farkas silently led her back up the stairs, into the mead hall. There were still a few people huddled around the fire, drinking or talking quietly. When she heard them approaching Ria's head lifted from her bottle of mead and her face twisted with guilt.

"Hi," she said, waving a little. Lysanor waved back. Farkas walked her over to the chair beside Ria and pulled it out for her, then handed her a bottle of mead. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at her.

"Are you going to be okay?" he said softly. "I need to find my brother."

Lysanor craned her neck to peer up at him. She hadn't even really thought about how he and Vilkas must have been grieving. They had looked up to Skjor. She remembered how Skjor and Aela liked to tease Farkas, how Farkas had lost his temper with Aela more than once—she'd even seen them come to blows before. He had never breathed a word of complaint to Skjor. She lowered her eyes.

"I'm fine," she murmured. "Go."

"Okay." He gave her shoulder a quick, solid clap and turned without another word, hurrying out of the room with his head down. Lysanor twisted open her bottle of mead and took a few quick gulps.

"I'm sorry, Lysa."

She glanced up. Ria's mouth twisted anxiously, her eyes worried. "For what?"

"For getting Farkas. You just hadn't been up in a while and I know you listen to him and I didn't know what to do-" She was starting to go pink, her hands flying wildly as she struggled to explain herself. Lysanor reached over and gently touched her shoulder.

"It's okay. I'm not upset."

Ria's wide brown eyes flickered nervously over her face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. It was good of you to fetch him. Don't worry."

Her shoulders, drawn up in her worry, relaxed a little. "Okay," she said softly. She glanced back down at her hands, balled up in her lap. For a moment, the room was silent but for the warm crackle of the fire and the quiet, blurry murmurs of the others.

"How are you feeling?"

Ria's eyes were still wide, concerned. Lysanor tried to smile at her.

"I'm alright," she said, keeping her voice steady. Ria nodded slowly, but the slight narrowing to her eyes said that she wasn't entirely convinced. Before she could ask anything more, Lysanor added, "How are you?"

Ria raised her head, her brows lifting. "I'm okay, too," she said after a moment. "Just…sad. We're all sad." She sighed, her body sagging into the chair as if her will to sit upright had disappeared with the breath. "I never thought something like this could happen to Skjor. I always thought…I guess I didn't think he could die." Her eyes were focused on the ceiling, her expression thoughtful. "I guess any of us could die, huh?"

"We could."

"I never really thought about it." She took one last, deep breath, shaking her head. Lysanor watched her as she took a drag from her bottle of mead. It had never really occurred to her, but Ria was so…young. Her eyes were bright, wide open, had the sort of gleam to them that had long since died out in the older warriors. The skin of her face was smooth, pale, tight, her cheeks perpetually flushed with color. She couldn't have been much older than twenty summers. Lysanor put her elbows on the table, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. Both of them were silent.

The hours ticked past, darkness lowering over the city like a dense cloud. When the hall was abandoned and Ria had gone through several bottles of mead, Lysanor decided it was late enough for her to go back to bed and slowly stood up, her legs prickling madly as blood rushed back into them. Ria stood with her, swaying a little.

"Come on, Ria. Let's get you to bed," she murmured, slipping her arm around her shoulders and letting the girl lean against her. Ria's head slumped over onto her shoulder, her neck craned awkwardly. Together they hobbled back down the stairs into the dark underbelly of Jorrvaskr, stumbling into the bedroom and collapsing onto Ria's bed. Lysanor slipped her arms free and turned to light a lantern. Ria groaned weakly, throwing up an arm to shield her eyes from the sickly yellow light. Lysanor glanced around, swaying on her own feet. They were alone but for the shadows that the lantern cast over the room. Was Njada still upstairs? She craned her neck, peering out the door and glancing into the men's room. The living quarters were abandoned. She lowered herself onto the bed, letting out a heavy breath.

"Turn that off," Ria whined. Her face was still scrunched up against the light, hands out. Lysanor turned, leaning toward the lantern. Before she could turn it off a glint of metal caught her eye. She glanced down. A heavy silver disc was propped against her chest, the metal molded into intricate angles and spirals. She reached out, lightly brushing her fingertips against the snarling wolf head carved into the centre of the shield. She knew this shield. She'd had it slammed into her gut with all the strength of Ysgramor behind it more times than she could count.

"Lysa…"

"Sorry," she whispered, grabbing the shield and blowing the lantern out. Ria was snoring in moments. Lysanor forced herself back to her feet, stumbling out of the dark room. Farkas's room was all the way on the other end of the hall, by Kodlak's quarters. He slept opposite Vilkas, of course, because they couldn't be without one another for more than a little while. She put her hand on the wall and let her touch lead her down the corridor, slipping into the dip in the wall that led to the twins' rooms. One door—she could never remember if it was Vilkas's or his brother's—was slightly ajar, the room inside dark. She poked her head inside. Nobody there. She turned to the other door, slowly stepping forward and raising a hand to knock. When she stilled she could hear the sounds from inside—a soft voice, choked sobbing. She froze, her insides clenching. Oh, Talos.

She leaned over and propped the shield against the door. Then she turned and rushed back down the hallway, her head down and her heart burning.

Lysanor leaned in against the heavy wooden door again, her ear pressed firmly against it in an attempt to hear what was going on inside. Dead silence. Every time she'd eavesdropped on someone through a closed door in the past few weeks there had been some sort of crying or whimpering. The quiet was worrying—especially for Aela, who was never quiet unless she was on a hunt. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Gods, did she hope she wasn't going to walk in to a dead body.

A shadow had been cast over Jorrvaskr, shrouding over them and leaving them locked within its four walls. None of them had left on a job since Skjor's death, which had been weeks ago. Even Kodlak, their guide, seemed a bit lost without Skjor at his side.

These past few days it seemed like things were finally starting to creep back to normalcy. The mead hall was a little noisier, a little warmer in the evenings. The few times she went upstairs to eat with the others she caught snippets of easy, light-hearted conversations—jokes about dragons, discussions of possible love affairs around Whiterun, quiet insults to particular fighting techniques (namely Athis's.) Even the other members of the Circle were starting to recover. A few days ago Vilkas had dropped by her room and silently handed her a stack of letters, the first time he'd even acknowledged her presence in weeks. And if Vilkas was recuperating, Farkas couldn't have been far behind.

But Aela was silent, barred in her room. In the first few days after the funeral Ria had whispered something about how Aela was sure to be infuriated, how it would be a good idea to avoid her for a few weeks. It hadn't mattered, as it turned out. Aela hadn't breathed a word to anyone in days. Lysanor wasn't even sure if she had left her quarters at all, to eat or otherwise. So Lysanor made her way to Aela's door while her own thoughts were still clear. It was a few more moments before she could muster up the courage to carefully jiggle the doorknob.

"Who is it?" Aela called warily. Lysanor breathed a quiet sigh of relief, resting her forehead against the wood. So she was alive.

"It's Lysanor."

There was a brief silence. Then, suddenly, the lock clattered and clicked and the door creaked open.

"Come in."

She carefully stepped inside and immediately squinted, shielding her eyes from the light. Lanterns burned in every corner. The light cruelly illuminated the planes of Aela's haggard face, highlighting the lines by her mouth, the deep shadows under her eyes. Her hair and clothes were in utter disarray, but her eyes were wide, unclouded.

"Aela," Lysanor said quietly, taking in her worn, rumpled clothes. Her tunic was bloodied, breeches stained and torn. Were those the same clothes she had been wearing when they left? "Where have you been?"

Aela leaned back in her chair, lifting her chin to look up at her. "I've been right here."

"You know what I mean." Lysanor stood by the door, twisted the heavy gold ring on her finger. She took a deep breath. "I know it's hard," she said softly. "But you can't let this…take over your life. You have to be strong." The words fell painfully flat even to her own ears. Aela's expression grew more skeptical with each sentence.

"What are you talking about?" she scoffed. "Nothing's taking over my life, Lysa."

Lysanor looked her over, searching for dishonesty in her gaze. "But ever since…ever since Skjor you've been so…"

"People have died at Jorrvaskr before, you know. My parents are dead. Most of the warriors I grew up with are dead. This isn't the first time this has happened and it won't be the last." She ran her fingers through her wild auburn hair, combing it out of her eyes. "I'm not losing my mind. I'm perfectly alright."

"Then why have you been holed up in here this entire time?"

"I've been working." For the first time Lysanor noticed the mess on Aela's desk-the crumpled parchment, the torn letters, the stacks of books. Spread directly before her was an immense stretch of paper held down with inkwells placed on the corners.

"What's that?"

Aela beckoned her forward, a strange smile twisting her lips. She walked over, stood behind the chair Aela was sitting on. It was a map of Skyrim. It was strikingly detailed, with carefully outlined borders of each hold and dark rivers winding over the paper.

"Wow," she murmured.

"It's nice, isn't it? It was Skjor's." Lysanor glanced down at Aela, who was smiling fondly at the map. "He always told me he made it himself." She sighed, absently smoothing her fingers over the worn parchment. After a moment, she added, "I've been keeping myself busy."

Lysanor leaned down further. Now that she looked more closely she noticed frantically drawn circles and scribbled notes all over the map. "What is all this?"

Aela's voice was soft. "Every Silver Hand hideout in Skyrim."

Her eyes were bright with pride as Lysanor looked up at her. "I looked through every letter and every book in Jorrvaskr. I even had to go through some of Kodlak's things." She lightly touched a particularly dark circle that she had scrawled onto the mountains of the Pale. "And I did it. This has to be it."

Lysanor stared, her eyes flickering over her face. For a moment she could hear Aela's voice echoing in her head, dark, the way it had been at Gallows Rock. We have work to do. She glanced back down at the map. "You want us to…"

Aela's chair clattered violently as she stood, her palms braced on the table and her eyes wild. "We're going to finish them," she hissed. "We're going to wipe them out, Lysa."

She was quiet for a moment. "Wouldn't it be better," she said finally, "to kill their leader and then just…let them scatter?"

"Leader? Do you know anything about the Silver Hand?" Aela scoffed. "They don't have a leader. They call themselves a brotherhood but they're just a group of glorified bandits. Haven't you ever wondered why we only ever find them scattered around Skyrim, in-in old forts and Draugr crypts?"

Lysanor stammered for a response, but Aela was too caught up in her own rant to wait for one.

"And even if there is a better way to go about it, I don't care. Do you have any idea what those vermin have taken from us? They've stolen pieces of Wuuthrad. They've killed our people. I want them all dead, Lysa. Every last one of them. I don't care." Her eyes were wide as she awaited her reaction. "What do you say?"

She looked back over at the map, swallowing hard. More of the parchment was marked than not. After a moment, she whispered, "Where do we start?"

A triumphant smile spread over Aela's face. "I knew you would understand," she said. She whirled around to face the map again and leaned over, moving her hands in a wide, sweeping gesture over the parchment. "The bastards are all over Skyrim. We have our work cut out for us." She tapped the map with one long index finger, right on top of the symbol for Whiterun. "I thought we'd start close to home and work our way out. There's one right outside of Whiterun, some abandoned mine that they've taken over." Lysanor leaned over, frowning. One of the frantic, dark circles was drawn around a dot just north of the city. "If you're ready, then as soon as it's light tomorrow we can set out."

"Wait. Aela… I think you should stay home."

Aela's eyes narrowed slowly. "What?"

"You haven't been out of your quarters in weeks. You…you look sick." Aela started to protest, but Lysanor lifted a hand, holding back her words. "I've been on hundreds of jobs on my own. I'll be fine. Please, just stay back and get some rest this once."

"Are you…sure you should be going alone?" Aela whispered, her eyes wide with something other than excitement for the first time that night. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I can handle it."

"If you're sure." Aela took a deep breath, sinking down into her chair with her gaze still fixed on her map. It was as though the conversation had sapped the energy right out of her. "Skjor's spirit will be with you. I know it." After a moment, she extended her hand. "Give me your map. I'll mark the place for you."

Lysanor rummaged around in her satchel, slipping the much shabbier, smaller map between Aela's fingers. She slowly rolled it out atop her own map and reached for a quill, dabbing it delicately in an inkwell. Lysanor watched silently as she drew careful circles on the parchment.

"You know," she said suddenly, "I never told him I loved him."

She looked up at Aela's face, but it was still tense with focus, eyes fixed on the map. "Skjor?" she asked, hesitant. She supposed that there was no point in asking, but they had never really admitted to anyone that they were together like that. Aela was always firm in her denial, and Lysanor didn't think anyone had dared ask Skjor about it. It was odd to hear Aela talk about it as though they had kept their relationship out in the open the entire time.

"Yes."

"Why?"

The quill, still clenched in Aela's fist, paused. "I don't know," she admitted. "I guess…I just thought he already knew."

Lysanor was silent for a moment, searching for the words. "I'm sure he did," she said finally.

Aela gently set the quill back down, blowing lightly on the ink. "I hope so." She ran her thumb over the darkest marks, and, when the ink didn't smear, she carefully rolled the parchment back up for her. "I marked the closest ones for you. Just in case."

"Thank you." Aela watched quietly as she tucked the map back into her satchel. "You really should come back upstairs. The others are worried."

"I will. Sooner or later." She stood up again, her arm extending just a little, as if she wanted to take her hand. "Be careful, alright, Lysa? I don't want your blood on my hands, too."

Lysanor squeezed her shoulder. "Goodnight, Aela," she murmured. She closed her satchel and stepped out of the room, gently shutting the door behind her.

Outside, she could hear faint, muffled voices from the twins' rooms. Her quarters, on the other hand, were deserted, the beds neatly made and the lanterns dimmed. She slipped inside and locked the door. Lowering herself onto her bed, she reached into her satchel, pulled out the map that Aela had just marked and slowly rolled it open. The vast plains surrounding Whiterun were dotted with circles and stars. It seemed like Aela had marked off a hideout every few feet.

Aela's voice rang in her ears. You know, I never told him I loved him. Her teeth ground together, resolve hardening.

A few minutes later she stood outside Farkas's door, lightly rapping at the wood. When his voice rang out she pushed it open and poked her head inside. Unlike Aela, Farkas wasn't alone. He was slumped against his desk, head propped against his hand, with his brother in the chair on the opposite end of the room. They both turned to her at the same time, two pairs of the exact same pale blue eyes focused on her. She grimaced.

"I'm sorry. Are you busy?"

"No, no. Come in." He sluggishly waved her in, rubbing his eyes. "What do you need?"

"I…was looking for a job, actually."

Farkas lifted his head from his hand. "Were you?"

"Aye."

"Well, you're the only one," he muttered. He leaned over slowly, as if it hurt him, and reached over to an impressive stack of papers on the other end of his desk. He squinted a little as he read through them. "Let's see," he said. "There's a clan of vampires that needs to be dealt with in Hjaalmarch, if you're interested."

"Actually, I was looking for something a little closer to home."

Farkas glanced up at her from his papers. Hastily, she added, "I'm going to be alone. Didn't think I should be going too far."

"Oh. Guess you're right." He turned back to the letters, flicking through them. Vilkas's eyes remained trained on her,. "How about a Falmer hive? The jarl's put up a bounty to have it cleared out."

"Is it nearby?"

"Just north of the city."

"That's fine. Thank you." She was already beginning to back out of the room by the end of the sentence, letter grasped in her hand.

Farkas set his letters down. "Be careful."

"I will." After offering him a weak smile and staring at anywhere but his brother's suspicious eyes, she slipped out and carefully shut the door. Outside in the hall, she paused by an immense, swaying banner of Wuuthrad and slowly read through the letter, mouthing the words to herself. Some Falmer had built a hive by a small town a few days' travel from Whiterun and were apparently attacking the villagers at night. When she pulled out her map and searched for the village, she found it nestled at the base of the mountains of northeast Whiterun. It couldn't have been too far from the abandoned mine that Aela had marked off. She tucked the map into her belt and straightened up, flexing her shoulders. Time for a trip to Breezehome.