Lysanor crept into Jorrvaskr as the sun was just beginning its descent, expecting warm, mead-flavored air, but was instead met with the same icy wind there had been outside—the doors that led into the training yard were propped wide open. She grumbled under her breath. Using her sword as a makeshift walking stick, she hobbled over to the stairs and down into the living quarters. She muttered a quiet greeting to Tilma on her way down the stairs.

She paused in her quarters, dark and empty, to set down her shield and the knapsacks tied to her waist. When the leather purses and most of her weaponry was in her wooden chest or propped up against it, she very gently lowered herself into her bed with a shuddering sigh. Her legs twitched with some combination of pain and relief. It felt as though she hadn't had a chance to sit down in weeks.

Still perched on the edge of her bed, she reached into the bag closest to her and pulled out her worn old map, unraveling it and laying it flat against her thighs. She reached for the quill on her bedside table. Her finger slowly ran over the dots scattered over the plains of Whiterun, most with ink scratched over them. She stopped in the Pale—Fort Dunstad. Carefully, she crossed out the dot that had been marked on her map. She blew the ink dry, rolled the map up, and tucked it away before rising to her feet and slipping out of her quarters.

"How'd it go?" Aela said without bothering to look up from the book that her quill was hovering over. By way of response, Lysanor tossed a sheet of parchment, folded into fourths, onto her desk. She glanced up. "So you found them, then?"

"I did."

"Headed to Uttering Hills Cavern," she murmured as she read through the note. "Where is that?"

"Eastmarch."

"Hm." She handed the parchment back to her, leaning back in her chair. "I smell a skeever. Don't go alone." Halfway through her sentence she was already beginning to put away her books, rising to her feet. "We can leave tomorrow."

"I'm not going anywhere until I get this fixed."

"Your axe? What's wrong with it?" Aela said, eyeing it suspiciously.

She gestured to the brutally gouged edge of the once-pristine dragonbone head. She'd had her shield knocked from her hands in the heat of battle, and her poor axe had suffered for it. Aela looked unimpressed. "It'll shatter in a heartbeat. I can't leave until Eorlund takes a look at it."

Aela sighed and rolled her eyes, mumbling something under her breath about "brutes" and their "big hulking weapons." "Well, you're out of luck. Eorlund's been ill for a few days, and I don't think he'll be back at the forge any time soon." She shrugged. "Just use something else."

"Something else? This is my axe!" Lysanor said, affronted. She'd slaughtered draugr and dragons alike with her axe. She wasn't going anywhere without it. "I suppose I could go ask Adrianne."

"Well, whatever you do, make it quick," she muttered, watching Lysanor gently tuck her axe back into her belt. "I haven't been out there in weeks. I'm getting antsy just sitting here waiting for something to happen."

"I'll let you know." She stopped just outside of Aela's quarters to stretch slowly, her joints cracking, and walked back down the hall.

It was still bitterly cold outside, even as the sun shone down on the cobblestone path of Whiterun. She swept past the towering Gildergreen, the icy wind sending tiny pink blossoms swirling over her head like shards of snow, and down the steps into the Plains District. The marketplace was little more than a shifting mass of cloaked bodies—it was the height of day, after all—that she had to force her way through, clenching her own cloak around her. The sparser path that led away from the marketplace, toward the gates of Whiterun, lent a moment's respite from the crowds of townspeople. As she neared the bridge leading out of the city, she was already beginning to feel the warmth of Adrianne's modest forge.

The town blacksmith was straddling her grindstone with a broad iron sword in hand, her foot working rapidly on the pedal. She seemed unfazed by the gruesome scraping sound or the sparks exploding from the edge of the blade. Lysanor stood behind her, waiting until the stone slowed and Adrianne let go of the sword for a moment to wipe her forehead with a grimy rag. Lysanor cleared her throat loudly. Adrianne didn't even bother to turn around.

"We've got some good pieces out here, if you're looking to buy," she said, gesturing to the weapon racks lined up against the wall. "There's more inside. Take a look around."

"I think I'll be alright."

This time, she turned around. After a moment's shock, a pleasant smile spread over Adrianne's face.

"Well, well! Look who decided to come visit. Haven't seen you in a while." She racked the sword and combed her damp, gold-brown hair out of her face. "How are you, Dragonborn?"

"I'm well," she said, scratching at a sticky gash on her cheek. "I actually needed your help with something." She drew her axe and balanced it in both hands, carefully holding it out. Adrianne took it and lightly touched the gouges in the sharp head of the axe with a frown.

"Is this dragonbone?" She glanced back up at her. Lysanor nodded. "Hm. Did you talk to Eorlund Gray-mane? He might have more experience with this sort of thing."

"I would, but he's been unwell."

"Oh, that's right…" she murmured. "I guess I could try and grind it down for you." She sat back down on the grindstone, holding the axe up to the sunlight. "I don't have any dragonbone to fill it in with," she said absently. "It's hard to get a hold of any."

"It should be easier now." Since Alduin's disappearance, the dragons he'd raised had scattered about Skyrim, purposeless without a leader. Certainly they couldn't have been too difficult to take down.

"Well, not everyone can shout dragons still, Lysanor," Adrianne said, shooting her a wry smile. "Speaking of dragons, I've heard there's one that's been bothering the folks in Ivarstead. People are wondering if the Dragonborn's planning on going over there and taking care of it for them."

"I don't really hunt dragons anymore," Lysanor murmured.

"Really? Seems like just a couple of months ago that was all you wanted to do."

She rubbed her brow, trying to work out how to best order her words. "They were a threat then," she said finally. "Alduin was a threat. These dragons are a nuisance, but without Alduin…they're not much of anything. The people can deal with them."

Adrianne nodded slowly, her eyes still on the axe. "I guess you're right." Suddenly, she added, "Do you need this right away? It might take me a little while to smooth this out, and I still need to finish that one over there." She jerked her thumb at the lean iron sword she had been sharpening when Lysanor arrived.

"No, I don't."

"I'll have it ready for you in a day or two, then." She smiled. "Stay safe, Lysanor."

"And you."

Aela seemed to catch wind of it even before Lysanor when Adrianne finished working on her axe and had it sent back to Jorrvaskr. Barely a few minutes after she'd gotten the axe back, Aela was breathing down her neck, urging her to hurry and why did she need so much time to get ready anyway? She hadn't lied when she said she was getting antsy sitting around in Jorrvaskr.

"Why are you always in such a hurry to leave?" Lysanor grumbled as they walked out the gates of Whiterun into the frost-tinted Skyrim wilderness. "It's like there's something chasing you out of Jorrvaskr."

"Don't be ridiculous," Aela snapped, adjusting her quiver on her back. Lysanor fell silent—it was obvious when Aela was done with a conversation. They were quiet for a moment but for the crunching of snow beneath their feet. As they were crossing onto the broad stone path that wound through the Whiterun plains, Aela abruptly turned to her and asked, "Have you talked to Farkas lately?"

"What?"

"Farkas. Have you talked to him?"

"Why do you ask?" When was the last time she had spoken to him? She'd seen him around Jorrvaskr a few times these last few weeks, she was sure, but all she could recall was bidding him a good morning or evening as she passed by. She couldn't even remember the last time they'd had a real conversation. To be honest, she couldn't really remember the last time she'd had a conversation with any of her Shield-Brothers—other than Aela.

Aela glanced over at her from the corner of her eye. "The other day he asked me if you were alright. He said he was worried about you."

"Worried?" she echoed.

She nodded. "Apparently you've been 'acting strangely.' He said you've been too quiet."

"Oh, Gods," Lysanor sighed. "I should have known he would realize something was off."

Aela scoffed. "That ice-brain? Really? I'm surprised he even noticed when you weren't in Jorrvaskr."

"Enough, Aela," Lysanor snapped. "It isn't funny."

"My apologies," she said drily, lifting her hands and splaying her fingers, palms out. "I'm just saying. You should probably have a word with him when we get back. Just to make sure he isn't going to go around saying things he shouldn't."

Lysanor muttered something in agreement, her mind already somewhere else. What was she going to say to him? She so hated being dishonest with Farkas, who probably hadn't told a lie in his life. Perhaps if she told him the truth he would understand. Aela might have been right not to trust Vilkas, who wasn't loyal to anyone but his brother, but Farkas was a different matter. She walked slowly, soothed for the moment.

"Is that it?" Aela muttered. She glanced down at her map for a moment, then back up, her frown deepening as she came to the conclusion that yes, that was, in fact, it. Lysanor stood beside her, eyes trained on the jagged gash in the side of the bluff. By the opening of the cave, a handful of bedrolls and tents were scattered, along with the still-smoking remains of what must have been a pitiful fire. Aela will still glaring at the camp in the distance, as if the force of her stare would perhaps make it a little more impressive.

"Good riddance. We'll be done quickly." Lysanor adjusted her pack on her waist and strode forward along the winding, stony path up the side of the cliff. After a moment, Aela's footsteps, barely audible, followed her.

Even in the quivering, watery light of dusk, they could see that the sparse camp outside the cave was empty. The fire, by that point, was out, but as she walked past Lysanor could still feel the warmth of the once-burning embers. They checked in the tents for good measure, then headed toward the opening in the towering walls of the mountain. The entrance to the cave looked as though the two halves of the bluff had struggled to hold together and had begun to split apart, like a tear in the seam of a tunic. Lysanor ducked her head in. It was pitch black.

"Lantern?" she said, holding her hand behind her. A rough cord of metal was rested in her hand, and she brought it forward to light it. The disc of pale, orange-yellow light revealed a few feet's worth of flat ground, then a sharp decline into the stony depths of the earth. She tied the lantern to her waist and, beckoning to Aela, crept inside.

As they walked down the path the cold stone walls narrowed until they scraped along Lysanor's armored hips as she walked. She gritted her teeth, moving as slowly as she could to keep from making that awful scraping sound of metal against stone. Aela, lean in her flimsy leather armor, rolled her eyes. "They're going to hear us from a mile away, Lysa."

"Well," she hissed, shifting sideways along the path, "there's not much I can do, unless you want to turn back." She was being terribly loud, though. The heavy wolf armor of the Circle was not built for being sneaky. Her metal boots scraped rhythmically along the ground, kicking pebbles aside, then suddenly—silence. She staggered back into Aela, who yelped.

"Are you insane?" Aela snapped. Lysanor shook her head.

"There's a drop."

Aela leaned forward, peering over her shoulder as Lysanor held the lantern out. Sure enough, the path widened just enough for them to walk without their armor grinding against the walls, then collapsed into a broad nothing. She leaned forward, holding the lantern into the hole, but it barely illuminated more than the rough edges. Aela knelt to the ground and tossed a pebble into it. There was a brief silence, then a plunk.

"Doesn't sound too bad," she said. "Let's jump."

"I don't like this, Aela."

"What, never been in a cave before? Not everything is nice and man-made, you know." She leaned over and took the lantern from her hands. "It's barely a drop at all. We'll be able to climb back up in a heartbeat." When Lysanor hesitated, she urged, "Go on. I'm right behind you."

Lysanor scowled. "If there are any Falmer down there…" she muttered under her breath, crouching and edging closer to the hole. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and jumped.

She landed in an explosion of cold, oily smelling water that splashed into her boots and her armor. Following the sloping path out of the puddle, she turned and waited for Aela, who landed lightly with the lantern in hand a few moments later. She clipped the lantern back on her waist, ignoring Aela's "was that so bad?" The path widened as they followed it deeper into the cave, finally opening into a broad stone clearing, perhaps twice or thrice the size of Jorrvaskr. A fire crackled in the middle of the makeshift room, which was littered with chairs and tables—many of which were occupied.

"Nine, ten, eleven…" Aela said under her breath, her eyes flickering over every armored figure inside. "That's a lot for a place this size." Lysanor turned back to glance at her. "I noticed that when I went to that fort by Helgen, too. There are more of them. A lot more."

"Nothing we can't handle, right?"

"No," Aela agreed, after a moment's hesitation. Lysanor secured the lantern by her waist and gently sheathed her sword.

"Let's clean this place out," she muttered. She didn't waste any time—by the time the first of the men inside had noticed them storming inside, her armor was already melting away and tufts of fur were sprouting up to replace it. She lunged at the first figure she saw, claws and teeth bared, ugly snarls tearing from her throat. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Aela making the same sounds. Between the two of them, there was barely enough time for her heart to strum a few beats before they were left in a room of little more than gore. She slowly looked around and, when she couldn't sense any movement other than Aela's, forced the beast back into the recesses of her mind.

Aela was wiping blood from her face when Lysanor's vision cleared. She strode over to her, slipping her favorite dagger back into its sheath. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." The agony of turning had become less consuming the more she did it. These days, she barely even noticed the change in her body. Aela always asked her if she was alright, though. Perhaps it was the memory of the bloodied thrashing of Lysanor's first turning, or perhaps it was simply force of habit—every time she turned back, Aela was there to check if she was still okay. "Was that everyone?"

"Looks like it," Aela muttered. She walked to one of the rickety tables that was littered about the room, sifting through piles of paper. Lysanor trailed over to the other end of the room. There wasn't much of anything there, other than a few bodies that she'd hurled into the stone wall. She knelt by the crumpled remains of a man's body to grab the roll of parchment tucked into his belt, when something caught her eye.

"Aela." She rose to her feet, lantern held out. In the darkness of the cavern she hadn't even noticed a path leading out of the room they were in, shrouded in shadow. Aela strolled over to her. "Let's go see what's back there." She looked back at her for approval; Aela nodded.

The pathway was like the one leading into the cavern: damp and utterly devoid of lanterns or torches in sconces along the way. She held the lantern before her and, trailing a few feet behind her, Aela felt her way along the walls. She stopped dead when she heard voices, quiet conversation. One glance behind her told her Aela had heard it, too. They followed the sounds into a dimly lit opening in the side of the tunnel. She walked in—no point in being sneaky now. Both metal-clad men in the room whirled around, shock etched into their eyes and mouths.

"There's more?" Aela said with an exasperated sigh. The smug twist of her mouth made it clear, however, that she was quite pleased to have found more of them. "We thought your friends out there were all we had to deal with tonight. It's a bother, isn't it, Lysa?"

Lysanor grunted by way of response. She wasn't like Aela—she didn't like playing with her prey, even when they were so wonderfully cornered and helpless like this. She was here to make sure they wouldn't be a problem to her Shield-Siblings again, not to make conversation.

The surprise, by that point, had melted from their faces, replied with that indignant anger that was so characteristic of the Silver Hand. The man closest to them, a lithe, fair-haired figure with narrow eyes and a heavy gash splitting his lip, drew his sword.

"What's the point, Sten?" the second man said coolly, a hulking metal warhammer balanced across his immense shoulders. "Why should we even bother fighting like real warriors? They certainly aren't."

"What?" Lysanor growled. He raised his broad, dark brows at her.

"We know very well all that you're capable of," he sneered. "All you lot can do is rip things apart like beasts, right? I'd bet every septim I have that you've never battled with a shred of honor in your entire life."

"Why don't you say that again when your entrails are on the ground, worm," Aela hissed, her smile long gone. Her fingers were already beginning to twitch, teeth bared. Lysanor could feel the fury in Aela's eyes pound through her own veins, twist in her mind. The man laughed.

"Go ahead and turn, bitch. I wouldn't expect anything more from you."

Before they could move, Lysanor's axe was in one hand and her sword in the other, both blades swinging. Her axe sliced through thin air and her sword collided with the thick wooden shaft of the warhammer with a sickening crack. Behind her, she could hear Aela snarling curses at the first man, her voice vicious but still human. Lysanor's skin and nails and teeth were all the same, but she felt the same violent rush through her limbs that she always did when she turned, the painful, consuming need to grab something heavy and swing it as hard as she could. The head of warhammer swung just past her shoulder and as the man recovered from the momentum of the blow, she flung herself forward. He toppled onto his back with Lysanor atop him, her knees on either side of his chest. She dropped the axe and wrapped both fists around the hilt of her sword. Hurling the entire weight of her body into the strike, she drove the blade of the sword into the palm of his outstretched hand, relishing in his howl. She rose to her feet and grabbed the abandoned warhammer. The muscles in her arms screamed in protest just as she lifted the thing over her head, but it didn't matter. She slammed it down onto his head with all the force she could muster, blood spattering over her face. She drew the hammer over her head and brought it down again, and again, and again. Her throat burned and she was blinded, for a moment, by the blood and the anger. It was a few seconds or a few years before she could hear Aela's voice through the roaring in her ears.

"Lysa. Lysa, stop." Aela's voice was gentle, but she grasped her shoulder firmly. "He's dead."

Lysanor turned. Her heart was still beating violently against the inside of her chest, her vision blurry. She could barely breathe. A few feet away from her she could see the body of the fair-haired man that had drawn his weapon first, his throat cleanly slit and his eyes empty. Her eyes flickered back to the mess of shattered bone and flesh before her. The warhammer slipped from her fingers and clattered loudly against the stone floor.

"Did you hear what he said?" she whispered, ashamed by the tinge of desperation in her tone. "You heard, didn't you?"

Aela was silent. She looked up at her, but Aela's attention was elsewhere, her eyes narrowed. "Do you hear that?"

Lysanor slowed her breathing long enough to listen. Sure enough, she could hear a quiet rumbling that seemed to be growing steadily louder. Aela's face remained contorted in confusion for a moment, then her eyes snapped wide open. "We have to leave," she whispered.

"What?"

"We have to go! Come on, grab your things!" She grabbed the hilt of Lysanor's sword and pulled hard, staggering back when it sprung free. The tip had been embedded several inches into the cracked stone floor. Lysanor knelt and picked up her axe, and Aela ran back out into the pathway without another word. She could still hear the rumbling—it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once.

"Wait, what about the papers?" she called as they sprinted back through the first clearing. They didn't usually leave without going through whatever pieces of parchment were lying around the lair. There was more often than not something useful there, a hint about where their next slaughter was going to be.

"Leave them!" Aela barked. In the broad, damp tunnel that had brought them into the depths of the earth, Lysanor felt the loud quivering of the cavern, and when she looked up, she saw dust and little shards of rock crumbling over them. Oh, Gods. "Come on, come on!" Aela urged, crouching in the puddle they had dropped into. She linked the fingers of both hands together and held them from her body, her eyes wide.

Her foot landed nimbly on Aela's joined hands and her Shield-Sister flung her upwards with all the strength she could muster. Lysanor grabbed onto the edge of the hole with both hands, hauling herself up onto the ground. When she'd caught her breath, she leaned down and held her arm through the hole to drag Aela through with her. Seconds after Aela had scrambled up, a series of loud thuds echoed through the cavern, each impossibly closer to them. "Go, go!" Aela urged. She could only move so quickly through the narrow stone pathway, though, and her armor scraped painfully against the walls. The scent of dust and damp, crumbling stone seemed everywhere. The entire pathway was shaking violently now with every new thud. As the path sloped upwards and Lysanor started to smell the cool, fresh scent of outside, Aela threw herself into Lysanor's back with all her might and flung her out the entrance, onto the damp soil. She tumbled out behind her, and seconds later, the ceiling of the entire pathway collapsed into it, closing it off.

"Oh, Gods," Aela wheezed, splaying out on the soil. "Gods. I hate caves."

"Why did that happen?" Lysanor whispered. She stared at what had, seconds ago, been an opening in the bluff.

"Who knows? Maybe the Gods are punishing us for something. Do you have the water?"

Lysanor untied the lantern, which had cracked in the chaos and was now casting light in odd patterns over the ground, and set it down, then handed the leather costrel to Aela. She sat up, muttering her thanks and taking a few quick gulps. As she handed it back, her eyes dropped to Lysanor's strangely illuminated chest. "Where's your necklace?"

"My necklace?" She automatically reached up to grope at her throat, but her fingers didn't close around the rough thread that she was used to. Eyes wide, she scrabbled at her neck and chest in vain. "Oh, Gods," she whispered. "My amulet. My amulet of Talos. It's—" Her head snapped up and her eyes focused on where the entrance to the cavern had been. She could vaguely remember a tightness around her neck, then a snap when Aela had flung her up through that hole. She hadn't thought anything of it—she was too busy worrying about the falling boulders. "I left it in there," she said dumbly.

Aela watched her, quiet. After a moment, she murmured, "I'm sorry, Lysa." Aela was far from the most pious woman in Jorrvaskr, but even she knew how Lysanor had treasured her amulet.

"My mother gave me that amulet," Lysanor whispered.

"Well…we can always get you a new one. I bet Fralia Gray-mane has one for sale back in Whiterun."

Lysanor's eyelashes fluttered, and she tilted her head. "Of course. I'll just get a new one. It's alright," she said, not entirely sure who she was reassuring. "We should start moving."

"Alright." Aela's voice was hesitant, but she stood, her expression unreadable.

The journey back to Jorrvaskr was several weeks long, but to Lysanor it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. As they wandered through ice-laden forests her mind kept drifting back to her lost amulet. Her neck ached without its heft weighing her down, her hands were incomplete without its worn, cold metal edges digging into the flesh of her palm. She found herself groping in vain at her neck throughout the day, as though her fingers couldn't quite believe it was gone, either.

Aela was undoubtedly eager to give her some space, and once they stepped through Jorrvaskr's doors she swept off to her room, leaving Lysanor to wander about, lost. She slipped into her quarters. Her mind was still numb as she lowered herself onto her bed and slipped off her helmet. Her gauntlets found a home in her bedside chest, her chest plate was propped up against the wall, and she rose to her feet again, not sure what else to do. The instant she stumbled out into the hallway, she ran headfirst into an immense, metal-plated body. As she staggered back, Farkas grabbed her shoulder and held her steady, a sheepish grin crossing his face.

"Sorry."

Everything seemed to snap into focus. She took a deep breath, looking up at him. Farkas. She was supposed to go talk to Farkas. She was supposed to reassure him.

"No, I—I should have paid attention to where I was going. I'm sorry." The comforting pressure of his hand fell from her shoulder. "I was just looking for you."

"You were?" he said. Despite the nonchalant way he crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto one leg, Lysanor could hear the hopeful lilt to his voice.

"Let's go sit down inside."

The darkness of her quarters didn't seem quite as suffocating when they stepped back in. Farkas drew a chair and sat across her bed as she lit the few lanterns hanging on the walls. In the new, dim light, she could see that his armor was spattered with fresh blood and grime. She took a seat on her bed.

"Did you just get back from a job?" she asked.

"Aye. You did too, didn't you? You and Aela?"

She nodded slowly.

"Thought so. You haven't been around much." He sighed, leaned back in his chair. "Seems like we don't get to talk much anymore, do we?"

"No," Lysanor murmured. "We don't." Guilt coiled in the pit of her stomach. She'd missed him so very dreadfully when she'd left. Now she was back, and she didn't think she'd even once bothered to sit down and have a drink with him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replied with a casual shrug. "Things have been busy lately. Even I know that much."

"I know, but—"

"I got you something," he announced abruptly, before she could keep trying to apologize. She didn't push. Instead, she watched as he reached into one of the satchels at his waist. "We passed one of those Khajiit markets on our way back. Thought you might want something." He finally found what he was looking for and held it out to her. She took the small glass jar and ran her fingers over the sides. A smile tugged at her lips when she unscrewed the lid and looked inside.

"War paint," she murmured. He slung his arm over the back of the chair, leaning back with a smug grin.

"Aye."

"I'm never going to use this, you know," she chuckled, smoothing the cool, slippery paint over her fingertips. It was the smoky grey of a dying fire. "Not my color." She gestured to her face, hoping that the crimson streaks of paint had survived the trek back from Eastmarch.

"You never know. Maybe someday it'll come in handy." He smiled at her, and the corners of his eyes, smeared with war paint as dark as his black hair, crinkled. She scoffed.

"Please." Even though her words were teasing, she gave the jar a fond caress before turning to put it away. She opened the drawer by her bed and reached into the back, pulling out a small wooden box. When she was still the whelp of the Companions, however many years ago that had been, Farkas had once given her a gold ring that he'd found on a job and couldn't sell. He hadn't expected her to be absolutely delighted, but she was; when she had barely a few dozen septims to her name, every gift was like treasure. He'd taken to bringing back little trinkets for her when he happened across them in his travels—a tarnished necklace, a hair comb with a few gemstones missing, a jar of sweet-smelling beeswax lip stain—all objects that perhaps weren't of much value. She treasured them anyway.

Lysanor set the glass jar down into the box before nestling the whole thing in the back of her drawer, then turned back to him. "Thank you, Farkas." He smiled and glanced away, as though he wanted to brush off her gratitude, but he knew better.

"Of course." As his eyes flickered over her face, his smile began to fade. "Lysa, I know this isn't my business," he said, "but…are you alright?"

"Alright?" she echoed. "What do you mean?"

"Just…you're different lately. Always distracted and tired and…I dunno. Seems like something's wrong."

The soft warmth that had come with his gift and his smile trickled away. She'd already decided, hadn't she? She was going to tell him. She had to. "There isn't anything wrong," she began, glancing up at him hesitantly. Despite herself, her mind snapped back to the cave. She thought of how she'd felt when she turned, of how easily she'd ripped through flesh, of the blood and brain matter spattered over the icy stone. She looked into his open, kind face. She couldn't imagine how it would change if she told him.

"Things have just been hard since Skjor," she whispered. She couldn't meet his gaze, but she could almost feel the sympathy filling in his eyes. He set his palm on her knee.

"I know," he said. "It's hard the first time one of your Shield-Brothers dies. But it'll get easier, Lysa. Promise."

She nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat. She was sure he would call her bluff when he ducked his head to look into her eyes, but he seemed to take her strained expression as grief of a different sort.

"If you need anything, I'm here."

"I know you are." His hand was warm, rough beneath hers. "Thank you."

For a few seconds, it was quiet. Then Farkas slipped his hand from hers and rose to his feet, picking up the shield he'd set down on his way in. "I should get to my quarters. Come find me if you need somethin'." He brushed his fingertips over the top of her head in a sort of farewell as he walked by. She watched him go, her head sinking into her hands.

"Bye," she whispered into her palms.