It was as though Lysanor was on the brink of something, standing on a ledge and peering down. She took a deep breath, turned and pushed open the first door.

Farkas's head snapped up and he slowly straightened from where he had been hunched over his desk. "You came," he said, with a funny, relieved sort of half-laugh. Lysanor nodded dumbly. Before she could say anything, he had crossed the room and his hands were cupping her face and his mouth was hot against hers. The key tumbled from her fingers and landed with a clatter somewhere on his floor. It didn't matter, though, not with the roughness of his palm against the back of her neck and his tongue sweeping over her lip. She drew back, suddenly desperate to hear the sound of his voice.

"I thought…" she whispered, her fingers caught in his hair and her breasts crushed to his chest. She sighed as he pressed a line of soft, dry kisses along her jaw. "Oh, I thought…"

His lips finally found hers, and her words were sealed in her mouth. "You thought what?"

"I—I'm trying to tell you!" she hissed, sounding more petulant than she meant to. He smiled and lowered his head to run his nose along her neck, inhaling deeply. Her jaw fell slack. "I thought… you would be upset with me," she whispered.

He paused. His head drew back just enough that he could look down at her, his eyes narrow and questioning. "Upset?" he echoed. "Why?"

"I don't know," she stumbled, wishing he would just kiss her again. "You…you were very quiet this morning." When she excused herself from his bed that morning, saying that Ria would be awake soon, he hadn't breathed a word. He just watched her leave.

"I wasn't upset," Farkas said finally. "I wasn't upset at all. Just didn't know what to say."

She couldn't help the relief that bubbled into her chest. She grinned up at him and rose to her toes to press her lips to his, but the gentle pressure of his hands on her shoulders kept her steady.

"Last night," he said, his voice suddenly sober and quiet. "Why did you—why—why did you come to me?"

Lysanor watched his face, hesitant. What did he want to hear? His expression, though, was carefully blank. There was nothing to read. She raised her hands to his face and traced his cheekbones with her thumbs. "Because…you're sweet, and kind, and I trust you." After a moment's thought, she added softly, "And I wanted you." As he mulled this over, she asked, "Why did you say yes?"

A smile graced his lips again, a faint, secret smile that softened the harsh angles of his cheeks and his eyes. "How could I have said no?"

This time, when she leaned up to kiss his smiling mouth, he didn't stop her. She leaned against his solid chest, walking him backwards to his bed. He tore his mouth from hers. "Wait, wait. The door."

She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, she'd left the door wide open in her haste, and the hallway peered into the room. She threw it closed and locked it, jiggling the doorknob for good measure, then fell back into Farkas's arms. In however many years they'd known each other, she'd never touched his beard. There had never been any reason to. Now every time she pulled back, she wanted to feel the roughness against her lips again.

With a firm push on his chest he fell heavily on the bed. Seconds later she was straddling his hips and grinding down against his length through the fabric of her trousers. Farkas groaned. The sound, throaty and pleasured, seemed to rumble through her.

"Lysa," he sighed, and propped himself up on his elbows to give her a slow, languid kiss. She pushed him back onto the pillow and set to work unlacing his breeches. He sat up despite her attempts to keep him pinned down and firmly grasped her wrist, laughing. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she huffed, torn between frustration and embarrassment. She wasn't sure why she was embarrassed—after all, his breeches were standing between her and the part of him she was currently most interested in—but she was.

He smiled at her. Somehow, the warm, affectionate way his eyes crinkled embarrassed her even more. "Slow down. We have all night," he said, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "Unless you have somewhere to be."

She was suddenly aware of how tightly her fists were clenched, of the tension that hunched her shoulders. With every breath that fanned over the back of her hand, she could feel painful energy melting from her muscles like spring snow. "No," she whispered. "There's nowhere I need to be."

"Good." He twisted them over so she was splayed on her back with him settled between her legs—quite a feat, since the bed was clearly not designed for two people. His forearms were braced on either side of her head. She was like those birds in metal cages, the ones she'd seen for sale by the docks in Solitude once, light shimmering from their feathers, content with being imprisoned because they didn't know how to fly. She was happy.

He brushed his lips against hers once, gently, then firm and open-mouthed. Her tunic came off at some point, but his kisses were so warm and tasted so sweet and sleepy that she didn't even notice it was gone. Though she searched for his lips with her own he had already moved on, peppering kisses down her neck and chest and nuzzling her breasts. "You're so pretty," he murmured. She laughed, half because of his words and half because his beard tickled.

"You don't have to say things like that. I'm already in your bed, aren't I?"

He glanced up at her, his brows high and a soft smile on his lips, but said nothing. Once his teeth found the peak of her breast, she wasn't all that interested in talking, anyway. He drew away from her breasts far too quickly, hurrying to muffle her dreamy moans with his mouth. Instead, he took his time kissing her, nipping at her lips and sucking on her tongue. It felt good, but there were other parts of her that were more deserving of his attention.

"Farkas, I know you want me to slow down," she whispered as he kissed her throat. "But I'm getting bored."

His quiet laugh, muffled by her neck, shook both of their bodies. "You don't always have to be so honest. Sometimes it's okay to lie."

"Well, I'm just saying…"

"Alright, alright. Sorry I wanted to kiss you," he teased. "Didn't know that was against the rules."

"I didn't say—oh." His big, rough hand found its way between her legs and stroked her slick flesh. Whether it was the first time they did this or the thousandth, she was sure it would never stop surprising her how soft his touch was. She had seen him kill men with his bare hands. But he touched her like she was made of glass, like she would disappear in a puff of a smoke if he pressed into her too hard. He watched her face, careful, and rubbed gentle circles over the bundle of nerves at her sex. She whined and arched into his hand. It was too good—blissful and agonizing at the same time. "Stop, stop," she gasped. "Just—fuck me."

Clearly, he had the same idea in mind; he was on his knees, and his free hand was already at work on his own breeches. He took his hand from her to give his manhood a few quick strokes, then settled between her thighs and teasingly rubbed the head against her sex.

"Farkas!"

"Sorry." Without any more hesitation, he positioned himself and drove in with one quick, smooth thrust. Lysanor groaned, twisting the furs between her fingers and digging her head into the pillow. Farkas was a big man, tall and broad and hugely muscular. Almost too big for her, in fact. She wrapped her legs around his waist to ease the sting. He drew back in a painfully slow stroke that made her whimper and clutch at his shoulders, then sank back in. She could feel every wet tug of his skin against hers, every soft sound that rumbled through his chest. She dug her nails into his back, dragged him as close to her as he could be.

"Farkas, harder."

His eyes flitted up to hers, hesitant and pale like the day after a snowfall, and he obeyed. Ah. That was better. A blur of sensation, nothing clear, nothing its own—she couldn't distinguish her flesh, her pleasure, from his. There was a knocking from somewhere in the room, rhythmic and almost musical. It took her a moment to realize that it was the sound of his headboard banging against the wall with the force of his thrusts. She tightened her legs around his waist, digging her heels into his buttocks, and he moaned her name into her ear. Suddenly frenzied, he turned her head to his and captured her lips with a ferocity he'd never directed toward her before.

"Don't go," he whispered against her mouth. The thick muscles in his back were surprisingly tense, twitching against her fingers. "Lysa, don't—"

"I won't." She didn't even know what she was promising, but she felt so warm and safe and good trapped beneath his body that just then, she would have promised him anything. "I won't. Farkas…"

The sound of his name torn from her lips did something to him. He groaned into her ear, reverently, and touched her there again, where it felt so good she didn't know if she wanted to force his hand away or push into it. Her eyes squeezed shut. He was all around her, his voice in her ears and his scent in her nostrils and the taste of him lost in her throat. He was everywhere. She arched up into his body, clapping her hand over her mouth to muffle her cry of release.

He must have finished soon after her, because she couldn't feel the knocking of the headboard rattle in her bones anymore. His elbows gave out and his body collapsed into hers, his face buried against her neck. It was too hot with him pressed into every inch of her like that, too hard to breathe with his full weight resting on her, but she liked the way she could feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat against her chest. She was too sleepy to care, anyway. The overwhelming warmth just made her sleepier. She wound her fingers in his hair, marveling over how soft it was and wondering if he would let her braid it.

When his breathing slowed and she could just barely hear the pulsing of the blood in his veins, he lifted his head and looked her in the eye. They were both quiet for a moment. Then he leaned down and kissed her again, sweetly. She smiled into his mouth.

"You're crushing me."

He grinned. "Sorry." With some clever maneuvering, he adjusted them so she was the one crushing him instead, her legs curled around his and her head balanced on his chest. She folded her arms in front of her and rested her chin on them. It was a good position to peck at his mouth in, so she did.

"Are you sleepy?" she whispered. It wasn't a very good question; his eyes were already drifting closed. He grunted softly in response, tightening his grip on her waist. She kissed him again and laid her head down. "Goodnight."

"Not going to run off this time?"

She glanced up. His eyes were still closed, and his voice was still sleepy, almost sarcastic. But Farkas wasn't sarcastic. She touched his cheek and shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "No. I'm comfortable here."

He didn't respond, but began to lightly stroke her bare back, and she laid her cheek back on his chest. She had been sleepy just a moment ago. Now her eyes were wide open. She touched the coarse, dark hair on his chest, her mind—and her eyes—wandering. The oil lamps on his desk were still burning. Neither of them had the energy to get up and put them out, so she supposed they would stay that way. For just a moment, the flames trembled and the light caught on something on the floor. She lifted her head to look. It was the key, she realized, that she had dropped. The key to her new room, the room that she would have to move her belongings to as soon as the sun rose.

Lysanor sighed and shook her head to clear her thoughts. There were other, sweeter things to think about. Like him. She wasn't sure if he was quite asleep yet, but his eyes were still closed and his breathing relaxed. If he wasn't asleep, he would be soon. Careful not to shift about too much, she propped herself onto her forearms and rested her fingertips against his cheek. She brushed her fingers over the rough, rippled scar that stretched over his skin and disappeared under his short beard. His lips were dark, soft, still a little swollen from kissing. She pressed a kiss there, then to the tip of his strong nose, then leaned back to look at him again. It was a good face, she thought. Not quite handsome, but warm and strong and immeasurably kind. He reminded her of something that made her heartbeat slow. She smiled to herself. Her cheek found a home in the hollow of his shoulder and her eyes fluttered closed.

She was drowning.

She could feel it in the burn of her lungs, the watering of her eyes. She was drowning in cold, rainy winter air, the water searing trails down her cheeks and arms. It was sweet—almost. Like flower petals. Flower petals that filled her lungs and dripped from her swollen, bloodied lips.

It was black. The water streamed from her fingertips in rivulets blacker than night, redder than dragonfire. It coiled around her ankles, her knees, holding her in place. Her wrists, though, were tied, so tightly she could feel the burn of sinew against her skin. She followed the line of rope to another pair of wrists, bound as hers, pale and rubbed raw. There was a delicate chain of gold around one of those wrists, dull red gemstones embedded in the metal. Lysanor knew that bracelet. They had buried her with that bracelet. She sank to her knees, but murky water filled her mouth before she could scream.

"Lysa?"

Her voice was weak and hoarse and swallowed by the rain, but it still echoed in Lysanor's mind, deafening. She looked just the way she had been frozen in Lysanor's mind for the past ten summers—curled in her bed, her lips cracked, blood and saliva smeared over her cheek. She brought her hands to her soft, round face to wipe away the rain. The motion dragged Lysanor forward, but her feet were still rooted to the ground. She wasn't still, though. The water was at her hips now, darkening the fabric of her skirt, swaying her lithe form. She was moving. Lysanor stretched toward her until every muscle in her arms trembled, burned. It wasn't enough. The rope unwound between them, tiny damp sinews curling in the water, and snapped.

Lysanor jerked awake with a start, her breath burning her throat. For a moment, with the dampness of her tears and her sweat, she was convinced she was still locked in the storm of her dream, that she was still bound to her dead sister. Under the heavy furs that pinned her to the bed, she reached out, though she didn't know whose body she was reaching for. She was alone. As she turned, she caught the scent of Farkas's skin on the pillow, heavy and warm and masculine. The night before trickled back to her. Where was he? He'd been good enough to put out the lamps and cover her with his furs before he left, but he was still gone. She shifted and buried her head in his pillow, trying to slow her breathing.

The stone floor was cold on her bare feet, the sort of cold that she could feel chill her bones, and gooseflesh rose along her arms and legs. She shuddered, rubbed her arms. Where were her clothes? Her shoes were easy to find, kicked off by his desk, but the rest of her clothing seemed to have disappeared. Muttering about the indignity of the situation, she knelt, naked but for a pair of flimsy leather boots, and peered under his bed for her trousers.

Just a few moments after she stepped into the corridor, she heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hall. It was Vilkas. She turned toward him, slowly shifting away from Farkas's quarters.

"Oh, Lysanor. Good. I was hoping I'd find someone." He was breathless, for once struggling to compose himself. "Do you have a few minutes to spare?"

"Aye. What do you need?"

"We have new blood, upstairs in the yard." Lysanor raised her brows. It had been a while since she'd heard those words. She was Jorrvaskr's newest recruit herself, and she'd joined more than two years ago. The occasional person drifted in hoping for easy coin or a chance at fame, of course, but most weren't even able to hold up their own swords. "Would you mind testing out her arm for me? Just see if she seems like she can hold her own."

"Er, alright. Don't you usually do that?" As far as she knew, Kodlak trusted Vilkas to test the mettle of the new recruits. He had a good eye for that sort of thing. Lysanor wasn't sure if it was wise to entrust her with this new duty—she could kill things, but that was about where her skill ended.

"I do, but I've got somewhere to be. I was just about to leave when she arrived."

Lysanor looked him over. He certainly did look ready to head off on a long journey—he was fully armored, cloak swept over his broad shoulders and satchels strapped to his waist. "Where are you going?"

Vilkas shifted, cleared his throat. "Markarth."

"So you're going with Kodlak after all, then?"

"No. Not quite. He left earlier this morning." He shifted his weight from leg to leg again. It was a little funny that he and his brother had the same nervous tics. "I have other business there. And if I happen to run into him while I'm there…well, there's no reason not to accompany him back."

"I see," she said, suppressing a smile. "I'll take care of the new blood, then. Talos be with you."

With a murmured thanks, Vilkas set off in an undignified half-run that betrayed his desire to catch up to Kodlak but still look aloof and nonchalant. She laughed quietly to herself on her way up to the training yard. Vilkas was a pain—Gods knew why Ria was always seeking him out—but at least he had good judgment. Kodlak walked with a limp and his eyesight had long since started to dim. He couldn't have made the journey on his own.

It was cold out in the yard—the sun wasn't quite out yet, and the clouds obscured the off-white light. Her breath curled in dark puffs of smoke from her lips as she took a steel sword from the weapons rack. The first time she looked around the yard, she almost missed the dark, frail figure standing by the dummies like a shadow. She wandered over to the woman, wondering about the last time they'd seen a Dunmer other than Athis at Jorrvaskr.

"New blood?"

Her head snapped up and she seemed to struggle with her words for a moment, her tongue darting out to run over already-chapped lips. Then her expression relaxed and she nodded. "Yes. That's me."

"Got a weapon?"

She held up a pair of flimsy-looking shortswords. Lysanor flexed her arms and tightened her grip on her own sword. "Let's test your arm. Go ahead and take a few swings at me." Before she could even reassure the new blood that she didn't need to worry about hurting her, the way Vilkas always told newcomers, her swords were flashing at Lysanor's unarmored chest. She cursed and threw her sword arm up. Damned quick elves. The woman stumbled but recovered barely a moment later, swiping first at Lysanor's face, then at her throat.

"Alright, alright! I didn't say slit my throat," she grumbled, taking a step back. The newcomer wiped her forehead and let her swords fall to her sides. "You move that fast, you'll end up killing yourself. Or me."

"Isn't that the point?"

Lysanor sheathed her sword and tucked it into her belt. "Not during training, it isn't." The Companions had banished warriors before for becoming too savage in the training yard—or outside it.

"Sorry. Just trying to impress you." Lysanor glanced at her. Now that she really looked at the woman, she could see why Vilkas had seemed so unconcerned with her; she didn't look like much at all. Her hair was cropped very short, in a style that made her look strangely boyish. She was a full head shorter than Lysanor and seemed to be even slimmer than Ria, with bony collarbones and wrists that jutted from her dark skin. She certainly didn't look like a warrior, especially with that abashed, apologetic look on her face.

"What's your name, girl?"

"Satheri."

"Alright, Satheri. Your footing's unsteady. One fumble when you're out on a job, and you're dead." If the criticism irritated her, she didn't show it. She nodded, silent, and licked her lips again. "But you move quick and you use your weapon well. If you're willing to learn, and train, we have room for you here."

Relief spread over the Dunmer's face. "Thank you," she said eagerly. "I'll do well. I promise." Her smile grew faint. "When do we start training?"

"I'm not the one training you," she said automatically. It wasn't really her decision to make, but Farkas always trained the new blood. He was the only one patient enough. "Come on, put your swords away. I'll show you to the whelps' quarters."

The living quarters were empty but for Njada, huddled over an ugly gash on her calf. Lysanor waited for her to finish her stitch before speaking.

"New blood, Njada." She glanced up, brows aloft and hands still blood-smeared.

"Oh, really?"

"Really." To the Dunmer, who was standing quiet as a shadow behind her, she said, "You can pick a bed and put your things down. Get some rest for now." She noticed for the first time that the woman didn't seem to have any belongings with her, save for her clothes and the swords at her waist. She and Njada both watched as she walked to the bed on the far end of the room.

"Been a while since we've had new blood around here," Njada muttered, wiping the blood from her leg with a grimy rag. "The old man must be happy."

"He will be."

Njada glanced up. "Kodlak hasn't taken a look at her yet? Since when do you have the authority to accept newcomers?"

"Kodlak's on his way to Markarth. She's here now, and I'm not going to have her wait until he gets back." Njada scoffed softly but didn't respond, rolling her trouser leg back down. "Have you seen Farkas today?"

"Skyforge."

Talos only knew what business Farkas had on the Skyforge so early in the morning. "Get some rest, girl, and don't go anywhere. I'll send your trainer down when I find him." The Dunmer, who was huddled on her bed, nodded, and as Lysanor left the room she found herself wondering about the girl's downcast eyes and chapped lips.

It became quickly apparent what Farkas's business on the Skyforge had been. Ria was anxiously discussing her sword with Eorlund, Farkas hovering close by. She must have needed the moral support. Lysanor stood on the steps and watched him for a moment. He wasn't armored, still wearing the clothes he had been in the night before. Without his war paint blackening his eyes and settling into the lines in his face he looked so much younger. Lysanor climbed the last few steps, and as her boots clicked against the stone, his head turned. For a moment her stomach swooped, the way it had that last morning when it seemed like they would never be able to look each other in the eye again. Then he caught her eye and smiled, and the tension melted away.

She wandered over to him, smiling despite herself. Ria didn't even notice her approaching, but Farkas moved back a few steps to stand beside her. Lysanor lifted her chin toward Ria and Eorlund. "What's going on?"

"Dunno." His voice seemed warmer, gruffer in the wet morning light. She stepped closer to listen. "There's something wrong with her sword that she needs fixed before Vilkas notices. Came pounding on my door this morning." He lowered his voice, eyes still focused on the forge. "I'm surprised you slept through it."

"You tired me out."

Farkas glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Though he was clearly trying to keep a straight face, she could see his lips twitch upwards. Lysanor held his gaze for a moment, then Ria's voice rang out—" What am I going to do? Vilkas is going to think I'm so stupid…"—and snapped her out of it. She cleared her throat.

"Anyway. I just came up here to tell you we've got new blood. She's waiting in the whelps' quarters for her trainer." At his raised brow, she added, "That's you. Make sure you speak to her today."

"I will."

Ria's voice was growing steadily more panicked, despite Eorlund's calm, soothing tone. "I'll leave you to it, then." As Lysanor was turning to leave, though, he suddenly pulled her back by the wrist. Even as he was taking her hand and tugging her into his body, his expression remained nonchalant.

"Think you've got some time to spare tonight?"

The clouds crept over the sun, blocking out what little light had been shining over them. Lysanor could feel the air begin to cool before the light died. She smiled. "Of course."