It seemed that the entirety of winter slipped by in the blink of an eye, and before they knew it they were stuck in that ugly transition between cold and spring sunlight. One day it would be just warm enough to melt the snow by their door into slush, and the next, it would be painfully, bitingly cold. It was Lysanor's least favorite time of the year. She found herself wandering to Farkas's quarters whenever her mind drifted, eager for the comfort of his touch and his bed. Even if she couldn't will herself to sleep after their couplings, the pleasant hollowness let the rest of the day slip by.

One of those sticky evenings she couldn't quite stop her mind from racing, even after her heart had slowed. She rose from Farkas's bed as he reached for her hand to tug her back.

"Where are you going?" His voice was husky, content, and his hand ghosted lazily over her behind as she rose from the bed.

She swatted him away. "None of your business," she responded haughtily. As soon as the words left her mouth, though, she began to wonder if she'd hurt his feelings. To soothe the sting, she explained, "I'm bored."

When she glanced back, he certainly didn't look injured. His arms were tucked behind his head and he was wearing a smug grin that didn't suit him. "I can think of something we can do."

"Farkas," she whined. Her tone made him laugh. "I'm tired. No more."

"Fine." His voice gentled. She liked the Farkas that took her whenever she wanted him to, no questions asked, but she liked the Farkas that came afterward more—the one that smiled at her and told her stories and let her braid his hair. "What do you want to do, then?"

"I don't know. Don't you ever get bored in here?"

"Not really. Got a lot of work to do." She realized she was wearing nothing more than a loose bandage around her thigh and could suddenly feel his eyes roaming over her. He had seen her in far more compromising positions, of course, but quiet embarrassment settled in her stomach at the way he was leering. She took the tunic he'd draped over his chair and slipped it over her head. It smelled like blood and sweat and mead—like him. "When I get bored I just go find my brother."

"I'm not in the mood for talking to your brother, Farkas," Lysanor muttered drily. She was smoothing her fingers over the cool wood of his desk when a small, worn book caught her eye. The burgundy cover was familiar, somehow. She flicked to the first page and laughed when she read the title. "Kolb and the Dragon?" This book, she knew. It was a simple children's tale where the reader chose Kolb's actions—most of which led to his death. She remembered skimming through it once, thinking a children's book would be easiest to read.

Farkas sat up, his interest piqued. "Aye. Used to be me and my brother's favorite book. We read it so many times that we knew all the endings by heart. Had to pretend we didn't know so we could still play the game." He grinned at her, holding out his hand. "Come here. Let's read it."

"That's alright," Lysanor said, dropping the book. Farkas's brows rose. "I don't really like books."

"Why not?" Farkas's voice still sounded amused, but he was starting to look puzzled. "You like my stories just fine."

"Yes. Of course. It's just…" She looked over at him, hoping that maybe he was losing interest in the conversation. His gaze was still steadily focused on her. She cleared her throat. "I—I can't read."

"Yes, you can," Farkas said slowly, as if not entirely sure of it himself. "You sort the letters. From the clients."

She sighed and sank into his chair. "Well, I can read a little. I had to learn when I came to Whiterun. Hulda needed help with her bookkeeping. But I never learned properly. No one ever really taught me." It felt as though one too many words had slipped past her lips. She fell silent, staring at her hands. Farkas was quiet too.

"That's okay," he said finally. "Me and Vilkas couldn't read for a long time, too. My pa had to teach us. Know how long it took me to learn?" She shook her head. "Four years. Always had Vilkas to read things to me, so I never really wanted to know how to do it myself." He smiled. "You don't have to be embarrassed about it."

"I'm not embarrassed," she muttered. "I just wish someone had taught me so I didn't have to teach myself all wrong."

"Bring that book over here."

"What?"

Farkas leaned back against the headboard, opening his bulky arms to her. "Bring it over here. I'll teach you."

"Farkas…"

He watched her expectantly, brows aloft. She looked down at Kolb and the Dragon. An adventure for Nord boys, said the small, square text below the title. It was a children's book. She had read it before. She could do it again.

She clenched the book in her hand and walked back over to him, crawling onto the bed. She made to sit next to him but he drew her up against him so her back was pressed against his strong chest, her hips nestled in his lap. He twined his long, bare legs with hers and kissed the crown of her head. "Start from the beginning."

"Where else would I start?" she muttered, but her voice was shaking. She opened the book to the first page and cleared her throat. For a moment she saw nothing but scratches of ink, arranged in empty patterns over the crisp paper. Then Farkas's arms wrapped around her waist and he leaned forward to press a warm, scratchy kiss to her cheek, and the shapes twisted into words. "Kolb and the Dragon," she read aloud, her voice more confident than she felt. "An adventure for Nord boys. Just like you, Farkas."

His answering chuckle rumbled through her chest, soothing her. "Kolb was a brave Nord warrior," she continued. "One day his chief asked Kolb to slay an evil dragon that…that…" She paused. T…thr…throw? Thread?

"Threatened," Farkas murmured into her ear.

"Threatened," she echoed shakily. "Threatened…their village." She let the cover of the book fall back down over the page. "See? I told you I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You're doing well." Lysanor shook her head, eyes still down. "Lysa," he said, softly. "It's just me."

"I know. I just…"

"Go on," he urged. He kissed her forehead before pulling her back to settle against his chest again. "We gotta find out what happens to Kolb."

"I thought you said you knew all the endings by heart."

"Please. I don't know anything."

She turned enough to look at him from the corner of her eye. "I don't like when you say things like that. You know plenty."

"Alright, Lysa. I'm very sorry. Now come on, hurry up." His palms splayed over her stomach and his chin came to rest on her shoulder. "The dragon threatened their village?"

"The dragon threatened their village," she agreed, appeased for the moment. They followed Kolb as the chief instructed him to head through the mountain pass, then as he stood before the pass, wondering which route to take. Lysanor was silent, waiting for Farkas's instruction.

"Well? Pick something."

Ah, yes. He didn't know anything. "Okay. Let's go through…the windy cave."

"Not that one," he whispered into her ear, almost guiltily. She couldn't help twisting around in his lap to peck at his smiling mouth, laughing into the kiss.

"Fine! The cold cave, then."

"That's better."

To her relief, Farkas was far more interested in the story than in her reading. He hardly seemed to notice when she fumbled or mispronounced words, and if he did, he said nothing. That, however, was the last of his advice. Kolb managed to die thrice in quick succession before Lysanor threw the book across the room. She flounced off Farkas's bed and dressed with a dramatic flourish, muttering about accursed children's books and dragon slayers. Despite her complaints, she left with a lightness in her heart and the sound of his laughter echoing in her ears.

Even the sweetness of Farkas's company couldn't quite cut through the thick fog of the season. The weather settled heavily into Lysanor's bones and weighed her down with a sickness that seemed to get to everyone. It was, of course, one of those ugly, almost-warm, almost-sunny mornings that Ria ducked into Lysanor's room to inform her that she needed to come up to the training yard. According to her, Satheri was waiting in the yard and needed a trainer.

Lysanor rubbed her temples, sitting on the edge of Skjor's old bed. Her head was throbbing and there was an uncomfortable, almost painful itch in her spine. "Where's Farkas?"

"I think he isn't feeling well. He said he's not coming up today."

The weather really was awful if it could keep Farkas from training. "Can't you get someone else? Why can't you train her?"

"Me?" Ria laughed nervously. "I wish. Do you know how much time I wasted waiting for my sword to get fixed? I'll be training for the rest of my life to make up for it."

"Vilkas?'

"I haven't seen him since yesterday. And I don't want to look for him," she added quickly, before Lysanor could chime in. "He was in an awful mood."

"Alright. Tell Satheri I'll be up in a minute." Ria smiled and disappeared, leaving her alone with her headache and the quiet. Though she was eager to blame the weather for all her ails, she had drifted in and out of a restless sleep throughout the night, and it only made her feel sicker. It was so hard to fall asleep in Skjor's room. Farkas hadn't seemed too interested in her company the night before. It wasn't like him to be so standoffish. Perhaps she'd drop by his room later.

As she walked out to the yard she found, to her surprise, that Kodlak was sitting at the table. She bade him a hesitant good morning; it was strange to see him upstairs. The long, cold trip to Markarth the month before had only served to aggravate his already injured leg, and he had returned leaning heavily on a scowling Vilkas's shoulder. Apparently, Kodlak refused to tell anyone what he found on his trip, despite Vilkas's pestering. Vilkas had been sulking for days.

"Good morning. You're awake early today."

"Aye. New blood needs a trainer." Lysanor hadn't been too eager to tell Kodlak that she'd accepted a newcomer in his absence, but he'd been surprisingly indifferent. All he'd said before disappearing into his quarters was that he trusted her judgment. "Farkas is feeling under the weather."

"I'm not surprised," Kodlak remarked. "Take care today, lass. The air is sickly."

The words were still ringing, familiar and puzzling, in her ears when Lysanor stepped outside. Satheri was hovering in her uneasy sort of way by the tables in the yard. Training hardened new recruits, stole away nervousness and fear, but it seemed that the only thing different about Satheri was that she didn't quite look like a starved dog anymore. Her face, her eyes, were the same, if a bit less gaunt. She rubbed her arms as if she was cold and, as Lysanor approached, glanced up.

"Morning," Lysanor greeted. Satheri nodded in response. "What are we doing today?"

"Farkas and I have been practicing archery." She lifted the wooden bow clenched in her hand. Lysanor felt her headache coming back with a vengeance. She was not an archer.

She told Satheri as much. "You'd be better off training with Aela. She taught me to shoot, too."

"She's not here today."

"No?"

"No. She's headed to Winterhold, I think. Business."

Of course Aela was gone just when she was needed. "Alright, come on, then."

Satheri needed no further instruction. She got into position, reached for her quiver, and set off putting holes in the targets. Lysanor stood to the side and offered the occasional comment, but her mind drifted. The few times that she managed to tear her thoughts from the ache in her back she found herself wondering where Aela had gone off without her. It wasn't like her to leave without telling Lysanor where she was going—in her words, so that someone would know where to find her body.

"Hey! Watch it, elf!"

Lysanor started. Satheri lowered her bow and called out an apology to Torvar, who was glaring and clutching at his arm. She turned to Lysanor and shrugged.

"He should watch where he's going. I only nicked him, anyway."

"Stay away from the targets, Torvar," Lysanor called. He sent an impolite gesture their way. Satheri scoffed under her breath and wiped at her forehead. It was only when Lysanor glanced at the elf's face, shiny with perspiration, that she realized she was sweating too. Her skin, however, was still cold. She wiped her clammy palms on her thighs. "How long does Farkas usually have you train?"

"Until I'm tired." Satheri lifted her gaze from her bow and raised her eyebrows. "You don't have to stay out here with me if you're tired. I can handle it." Lysanor must have looked offended because Satheri quickly added, "It's only shooting arrows, after all."

"No, I'll stay. Keep going."

Despite Lysanor's bravado, it felt like a blessing from the Gods when Satheri managed to nick Torvar a second time and training came to an abrupt halt. Lysanor grabbed the bow and pulled Satheri back into the hall before Torvar could "teach her a lesson" like he was threatening to.

"Take the rest of the day off," Lysanor announced, trying not to seem too relieved. "Maybe get out of Jorrvaskr for a little while if you don't want to get in a fistfight."

"I really didn't mean to hit him. He just got in the way."

"I know. Don't worry." She handed Satheri back her bow. "Just get some rest, alright?"

As Satheri walked off Lysanor took a heavy breath, wiping the sweat from her lip and combing her hair out of her face. It was a little too warm inside Jorrvaskr, but it was better than the cold sun outside. She grabbed a sweetroll and a bottle of mead before heading back downstairs. Halfway to the living quarters she realized why Kodlak's words had sounded so familiar. The air is sickly. Hadn't Skjor told her that once when she was a whelp, barely a Companion for a few months? It was his response when she asked him why he looked so ill. She remembered he and Aela disappeared later that day, returning drenched with sticky, fresh blood. She could still taste the stench of dead blood in the back of her throat.

Outside of Farkas's door, Lysanor shifted the food into one hand and tried the handle. To her surprise, it was locked. Farkas didn't lock his door, not unless she was inside with him. She knocked.

"Not now," he snarled. Even through the wood she could feel the anger in his voice. She hesitated.

"It's me."

There was a moment of silence, then a clatter and the click of his door unlocking. It creaked open a few inches, enough for her to see half of his face. "What?"

She held out the food in her hands. "Can I come in?"

Farkas didn't seem too happy about the proposition. "Make it quick," he muttered, backing away from the door to let her in. He looked as though he hadn't left his bed in days. His hair was mussed, torso bare, eyes bloodshot and heavy. Almost as soon as the door clicked shut behind her he collapsed into a chair.

"I brought you something to eat." Lysanor padded over to his desk and set the plate down. "Are you not feeling well? I heard there's something going around." She touched his neck with the back of her hand to see if he had a fever, but he jerked away from her touch as if she'd burned him. He finally lifted his head from his hands to rub at the back of his neck in a strange sort of tic.

"I'm fine," he said gruffly. "If you don't need something, you should go." He didn't look fine. His eyes were red as though he hadn't slept all night and she could see a muscle twitch in his jaw. As she leaned forward she noticed thick, raised pink lines over his chest and arms. It looked like he'd been trying to scratch his skin right off.

"Doesn't look like you're fine. Should I fetch Tilma?"

"No—no! I swear, I'm fine. I just—need to be alone."

"Farkas, what is it?"

"Lysa." His voice took a tone that she had never heard from him before, something low and tense with barely contained anger. "Leave."

She took a hesitant step toward him. "You look sick. I don't want to leave you like this. Just spit it out, what's wrong—"

Before she could finish her sentence there was a violent clatter and he was throwing himself up out of his chair and into her body. Suddenly his mouth was on hers and his hands were braced on the wall on either side of her head. With his body surrounding her she could feel the sickly, feverish heat radiating from his skin, and the scent of his blood was all wrong. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his nose still brushing hers. He was panting. She looked up at him through the shadow his body had cast over her.

"Farkas?" she whispered. Her hands came up to touch his face, but he took both of her wrists in his hand and slammed them into the wall above her head.

"Don't talk." He held her hands there and used the other hand to tear her tunic clean down the middle. She gasped but he just growled don't talk again and claimed her mouth.

Farkas wrapped her long, fair hair around his hand and yanked until her head was back and her neck bare, vulnerable. Her breath came in short, fearful gasps. The blood seemed to pulse so close to the surface of her skin that she was sure she'd bleed out the second he touched her. She felt more naked with her throat exposed than she did with her tunic hanging in shreds.

He lowered his head to the junction of her shoulder and neck, breathing hard. The smooth porcelain of his teeth ghosted her skin, then sank in with a sharp burst of pain.

"Farkas," she gasped. He pulled on her hair just enough for pain to blossom along her scalp and tears to spring to her eyes.

"Turn around."

"What?" He let go of her wrists and, with one sweep of his arm, threw the contents of his desk to the floor. Before she knew what was happening he'd flipped her over and bent her over his desk. One hand stayed wound firmly in her hair. As he pressed into her, he pulled her head back and kissed her hard. Her trousers ripped like her tunic and she could hear him pushing down his own. He kicked the backs of her feet to spread her legs and drove into her without a moment's hesitation. Every ache in her body disappeared, replaced by a sweet pain where they were joined. The wood scraped against her breasts, and she was suddenly very aware of how he was taking her—bent over, face down, like a bitch in heat. He leaned over, the length of his body sticky against hers, and pressed his open mouth to the wound at her shoulder.

Lysanor whimpered his name again, though it fell on deaf ears. From the sound of his voice and the smell of his skin, she could tell now that he wasn't really there. She didn't feel herself, either. She should have been ashamed at her position and the tatters of her clothing and the noises she was making, but instead she arched into him and clutched at the forearm she could reach.

When he finished he lay over her, breathing hard against her throat and still holding her head back with her hair. The angle made her neck ache and it hurt to swallow. "Farkas," she whispered again. This time he started, lifting his head. "You're hurting me."

His hand fell from her head so quickly it was as though it had never been there, and the weight of him disappeared from her back. She lay face-down on the desk until her calves burned, then she slid to the ground. Farkas's breathing, quick and panicked, was louder than the rush of blood in her ears. He was staring at her as though he didn't recognize her.

"Oh, gods." All the anger was gone now. He collapsed into the chair, surrounded by the mess of papers and bottles that he'd thrown off the table, and bowed his head. Lysanor watched him dully from her spot on the ground.

"What happened?"

He glanced at her through the curtain of hair around his face, but his eyes quickly flitted away. "It's just… just the time of the year," he whispered, voice thick with shame. "It's not usually so bad, but I haven't turned for so long and you were just there, and…" He shuddered and ran his hands over his face. "Gods, I didn't want to do that to you. I don't want you to be afraid of me."

He was looking at her now, hands still covering the rest of his face. His eyes were pleading and gentle and sad. Farkas was usually so kind-hearted that it was easy to forget he'd spent the last two decades of his life being only half human. Now, it was all she could think about.

"Did I—did I bite you?" Blood was trickling from her shoulder and curling into wet blossoms on her breast. She wiped it away, but only succeeded in reddening her palm. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sometimes I just… need to taste blood."

"Because you haven't turned?" she asked.

"I guess. Never been this bad. It's been… Gods, a year since I last turned. Since I last fed."

Fed on what? "So why don't you just go outside of Whiterun and—and do it? Hunt deer or something?"

"No!" The sudden fierceness of his voice startled her. Regret bloomed in his eyes. "No," he repeated, more softly. "My brother and Kodlak said we have to hold out until we find a cure. The more we give in to the blood before then, the harder it will be to be rid of it."

"And you want to be rid of it," Lysanor murmured. It was barely a question.

"Well," he said after a long, pregnant pause. "Made me do this to you, didn't it?" He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, eyes closed. "I feel like a monster."

Lysanor crawled over to him, settling by his chair and leaning against him. He jerked when her skin touched his but she ignored it and wrapped her arms around his leg. The pads of her fingers traced light, barely-there patterns on his calf. "It's all right."

"It's not."

She set her chin on his knee and looked up at him. "I would have stopped you if I had wanted to." It was true. She would have. In her mind, though, she wondered if she could have. She could feel the strength in every tensed muscle and tendon of his leg. If he had really wanted to hold her still she wondered how much she could have done to stop him.

When he didn't respond, she took the hand hanging limply at his side and brought it to her lips. He let her kiss his fingers before setting his palm over the top of her head, rubbing lightly at her scalp, soothing the ache.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

They were both silent, breathing the thick air. Farkas sighed. After a moment, he added, "I don't like sweet rolls."

Lysanor smiled. "It's just as well."

Together, they picked up the parchment scattered across the room and set it on his desk. Lysanor dressed and, before she left, kissed his cheek.

"Get some rest," she whispered in his ear. "It'll be better in the morning."