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Chapter Text

   The evening light was giving way to darkness as she rounded the final bend in the road. A weather beaten sign indicated she was on the right path to Whiterun, although she didn’t need a road sign to tell her that.

   There had been many spring days and wintry mornings where Melrakki and her father Geirlund had made the ride from their humble homestead outside Helgen to Whiterun, saddlebags full of hides, antlers, and alchemical reagents from the garden and greenhouse.

   This season, however, Geirlund was battling a case of ataxia, and truth be told, his old bones couldn’t handle jostling around in a saddle the way he used to. Melrakki had offered to take the supplies to market on her own, ignoring a growing knot of dread in her belly. It was foolish to feel the way she did, but it was as though a storm was on the horizon. Something was coming, though Melrakki didn’t know what.

   A grumbling roar split the night air, startling her from her thoughts. Heavy footfalls shook the earth, and Melrakki dug her heels into her horse’s ribs, spurring the old mare into a gallop.

   The source of the sound came into view within moments. A giant swung its club in a field, trying to smash a trio of warriors hell bent on killing it. For a split second she debated carrying on her path, but a cringe of guilt at the thought of having to explain it to her father made her leap from her saddle.

   “Mara be merciful, why so close to the city?” she muttered, drawing her bow.

   Time seemed to slow around her as her bowstring creaked, drawn taut. She inhaled slowly, lined up her shot and exhaled as she released the arrow. It whistled as it flew past her ear, and she was rewarded with a dull thunk and a strangled gurgle from the giant as the arrow lodged in its throat.

   The creature fumbled at the arrow, distracted enough for Melrakki and the red haired warrior to unleash a few more arrows while the large Nord with a greatsword thrust upward, goring the giant with his blade.

   A piercing wail broke the night as the giant fell to its knees. The warriors scrambled to avoid the carcass as it fell, shaking the ground. They clapped each other on the shoulders, cheering and recounting strikes landed on the beast.

   Smiling at the camaraderie, Melrakki slung her bow over her shoulder and backtracked to her horse, grabbing the reins and soothing the agitated animal, vaguely aware of the sound of approaching footsteps.

   “You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Sister.”

   Melrakki turned in the direction of the voice.

   The red-haired warrior stood before her, eyeing Melrakki approvingly. The woman had sharp features, partially obscured by harsh streaks of green war paint. Silver eyes glinted in the light of the torch she carried, and Melrakki had to look away. There was something unsettling, almost bestial, about the woman’s eyes.

   “Shield-Sister,” mused Melrakki. Geirlund had told her many stories of the Companions of Jorrvaskr, great warriors upholding the legacy of the mighty Ysgramor. “I’ve heard tales of the Companions. It is my honor to have fought beside such esteemed company.”

   “You should come to Jorrvaskr,” the woman continued. “Earn some coin by showing up to solve problems like this. Speak to Kodlak White-Mane.”

   Melrakki nodded humbly. “It is an untold honor to receive such an invitation, but I fear I’m a simple hunter,” she said. “I am unsure I have anything of value to bring to the fold.”

  The tall, dark haired tower of a Nord had come to stand by the woman. He had a kind face, grinning broadly through the blood and dirt spattered across his face.

   “You look strong,” he said simply, voice booming. “Come to Jorrvaskr, and be a Companion.”

   “Kodlak White-Mane, you say?” asked Melrakki, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

   The woman nodded once. “If you go to him, good luck.”

   With that, the trio turned and headed toward the city gates. Melrakki hung back, silently cursing herself. She could not join them, not with Geirlund nearing his last winters and the homestead to care for. Why she had allowed her interest to show was beyond her.

   Tugging lightly on the reins, she picked a path through the ruined field and onto the road once more. It had become completely dark during the altercation and the following discussion, so upon reaching the stables, Melrakki paid the stable master ten septims to board her mare until morning.

   The rolls of furs and satchels of reagents were slung onto her own back as she trudged up the rest of the path to the gates. Several of the guards nodded in recognition as she walked past them.

    Jornald, one of the oldest members of the guard and a close friend of Geirlund, was talking to the tall Nord just outside the gate. He raised a gloved hand in greeting, motioning for her to join them.

  “Melrakki, just you this season? How is Geirlund, girl?”

   She welcomed the bear hug from the old man, smiling. “Father is getting over a case of ataxia, aside from that he’s as old and cranky as ever.”

   “Well, if I know Geirlund, ataxia won’t keep him down for long. Farkas here was just telling me about some wild Nord woman who appeared from the dark and helped fell a giant, earning an invitation to seek out the Harbinger. I should have known it was you.” Jornald chuckled, leaning against the gatehouse. “I could put in a word with your father, lass. A Companion’s life is more suited to you than a trapper. You’ve much of your mother in you.”

   Melrakki blushed. “Perhaps it is something I’ll consider once Father has moved on to Sovngarde.”

   Jornald nodded. “Aye. Makes sense. I suppose I ought to let you lot inside the gates then.”

   Beside her, the tall man called Farkas shifted, and she glanced up at him. He was nearly a full head taller than she, which was a feat in and of itself.

   “Where are you headed?” he asked softly, kind eyes raking over her load of packs and satchels.

   Melrakki blinked, adjusting the weight of the heaviest bag of skins on her shoulder. “The Bannered Mare, for food and rest while I wait for the forges and Arcadia’s to open,” she replied.

   “Allow me to help you carry those, then. You must be tired, and I can tell they’re heavy.” Farkas held out one massive hand, smiling gently.

   Melrakki considered telling him she was fine, but the truth was she was sore from her ride, and had been dreading carrying the sacks all through town.

   “All right then,” she said. “I can pay you for your help, as well, if you’d like.”

   “A bottle of mead from the Mare should be fine,” Farkas said, taking most of the bags from her and slinging them over one shoulder effortlessly. “It’s the least I could do. You did make that battle with the giant go easier.”

   Melrakki nodded, and the gates groaned behind them. Farkas allowed her through first, taking a moment to look the young woman over.

   She wore simple studded armor, well oiled yet worn around the edges. Her iron boots and gauntlets were flecked with rust, but she looked comfortable in them. She wore a battered amulet of Akatosh, partially hidden by her long gold-red hair. It was her eyes that were her most stunning feature, pools of golden honey flecked with green. The girl was pretty, he would give her that.

   They made small talk as the pair trekked up the cobblestones to the Bannered Mare. Melrakki mumbled her thanks as he opened the heavy doors for her, grateful to be out of the brisk Skyrim night air and enveloped in the warmth of the fire.

   “Hulda always keeps it really warm in here, you get used to it after a while,” Farkas said with an apologetic grin. Sweat was already beginning to bead up on the man’s forehead, and he wiped it away.

   Melrakki smiled. “I think it’s fine, although Father always said I could never be warm enough. Said I was always dangerously close to the fires when I was little.”

   “You should like it just fine here, then,” he said, beckoning a Redguard woman over.

   The woman balanced her serving tray on one hip, giving Melrakki a quick, critical once-over before flashing a sickeningly saccharine smile at the Companion.

   “What’ll it be tonight, Farkas?” she said, eyeing him with an expression Melrakki could only describe as poorly hidden lust.

   The large Nord shifted uncomfortably.          

   “Saadia, I, uh, Melrakki needs a room for the night,” he muttered after a moment.

   Saadia’s demeanor changed a bit, and she nodded. Melrakki watched as she stormed over to an aging Nord woman, holding a hushed conversation with pointing and incredulous stares. Beside her, Farkas rested a large hand on her shoulder, heaving a sigh.

   “You’ll be the talk of Whiterun in the morning. I’m sorry about that.”

   Confused, Melrakki looked up at him. He motioned that he would tell her later, and Saadia returned with a brass key ring. She led the pair to what was arguably the smallest available room. Melrakki handed over ten septims, plus another twelve after asking for two bowls of stew and two bottles of Honningbrew.

   Farkas set the skins and satchels onto the floor near the foot of the small straw bed, settling his large frame into a chair. Melrakki shed her heavy cloak and perched on the side of the bed, staring at the ground as Saadia delivered the food and drink, departing with an acidic glare at Melrakki.

   “So, what was that about? Did I do something wrong?” she asked, digging into the bowl of venison stew.

   “Nah, don’t you worry about that,” said Farkas, removing the corks from their bottles of mead. “She’s sweet on me, or so I’ve heard. And it isn’t often that I come to the Bannered Mare, especially in the company of a pretty lady who needs a room for the night. Just gossip. Don’t let it get to ya.”

   Melrakki felt a slight warmth creep into her cheeks. “If I have caused you trouble, I apologize.”

   Farkas chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that was infectious and brought a smile to her lips. “Like I said, don’t let it bother you none. Let the women talk.”

   They ate in silence, broken only by the scraping of wooden spoons against stoneware. As they moved on to their mead, Farkas began telling animated stories of the adventures he’d been on as a Companion.

   Melrakki watched as Farkas recounted tales of delving into Draugr-infested Nordic ruins, his face lighting up with childlike glee as he described his twin, Vilkas, nearly pissing in his armor as a Draugr they both thought dead had clawed its way back to standing using Vilkas’s legs. Melrakki couldn’t help but giggle along with Farkas. If this Vilkas was anywhere near as serious as his brother made him out to be, it would have been quite the sight to see him scared witless.

   All too soon, however, the mead bottles emptied, and Farkas stood after gathering the bowls and empty bottles.

   “I should get back to Jorrvaskr. Vilkas is probably wondering where I am.” He paused at the door. “Most people, I don’t like. They get my fist. But you, I like. Come to Jorrvaskr and talk to Kodlak if you can. He’s a good man, and the Companions are good people. Good luck with your trip home. I hope your father gets better soon.”

   “Thank you, and thank you for your help tonight.”

   Farkas flashed her a grin over his shoulder before lumbering out of the room. He closed the door behind him, although the door did little to block the sounds of the bard and rowdy crowd in the inn.

   Exhausted, Melrakki fell back onto the straw pallet. Her eyelids grew heavy as she pulled the soft sleeping skins over her thin frame, and sleep took her quickly.

Chapter Text

   Vilkas briefly looked up from the book he was reading as the heavy double doors to Jorrvaskr opened. Farkas stepped in, grinning from ear to ear.

   “Get lost somewhere between the gates and the hall, brother?” he called, peering over the top of the book.

   Farkas let out a booming laugh. “I spent some time at the Bannered Mare. With Melrakki.”

   Vilkas cocked an eyebrow. The name didn’t ring a bell, and yet his brother bore a strange scent. Snowberries, pine, campfire smoke, and the musk of furs. It was female, and although his brother was as happy as could be, there were no errant pheromones to suggest it was a sexual encounter. An evening between new friends, then.

   “You should have seen how she handled a bow, brother. As graceful as Aela. Her arrows struck as a true Nord’s would. She has been taught well,” said Farkas, sitting on the bench closest to his brother.

   “Smitten, are we?” Vilkas smirked. “Aela and Ria were discussing this girl as well. I don’t think now is the time to be encouraging new members, my brother. Remember the deal we have with Kodlak. The blood runs too hot right now.”

   Farkas opened his mouth to say something, but a strange charge rent the air. It was soundless, but the wolves inside both men stirred, shrinking back into their chests.
Vilkas frowned. Usually his wolf bristled at such disturbances, aggravated that something would awaken it so. A quick glance at Farkas showed his twin was feeling just as uneasy.

   The clanking of steel from the living quarters announced the arrival of Aela and Skjor. Vilkas was assaulted by the scent of incense and sex, coughing quietly.

   “What was that?” asked Aela, silver eyes scanning the interior of the mead hall.

   “Whatever it was, it was nothing I’ve ever encountered,” mused Vilkas.

   The Companions settled into an uneasy silence. Vilkas fidgeted with a strap on his gauntlet, trying to will his inner wolf into a calmer state. Its activity was making him feel ill, and the way it radiated submission was not in the least bit comforting. The others gathered in the mead hall had the same expression on their faces. Down below, his wolf-keen hearing picked up old Kodlak tossing and turning in his bed. A pang of sorrow that the old man had to experience the same discomfort rippled through Vilkas, and he hung his head.

   “Whatever it is, I’m sure word will reach Whiterun by morning,” Skjor said, breaking the silence. “Until then, we should all get some rest.”

Chapter Text

   Aside from a few wolves and breaking up a dispute between a Nord and a Bosmer over a girl in Riverwood, Melrakki’s ride home was proving to be an uneventful one. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

   As she neared Helgen and the turn to her family’s homestead, wood smoke stung her nostrils. It carried an unfamiliar, foul odor along the breeze. Beneath her, the mare reared and refused to go forward.

   “Whoa, whoa there,” crooned Melrakki, frowning. “What’s got you so troubled, old girl?”  

   Despite digging her heels into the animal’s sides, the mare refused to go another step further. Dismounting with a sigh, Melrakki looped and knotted the reins around a branch that jutted from a nearby tree trunk before drawing her sword and continuing up the path.

   As she neared the Helgen gates, she noticed billowing clouds of acrid smoke. The place was eerily quiet, though she felt as though something was watching her approach.

   Shuddering, Melrakki pushed open the massive gate to Helgen. As she did, she came face to face with a massive black dragon.

   Its scales were black as midnight, seeming to deny the sunlight the joy of reflecting from them. It turned its massive head to look at her, red eyes glowing with hatred, and something like amusement.

   A rumbling growl cut the air, and Melrakki’s head began to swim as she felt something stir within her, as though a part of her was struggling to awaken.

   Heart hammering, she willed herself to run, but something stronger told her she must hold her ground. The dragon hissed a chuckle, crawling closer to her. The ground shook with its movements.

   “Mal lir,” the dragon rumbled, its voice seeming to come from the belly of the earth itself. “Zu’u fen daal fah hi fod fin tiid los vahzah. Ru, bovul ko faas!”

   It spread its massive wings, laughing as it propelled itself into the air. Melrakki was knocked into the dirt as the dragon flew away.

   Her mind raced alongside her heart. The beast had spoken to her, and what was worse was the fleeting sense that she should be able to understand what it had said. Why it had spoken to her, rather than simply devouring her, she did not know.

   Gathering her wits, Melrakki forced herself to her feet. Surely there was at least one survivor, someone who could tell her why the dragon had come.

   She searched for several minutes, but it was clear no one in the burning town had survived the assault. Imperials, Stormcloaks, and civilians made up the dead, and a few smaller, charred corpses she didn’t care to look closer at.

   Fighting back the bile welling in her throat, Melrakki headed back out the gate. She was reaching for her horses reins when she heard it. A groan. Faint, but it meant someone was alive.

   Mara’s mercy…

   She picked a path through the scrub, following the groans. As she got closer, she realized there was an echo to them. A cave, somewhere close.

   Scanning her immediate surroundings, she spied an opening in the rocks tucked away behind a pair of pine trees. Sprinting, Melrakki tumbled through the mouth of the cave, feeling her way along the cave wall as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

   “Hello? Is there someone alive in here?” she called, scanning the darkness.

   “What…what are you doing back here, you idiot!” coughed a male voice.

   Confused, Melrakki looked to her right. A man lay in a crumpled heap next to a wooden cart. She quickly closed the distance between them, crouching at his side.

   “Can you walk? We need to get you out of here,” she urged, inspecting the man.

   He was a Nord, with dirty and disheveled blond hair, clad in a worn cuirass that marked him as a Stormcloak soldier. An amulet of Talos peeked out from beneath his collar, and he stared up at her with tired, blue eyes.

   “You…are not who I thought you were,” he croaked, coughing again. “Aye, if you had a healing potion it would be easier, but if you helped me, I could walk.”

   Melrakki nodded. She reached into one of the pouches on her belt, uncorking the healing potion and holding it to the man’s lips. A small bit dribbled into his beard, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

   “By the Gods, that stuff tastes awful,” he muttered.

   “If it tasted like mead, it wouldn’t be working,” chided Melrakki softly, draping one of the big man’s arms over her shoulders and lifting with her legs.

   Together the pair limped out of the cave, back down the path to where her horse was tied.

   “My name is Ralof,” the man huffed in between steps. “I had resigned myself to seeing Sovngarde within the hour, but it seems the Divines have other plans for me yet. I thank you, kinsman.”

   “It was nothing,” she said. “Just doing what any true Nord would. I am called Melrakki. Melrakki Frost-Fire.”

   As they approached her horse, Melrakki helped Ralof into the saddle, unlocking the reins and giving them a slight tug. With the dragon gone, the old mare was finally willing to move.

   “My family has a small homestead not far from here. Less than a ten minute walk. We can look over your injuries there, and you can rest for the night,” she explained. “When you are ready, I will saddle a horse and pack some provisions to last until you get where you need to go.”

   Ralof grunted his thanks. A soft smile was on his lips. Melrakki found herself staring at the man, taking in his tangled blond hair, matted in some spots with blood, and deep blue eyes standing out from the dirt and grime on his young face. He wasn’t the fearsome brute Geirlund had made the Stormcloaks out to be, snarling and spitting vitriol about the Empire. Melrakki could easily see Ralof working a forge, or living a simple life caring for a plot of land. Just an ordinary man.

   As they rounded the bend, Melrakki turned her gaze to the hilltop. Her smile faded as her breath hitched in her throat. Beside her, she was vaguely aware of the sound of Ralof muttering some plea to the Gods.

   Where her home had stood, there was a pile of burning rubble. Smoke billowed into the sky, and Melrakki dropped the reins, breaking into a sprint towards the ruined homestead. Horse hooves sounded behind her; Ralof had taken the reins and was following her.

   “Father!” she cried, coughing as she inhaled ash kicked up by the wind. “Father, where are you?”

   Melrakki’s eyes settled on an all too familiar boot, peeking out from under the charred remnants of the smelter housing. Shaking her head slowly, she grabbed hold of a smoldering log, gritting her teeth against the pain. With a heave, she managed to toss the log aside.

   “Mel…rakki.”

   “Mara’s mercy…Father…”

   She sank to her knees, struggling to maintain her composure. Her father’s body was maimed, gored by huge claws and ripped apart in places. She fought down bile in her throat. The dragon had been here. At her home.

   “It…is good I got to see you…,” wheezed Geirlund. “I go to…to Sovngarde, child. You must go to Riverwood. Warn them…”

   Melrakki screwed her eyes shut, fighting back tears as she nodded. A strong Nord woman did not cry, her father’s voice reminded her faintly. A strong Nord woman did what she must in dire situations. Nords did not let their grief best them.

   “I will, Father,” she choked. “May you find peace and hold Mother again in Sovngarde.”

   “There is the strength of Ysgramor in you, girl,” whispered Geirlund. “May you find a path… that suits the fire in…your heart.”

   Geirlund gave one last shuddering breath, then lay still. Melrakki balled her fists, fingernails cutting deep into the seared flesh of her palms. Rage unlike any she had ever felt before welled up in her chest, begging for release, and she threw her head back as an inhuman roar tore itself from her throat.

   Ralof shuddered at the sound. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn it was the black dragon bellowing in the skies once more. The very ground seemed to tremble, and the surrounding forest grew quiet.

   He had long since dismounted from the mare, and limped over to the girl, tentatively placing a hand on her shoulder. She whipped her head around to stare at him, and he gasped and pulled his hand back.

   Her golden eyes burned with a bestial rage, seeming to swirl with inner flame. They reminded him of the eyes of the black dragon.

   “Come,” he said quietly. “I will help you give the last rites. Which Divine did your father favor?”

   Melrakki blinked, the fire and fury in her eyes replaced with an emptiness that was chilling. “Talos,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Even though he didn’t agree with Ulfric’s methods, he clung to the old ways, from before…”

   “The Concordat,” finished Ralof, helping her to her feet. “Your father was a true son of Skyrim, and died in battle with a dragon, defending his home. The Halls of Sovngarde will ring with song in his honor.”

Chapter Text

   The trek to Riverwood had felt like a waking nightmare. They had been greeted by Ralof’s sister and brother-in-law, who had graciously given them shelter and food. Ralof was concerned about Imperial patrols. Melrakki wanted to curl in a hole and die.

   For three days, Melrakki shambled around the mill. She took to chopping firewood and splitting logs for Hod, the dull ache in her back and shoulders from the strenuous activity reminding her she was alive.

   Gerdur had mentioned that someone needed to tell Jarl Balgruuf what had happened at Helgen. Melrakki watched, silently, as one by one, townsfolk declined her requests.

   That evening, she sat on a stump overlooking the water. Riverwood was nice enough, but it was too close. Too close to her old home, the wound still too fresh for her to want to remain. She picked absently at the peeling blisters on her palms.

   “You are leaving.”

   Ralof said it as a statement, rather as a question. It hung in the cool night air, and she did not turn to look at him.

   “Aye.”

   He came and sat on the stump next to her, leaning his forearms on his knees.

   “Where will you go?” he asked quietly, risking a glance at her. She had removed her amulet of Akatosh, had laid it to rest with her father so he had a token of her in Sovngarde.

   Melrakki didn’t move.

   “To Whiterun. Warn the Jarl. From there? Riften perhaps.” She followed an orange dartwing with her golden eyes as it danced over the water. “Always wanted to see the southern Holds.”

   They sat in silence for a moment. Ralof noticed the folded cloak and backpack on the other side of the stump, realizing Melrakki meant to leave that very night. He reached behind his head, undoing the clasp of his amulet of Talos.

   Melrakki watched him curiously out of the corner of her eyes. She felt a calm understanding between the two of them, and a pang of guilt at having to leave her friend. They had only known each other a short while, but in those few days he had been a rock for her to lean upon.

   Ralof stood, crouching in front of her and holding up the amulet, asking an unspoken question with his eyes. Melrakki nodded, and moved her hair from her neck. With gentle hands, Ralof fastened the amulet around her neck.

   “Take this,” he said, barely above a whisper. “That amulet has seen its share of battle and hardship, and yet I’m still here. It was a gift from Ulfric, when I joined his cause. May it serve as a reminder that you have friends, even when you don’t feel you have strength to go on.”

   “Thank you, Ralof,” she said soflty, running a finger along the amulet.

   “If you’re ever near Windhelm, you should think about joining the cause. Ulfric would be the one to have answers about Helgen, and we could use strong, decent people like you,” said Ralof. “I would rest better knowing you fought at my side.”

   Melrakki looked at him, then down at the amulet. “Perhaps. It might turn out that I don’t like the southern Holds.”

   Ralof smiled, standing and stepping back as Melrakki stood and donned her cloak and pack.

   “Talos guide your path, my friend,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

   “Stay safe, Ralof.”

   Melrakki was aware of his eyes on her as she walked toward the bridge, but when she turned at the end, he was gone. Looking up at the night sky, she closed her eyes for a brief moment before continuing on the road to Whiterun.

Chapter Text

   Swing, twirl, uppercut, bash with the hilt. Step to the left, sideways arc to the left, follow through with an upwards slash to the right. Repeat, again and again. The movements were smooth, and usually soothing. Usually, but not that night.

   With a mighty growl, Vilkas swung his greatsword with all his might. Steel whistled through the air as the blade slid effortlessly through the neck seam of the straw training dummy.

   Chest heaving, he spat out a string of curses. Kodlak would give him a talking-to in the morning, that much was certain. Pointing the greatsword tip to the ground, he thrust downward and walked away, leaving the weapon.

   He shrugged out of his loose tunic, enjoying the cool night breeze as it dried the sweat that slicked his well-muscled torso. The light of a full moon cast a silvery glow upon the training yard. It was beautiful, but ultimately what had denied him the sleep he desperately wanted.

   The wolf’s blood sang a siren’s call, beckoning him, pleading with him to make the change. To give in and hunt the moon-drenched moors just outside the city walls in his true form.

   Vilkas shook his head to clear it. He had made a pact, with Kodlak and with Farkas. Until the matter of the beastblood was resolved, there would be no more changes. No more giving in to the beast. A growl escaped his throat as the wolf vied for control, testing the waters of his willpower.

   Since the word of dragons, and their strange stench that permeated the very air, his wolf had been on edge. Harder to control. Aela and Skjor gave themselves freely to the beastblood, relishing in the new sensations their wolf spirits brought them. Farkas, as always, as well as Kodlak seemed unaffected by it, though Vilkas suspected the old man was just better at hiding it.

   He leaned against the cool stone of the door to the Underforge, letting his head fall back. The scent of mountain flowers and lavender mingled with the faint smell of torch smoke and the various meals being cooked around Whiterun. There was something else, though. Something new.

   Snowberries, pine, and woodsmoke, though this time there was also the dragon-scent, muted and somehow pleasant. His eyes snapped open, wolf spirit intrigued. It was the scent of the girl Farkas had been with.

   Vilkas knew he should return to his bed in Jorrvaskr, but the praise she had received from Aela alone was enough to pique his interest. If asked, he would claim it was the wolf spirit that urged him on, to see what this mysterious shieldmaiden looked like, to size her up.

   Snatching his tunic from the ground and pulling it over his head, Vilkas made his way to the steps of Jorrvaskr and down to the statue of Talos. He pretended to arrange the offerings of mountain flowers as the woman approached, only risking a glance over his shoulder as she walked by.

   She was not as striking as say, Carlotta or Ysolda, and yet there was something captivating about her. Her hair cascaded down her back, moving slightly with the breeze, a beautiful shade of red gold that reflected the moonlight.

   His wolf stirred, having taken notice of the girl as well. It appreciated the strength that emanated from her thin frame, the faint ripple of muscle in the glimpses of thigh revealed by her studded armor.

   She stopped, and for a moment Vilkas was afraid he had been caught staring. He swiftly averted his gaze back to the flowers, very much aware that the woman had turned back down the steps and was now headed towards where he stood.

   Her scent was threatening to overwhelm him, but it was pleasant. Vilkas turned his head, studying her face. Though the bones were delicate, her nose was flatter in the middle than it should have been, indicating a break or two. A scar at the corner of her mouth puckered her lips into a smirk, with another starting somewhere on her scalp and stretching to just below her cheekbone. A warrior’s face, and yet irresistible.

   She turned to look at him, a look of recognition flitting across her features. He found himself unable to look away from her eyes, golden and warm, and yet there was pain behind them.

   Vilkas looked down, catching a glimpse of the amulet of Talos around her neck as he looked away. Surely she knew brazenly sporting an emblem of the outlawed religion was dangerous, though he got the impression she couldn’t be bothered to care.

   “I thought you were Farkas, for a moment,” she said, offering an apologetic smile.

   “He’s taller,” muttered Vilkas, suddenly all too aware of how interested his wolf spirit was.
He needed to distance himself, before the strained hold he had on the beast broke.

   Vilkas stood, ignoring the spirits urging to strut and puff out his chest as though he was trying to put on a display. He frowned. It would be nice, to be able to talk to the girl more, to find out what she was doing in Whiterun at such a late hour. Such things were reserved for those who did not fight inner beasts at every waking moment, however.

   The girl seemed to detect his sudden change of demeanor, and touched the shrine of Talos, whispering a prayer to the outlawed Divine. Vilkas took the opportunity to walk away, perhaps a bit too hurriedly.

   He paused at the doors of Jorrvaskr, looking down at the girl once more. She had finished her prayer, and had set an offering of gold and flowers at the base of the shrine. As he watched, she again climbed the steps to the Jarl’s palace and disappeared from view.

   He made his way down to the living quarters as silently as he could, pausing at his door. In the room across the hall, his twin’s snores echoed off the stone walls. Vilkas wished he could be more like his brother in that moment; asleep and blissfully unaware of the problematic budding of a need to get to know the girl that smelled of berries and dragons.

   Moments later, he lay in bed, wolf spirit quiet for the first time in weeks and yet he was still unable to sleep. The prayer the girl had whispered echoed in his mind, her voice soft and soothing yet some underlying power was straining against her words. It was unsettling.

“Talos, guide my father’s soul safely to Tsun, so that he may find his way to Sovngarde. Watch over Ralof as he returns to the war. Grant me the strength and wisdom of sight so I may know why the dragon who stole my father spoke to me, and grant me the strength to overcome the rage burning my soul to ash.”

Chapter Text

   “You smell like Draugr.”

   Melrakki leveled an icy gaze at the court wizard, raising an eyebrow. His companion stayed hunched over the table, saying nothing, though Melrakki was aware she was being watched from under the leather hood.

   “I’m sorry, I can keep this dragonstone and go make myself more socially acceptable,” she quipped. “I’m sure Jarl Balgruuf won’t mind the wait.”

   Farengar opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

   Melrakki withdrew the dragonstone from her pack, inspecting it before handing it over.

   When she had decided to deliver the message to the Jarl from Gerdur, she had not expected to be sent delving into a decrepit, Draugr-infested barrow. The inhabitants of the old Nordic burial place had ranged from bandits, to frostbite spiders, to the shambling, stinking corpses she hated so much. Still, the Jarl himself had asked for her help, and it was madness to refuse to help a Jarl.

   “Ah, the dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow,” mused Farengar.

   Melrakki tuned out the following conversation between the wizard and his associate, thoughts turning to the strange carved wall in the final chamber of the barrow.

   When she had neared it, ancient war drums and battle chants had assaulted her ears, quietly at first and raising to a dull roar. She had felt drawn to the carvings, feeling the same strange stirring as had happened during her encounter with the black dragon. The carvings had seemed like something she ought to be able to read, and yet she was frustrated to Oblivion with her inability to do so.

   “Farengar!”

   The barking voice of the Jarl’s housecarl, Irileth, drew Melrakki’s attention back to the occupants of the room.

   “Farengar, you must come at once. A dragon has been spotted near the western watchtower.” She turned to Melrakki, crimson eyes seeming to appraise her. “You should come, too.”

   Heart plummeting, Melrakki followed the dark elf up the stairs. They were joined by Farengar and a member of the Whiterun guard. The poor fellow was out of breath and trembling.

   The guard recounted the events leading up to his sprint to Dragonsreach, and once more Melrakki found herself asked to help the Jarl. Although, this time it was to help his men fight the dragon.

   Farengar shot her a venomous glare as his offers to help were dismissed by Balgruuf. As the Jarl and Irileth spoke, Melrakki stripped off her battered iron gauntlets. She replaced them with the enchanted hide bracers the Jarl had gifted her. The magic imbued in them hummed through her body – an archer’s enchantment, he had said.

   As she followed Irileth out of the palace and through the town, she risked a glance at Jorrvaskr. The moments she had spent at the shrine with Vilkas still burned in her memory.

   She had been aware of his eyes on her, however she had felt more like prey than another person as he had looked her over. He had been every bit as broody as his brother had described, and then some.

   They paused at the gate, Irileth doing a quick head count on her men gathered there and giving a quick speech. Melrakki knew it was meant to inspire bravery, but her heart was pounding so loudly she barely caught any of it.

   The march out of the city gates and to the watchtower seemed to pass by far too quickly, leaving her staring at a painfully familiar scene and fighting the urge to run.

   An otherworldly roar shook the earth, sending a chill down her spine. Squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw, Melrakki slowly and deliberately nocked an arrow to the bowstring.

   The dragon seemed to materialize out of thin air, swooping low at the small force gathered.

   “Here he comes!” bellowed Irileth. “Make every arrow count!”

   Melrakki offered an unspoken prayer to the Divines as the dragon landed, spitting fire and snapping its massive jaws at those close to it. Taking a deep breath, she loosed her first arrow, the ensuing screech of the beast causing a primal thrill to roil through her.
Lighting flashed from Irileth’s hand, and the twang of bowstrings was nearly deafening. Shouts and taunts riddled the air, and the dragon took to the sky once more, diving low and lighting the ground on fire.

   Arrow after arrow, spell after spell all found their mark, weakening the beast little by little. It faltered, and something inside Melrakki made her adjust her aim. Her next arrow landed in the soft underside of the dragon’s jaw, followed by another that rent a hole in one of the creature’s wings. It crashed to the ground, roaring in frustration.

   The strange force overtook Melrakki once more, and she threw her bow to the ground and ran towards the grounded beast.

   As she ran, she bent and picked up a forgotten sword and launched herself onto the dragon’s head. It bellowed, wrenching its head from side to side as she grasped one of its horns and slashed mercilessly at the beast. It managed to shake her off, straight up into the air.

   Focusing all her strenght, Melrakki used the force from her fall and every available muscle to drive the sword to the hilt into the skull of the dragon, the blade breaking away. She fell to the grass, crawling back on all fours as the dragon gave a terrifying screech.

   “Dovahkiin? NO!”

   The dragon’s head fell, bouncing off the broken stone and bloody grass, and then lay still.

   A silence fell over the battlefield, Melrakki grasped the broken sword hilt still, chest heaving as she stared at the corpse. They had won. They had killed it.

   Her relief was short-lived. The dragon’s body began to emit a strange glow, seeming to liquefy. A tendril of light snaked its way to her, seeming to stop right before it plunged into her chest.

   Melrakki screamed. It felt as though her very soul was being set aflame, and again the strange sensation welled forth in her chest, seeming to come fully alive. Words of a language she did not know yet understood bellowed in her head, one word repeating itself over and over. She clamped her hands over her ears, unaware of the concerned stares and mutters of the survivors.

   “FUS!”

   The word tore itself from her throat, cracking like thunder and sending the now skeletal carcass skittering away.

Chapter Text

   Dragonborn.

   She had grown up listening to the tales of the ancient Nords born with the blood of dragons, able to Shout and perform great feats. During her childhood she had played many games with the children of Whiterun as her father traded, everyone taking turns being the Dragonborn and Shouting gibberish.

   Melrakki found herself sitting on a bench in front of the Gildergreen, trying to ignore the whispers and pointed fingers. It was no use trying to hide, Melrakki was certain half of Tamriel had heard the call of the Greybeards.

   Not only that, the small contingent of guards that had been present for the slaying of the dragon had let their tongues wag freely.

   Jarl Balgruuf had insisted she go straightaway to High Hrothgar, to meet with the reclusive monks. It should have upset her that she had no intentions of immediately running up a mountainside.

   Instead, she sat in the growing dark, concentrating on a spot of dragon blood on the toe of her left boot. She wasn’t sure what to do, or where to go. Certainly Ralof had already left for Windhelm, and she had no home to return to.

   A sudden roar of cheers erupted from Jorrvaskr, and she looked at the doors to the mead hall. Farkas’ words echoed in her mind, encouraging her to join the Companions.

   She stood, even as she chided herself and half-heartedly threw in a thought or two about duty and High Hrothgar. Melrakki paused at the doors, running a hand over the woodwork.

   Taking a deep breath, Melrakki entered the mead hall.

   Instantly she was assaulted by the sounds of fists hitting flesh, grunts mingling with taunts and jeers from the onlookers.

   “Are those two at it again?” a balding man in ornate armor asked, rushing to the edge of the fight.

   An elderly woman came to her side, gently placing a hand on Melrakki’s shoulder.

   “You look a little lost, dear,” she said softly. “Is there something I could help you with?”

   “I’m…um, here to see Kodlak,” Melrakki said, fidgeting with a loose strap on her bracers.

   “You’ll find him down in the living quarters, just take the stairs right over there, through the doors at the bottom and straight down the hall.”

   Melrakki smiled and thanked the woman, and made her way to the stairs, making sure to give the fight a wide berth.

   The hallway had a low ceiling, with benches and bookcases lining its length. Tables held bowls of apples and boiled cream treats, the sight of the pastries making Melrakki’s stomach grumble loudly. A reminder that she hadn’t eaten a full meal since Riverwood.

   As she neared the large, open doors at the end of the hallway, hushed conversation echoed off the stone walls. Not wanting to eavesdrop, Melrakki waited, sneaking glances at the pair seated at the table.

   Vilkas sat on one side, silver-blue eyes flicking over to her for a split second. Across the small table from him sat an older man, a Nord, with an unruly mane of snow white hair. It was braided on the sides in Nordic fashion, swept back from a grizzled face that had seen many battles and many winters.

   Melrakki caught something about blood, and the brothers supporting the old man, who she assumed was Kodlak. Fidgeting a little as Kodlak fixed his gaze on her, Melrakki felt herself unable to look at Vilkas.

   “A stranger comes to our hall,” said the old man, beckoning her over to them. “Tell me, why have you come?”

   Melrakki was all too aware of Vilkas watching her every move. She took a deep breath, and drew herself up to her full height.

   “I wish to join the Companions.”

Chapter Text

   Vilkas stared across the courtyard at the newblood. Of all people, the old man had told him to take her out to the training yard and test her skill with a blade. Something about the gleam in her honey-colored eyes told him she knew her way around the twin daggers she rolled around in her palms.

   They were alone in the moonlit courtyard, everyone else still distracted from the most recent fistfight between Njada and Athis.

   Perhaps it was better that way. Vilkas didn’t want to admit it, but he thought he could come to enjoy Melrakki’s company. He was not pleased he had to test her sword arm, but he was glad they were alone.

   “Just take a few swings at me to let me see your form,” he said, wolf spirit awakening at the sight of the smirk she tossed him. “Don’t worry, I can take it.”

   He had added that last part as a taunt, to get Melrakki’s temper flaring. As she made her first move, he nearly regretted it.

   Vilkas barely had time to get his shield up, cursing himself. She had moved in a blur of tanned leather and rose gold hair, daggers clanging off the iron shield. The impact reverberated down his arm, stinging more than he had expected.

   Vilkas feigned right, then slashed low at Melrakki’s feet. The girl neatly jumped, using his back as a platform to roll over him. In an instant, he felt cool steel at his neck.

   Standing slowly, he turned his gaze to her. Her face was flushed, chest heaving. Her scars stood out more against the reddening skin, and amber eyes blazed with the enjoyment of battle only a Nord could feel.

   Vilkas smiled, and she smiled back, lowering her dagger and shaking errant strands of hair out of her face.

   They both stared at each other a little too long, saying nothing and smiling. Vilkas thought about reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ear, and the moment faded. He could not think that way. The girl was a newblood, nothing more. Most newbloods didn’t make it past their first week, and that fact weighed heavy on his mind despite the wolf spirit’s protests.

   He sheathed his sword, unbuckling the scabbard from his belt and thrusting it at her.

   “You might just make it, but you’re still a whelp to us, newblood,” he said, scowling. “Take my sword up to Eorlund to be sharpened. And be careful. It’s probably worth more than you are.”

   He spun on his heel, walking back to the doors of Jorrvaskr. As he entered the hall, he risked a glance back at her. She was still smiling.

   Vilkas allowed himself a small grin and headed to his quarters.

Chapter Text

   Melrakki sat on the steps of Jorrvaskr’s back patio. Though the night was chilly, she wore a sleeveless tunic and leather leggings. The light breeze felt good, the smoke from the Skyforge above lending a comforting smell to the air.

   Farkas had shown her where her bed was, but even after a bath and a meal, she wasn’t tired. She desperately wanted to be, but every time she closed her eyes she saw her father. He was proud of his daughter, always smiling that she was the Dragonborn. Happy or not, Melrakki didn’t want to be haunted by the faces of the dead.

   She heard the doors creak behind her, and she turned to look. Vilkas stood there, holding his greatsword. He didn’t seem to have noticed her yet, or perhaps he just didn’t care that she was out there. Melrakki returned her attention to the ground.

   Vilkas stood, almost frozen, at the door, contemplating his next move. With the dragon battle, and sparring before taking care of a little brawl at the Bannered Mare, he had figured the whelp would fall into bed and not move until morning. He hadn’t expected her to be sitting on the steps.

   Farkas had told him how Melrakki had explained how she had come to the Companions. The conversation the brothers had held sparked an old flicker of pain in his heart. Losing a father was hard.

   Unfortunately, though social graces demanded it, he was an awful conversationalist with newcomers.

   “You always just stand there at night, sword in hand?” Melrakki asked, barely turning to look over her shoulder at him.

   “I usually train,” he said bluntly. “To clear my mind and hopefully be able to rest.”

   Melrakki grunted. “Wish I could get my thoughts to quiet down,” she said.

   Vilkas shifted his weight from foot to foot for a moment. Swallowing almost audibly, he crossed the distance between them and sat next to her.

   “Farkas told me you lost your father.” Vilkas sighed. “It isn’t easy, but there will be a day when your heart doesn’t hurt as bad.”

   “And what would you know about it?” quipped Melrakki, tone ice cold.

   Vilkas had to stop himself from spitting out a curse. He took a deep breath to calm himself, taking a moment to remember that she was hurting and he wasn’t good with people.

   “Whether or not Jergen was our actual father or not, we may never know. When my brother and I were still pups, he left us here to go fight in the Great War. He never came back.”

   Melrakki said nothing, but she felt sorry for snapping at him. Her demeanor softened a little, and she turned to study his face.

   Vilkas had washed the war paint from his face, but his silver-blue eyes reflected the moonlight. There was something different about his eyes that would have made it easy to tell him apart from Farkas, if there hadn’t been a height difference between the two. She couldn’t quite place it, but she knew she didn’t get quite so lost looking at Farkas.

   Vilkas met her gaze, and she looked away quickly, hoping the night’s shadows would hide the blush creeping into her cheeks.

   “The Companions became our family when we had none left,” Vilkas continued. “Perhaps one day you’ll feel the same. It’s not an easy life, but your Shield-Siblings will always be there when you need them.”

   Melrakki nodded, getting to her feet. Just sitting next to Vilkas had been comforting, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Fatigue was setting in, however, and she didn’t want to fall asleep outside.

   “Thank you,” she said, pausing just outside the doors. “Careful though, word might get out that beneath that broody exterior, you’re actually pretty nice.”

  She smirked at him, and disappeared into Jorrvaskr. Vilkas chuckled, picking up his greatsword and assuming his stance with a chuckle.

   That girl was something else entirely.

Chapter Text

   Melrakki checked the straps on her saddle, running over a mental list of everything she had put into the saddlebags. A citizen of Riften had been kidnapped by Falmer, and Skjor had decided the job of retrieving this Mjoll the Lioness would be her job.

   She wasn’t sure, but it felt more like Skjor and Aela, and especially Njada, just wanted her away from Jorrvaskr for a while. Melrakki had a nagging suspicion she was viewed more as an intruder than a Shield-Sibling.

   Heavy armor clanked behind her, and she didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. Over the last few weeks, no doubt due to the heightened awareness brought on by the awakening of her dragon’s soul, she had been able to sense the various Companions before they spoke or stepped into view.

   “Come to see me off, Vilkas?” she teased, peering over her shoulder at him. “You’d have just missed me if my saddle hadn’t been slipping to one side.”

   “Aye, and I’d have had to ride to catch you.” He motioned for Skulvar to bring his horse to him. “I’m going with you.”

   Melrakki turned to face him, brow furrowing. “Skjor didn’t say anything about having company on the mission…”

   Vilkas spat on the ground in contempt. “Of course not, because he knew you were too new to question it. Every mission requires two Shield-Siblings, especially missions given to newbloods.”

  Melrakki frowned. If that were the case, then perhaps Skjor was trying to do more than just get her out of Jorrvaskr for a week or two. She contemplated this as Vilkas readied his own horse, tossing her a fur-lined cloak before strapping camping gear to the back of his saddle.

   Melrakki fastened the cloak around her neck, muttering a string of curses after realizing it restricted her access to her quiver. She started to undo the clasp, but Vilkas put his hand over hers to stop her. The unexpected contact made her freeze, and she looked up. The pair locked eyes, and Melrakki couldn’t help but notice an intriguing ring of violet spiking through the twin pools of silver.

   A gust of wind blew her hair over her eyes, and before either one was fully aware of what was happening, Vilkas had reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. His hand lingered there for a moment, before Skulvar yelling at his son shattered the moment. Vilkas stepped back, looking away. Melrakki swallowed, looking anywhere but at him.

   “I asked Aela about the quiver,” said Vilkas, coming to stand behind her. “She helped make an incision in the cloak, and said it would help keep the furs close to your body as well as make it so you didn’t have to choose between warmth or your arrows.”

   There was a bit of tugging and pulling, and when he was done Melrakki reached back and brushed her fingertips along the feathers. Smiling, she retrieved her bow from the straps that held it to the saddlebags and snapped the handle into the groove cut into her quiver.

   “Thank you,” she said simply, before swinging up into her saddle.

   Vilkas nodded, mounting his horse and starting down the path. “Let’s get going, it will be dark before we know it and it’s a long ride to Lost Echo Cave.”

   Melrakki followed, doing her best to ignore the fact she could still feel his touch on her face. The more draconic parts of her were practically singing, wanting to see this man put on a display of worthiness.

   Somewhat alarmed, Melrakki shook her head to clear it. Incidences where her dragon soul reared its head were becoming more and more frequent as of late. She found herself getting into lengthy debates with Farengar, much to the wizards delight, and hoarding more gemstones plucked from bandits than she had ever thought she would. She read more books, ate as much as the twins, and fought with the same amount of vigor and fury.

   Sighing, she realized that as she got lost in her thoughts, she had fallen behind. Clicking her tongue, Melrakki spurred her horse into a trot and vowed to attempt to keep getting lost in thought restricted to by that night’s campfire.

Chapter Text

   Melrakki checked her last snare, whooping with joy as she added one more rabbit to the string. That made three, more than enough to make a stew for the night. If Vilkas had been successful searching for the wild root vegetables she had sent him after, they’d have one rabbit left to roast in the morning.

   They were one more day’s ride away from Lost Echo, and things had been…awkward, at best. Neither one had spoken of the personal moment at the Whiterun stables, however Melrakki would catch Vilkas looking at her as they rode, or being a bit more protective than was necessary when they encountered wolves or the occasional sabre cat.

   As she neared the camp, she heard something she never thought she would. Vilkas was singing a tavern tune as he set up the cooking pot, stopping as he sensed her approach. Melrakki winked at him, chuckling quietly at the pink that seeped into his cheeks before setting to work gutting and skinning the rabbits.

   “Is it bad enough to make you laugh?” teased Vilkas, putting another log on the campfire.

  “No, no – you’re fine,” assured Melrakki. “Just was surprised, didn’t peg you as the type to sing.”

   “Suppose that’s fair enough.”

   Melrakki opened her mouth to say something, but Vilkas held a hand up. He sniffed at the air, an odd habit she had come to trust. She adjusted her grip on her hunting knife as Vilkas crept to the edge of camp, prepared to strike at whatever was agitating him.

   Vilkas frowned. Someone was skulking around the furthest edges of the camp. Four, maybe five. It was always harder to tell by scent after a rain, and there had been quite the storm that morning in the region. He noticed Melrakki scanning the growing darkness on the opposite side of the camp.

   Vilkas fetched his bow from beside his sleeping skin, nocking an arrow to the bowstring and closing his eyes.

   Above the sounds of small rodents scurrying through the grass, he picked up footfalls. Lightly armored, probably no more than fur shoes. The smell of sweat and mead was faint on the breeze. Bandits. Honing in on the closest sound of footsteps, Vilkas opened his eyes and loosed his arrow. It found its mark, the victim letting out a piercing scream.

   The night erupted in battle cries and taunts, and before he could blink the camp was charged by four more bandits. They split as they entered the firelight, and Vilkas didn’t have time to look Melrakki’s way before he had to drop his bow and draw his greatsword, blocking an Orc’s swinging war axe.

  “Is that the best you’ve got?” yelled the Orc, eyes blazing. “You’ll be so much easier to rob when you’re dead!”

   Vilkas ducked the next swing, gritting his teeth and grunting in pain as the Orc’s companion landed an arrow in his shoulder between the armor plates. Reaching up, he snapped the haft, tossing the broken arrow to the ground and planting a mighty kick to the Orc’s chest.

   With a roar, Vilkas plunged his greatsword into the bandit’s chest. The archer that had accompanied the Orc started to back away, and Vilkas scooped up the war axe, throwing it with deadly accuracy at the retreating figure. It found its mark with a dull thud, and the archer crumpled to the ground.

   Chest heaving, Vilkas turned to see Melrakki had taken care of one of her attackers already. She turned to face Vilkas, smiling. Her smile faded suddenly, and she looked down at her side, falling to her knees, one hand touching the blade that protruded from just above her hip.

   His wolf spirit howled in rage, its anger fueling both the bellow of fury tearing from his throat and the strength with which Vilkas charged at the bandit with his greatsword. Snarling, he shoulder-checked the man, knocking him back. He drove his knee into the man’s belly, the furs doing nothing to soften the blow. Vilkas raised his sword high, bringing it down and beheading the bandit. Kicking the body away, Vilkas dropped his greatsword and knelt at Melrakki’s side.

   “You’ve got an arrow in you,” she joked weakly, wincing as she tried to sit up.

   “Aye, and you had a blade in you,” he said, grabbing a handful of moss and holding it against the wound in her side. “Don’t worry about me, an arrow isn’t going to do much. Hold this here, I’m going to fetch a healing potion.”

   After he was sure she was applying firm enough pressure to her wound, Vilkas hurried to the tent. He grabbed three healing potions, trying his best to clear his head. He had treated many a wound like the one she had received, and yet none had terrified him the way this one did.

   He returned to her side, propping her head up in his lap and uncorking one of the healing potions. Vilkas held it to her lips, and she drained the bottle.

   “Vile liquid,” she muttered, watching as Vilkas pulled the broken arrow from his arm and downed a potion himself.

   “You’re lucky,” he said, taking the moss from her and checking the wound. “By some miracle of the Divines it missed your vital parts and just pierced flesh. Can you sit? It needs to be bandaged.”

   Melrakki nodded, having regained some color after the potions had taken effect. Vilkas realized suddenly that she would need to remove her leather cuirass, and started fidgeting with the third potion. Melrakki tilted her head and gave him an odd look.

   “I need you to…I need to…oh, to Oblivion with this,” he growled. “Your cuirass. It needs to come off, otherwise I won’t be able to get the bandages on.”

   The next few moments were silent, save for a few pained hisses from Melrakki as Vilkas tried his best to gently tug the cuirass over her head.

   She did her best to sit still as he placed wads of bandage soaked in healing potion against the entry and exit wounds, then tightly wrapped the remaining bandages around her midsection.

   Once he was finished, he carried her to the tent, trying his best not to think about how nice she felt held tightly against his chest, and trying even harder not to think about how she had only had little more than a bandage covering her chest underneath her armor.

   He set her gently onto a sleeping skin, rolling his fur cloak into a pillow for her. She grabbed his hand to stop him as Vilkas went to leave the tent, and he looked down at her.

   “Thank you,” Melrakki said quietly. “It was foolish of me to turn my back when I knew there was another enemy there.”

   “It happens to the best of us, newblood,” said Vilkas, wincing at how the words came out.

   Melrakki nodded, and looked away. Vilkas couldn’t help but realize he had hurt her feelings in some way, and he brought her hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles.

   “Get some sleep,” he said. “I’m going to clear out the mess.”

   Melrakki nodded, closing her eyes. Vilkas drew the fur lined top of the sleeping skin over her, noticing the smile on her lips as he left the tent.

Chapter Text

   The remainder of the ride to Lost Echo passed uneventfully. Melrakki had a constant dull ache in her side, but aside from dutifully taking the two minor healing potions Vilkas passed her (and informed her she would be taking daily until fully healed), there wasn’t too much to be done about it. She could still fight, and that was good enough for her.

   Vilkas, on the other hand, seemed to be newly convinced that she was more fragile than she looked. Melrakki found herself allowing him the small indulgence of fretting over her like a mother hen. If nothing else, it was quite flattering. It also meant she got to see more of his softer side, and as a result didn’t complain.

   They tied the horses to a pair of trees at the entrance to the cave. Vilkas counted their available potions, Melrakki counted her arrows and said a quick prayer to Talos.

   “I’ve heard rumors this place has some trick to accessing the lower levels, so be sure to check for any books or papers that might give us a clue,” said Vilkas, drawing his sword. “Are you ready, newblood?”

   Melrakki nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

   “You’ll be fine,” he said, walking to the cave entrance. “If you can fight dragons, then take a sword to the gut, and ride a horse the next day, a few Falmer are nothing.”

   Melrakki followed Vilkas up the steps, glancing at the candles set upon the rocks along the path. She was grateful for the cloak, Haafingar was certainly not the warmest of the Holds.

   Once they were inside, Melrakki hissed at the odor that assaulted her nostrils. Dirt, fungus and something not unlike rotting corpses and sweat. She glanced beside her and noticed Vilkas had pulled a thin cloth over his mouth and nose.

   They made their way through a narrow corridor carved in the rock, the only light being a sickly green glow from the mushrooms growing on the cave walls. The corridor opened up into a medium-sized room with torches that barely added any light at all.

   “An old tomb,” mused Vilkas, motioning to the smoldering brazier and altar tucked up against the wall.

   Melrakki walked over to the altar, running a hand over a rusted set of armor and weapons. Two books lay beside the armor, and she opened the one closest to the old armor.

   “A mighty lord deserves a mighty offering, but he who fell on this spot asked to be remembered humbly,” she read out loud. “We who served at his hand, however, do not want his brilliance to be forgotten. Thus, to honor him, one needs only to look to the simple, glowing fungus on these cave walls.”

   Vilkas came over and gently took the book from her hands.

   “For no matter how mighty or humble one may be in life, we all return to the same ground from which this mushroom blooms,” he finished. Vilkas looked around the room. “There certainly are a lot of those glowing mushrooms here. What do you make of this?”

   Melrakki frowned, turning to look at the brazier once more. The outline of a door could be seen just beyond it, carved into the cave wall. Without saying anything, she crossed to the cluster of glowing fungi nearest the brazier and cut one from the wall with her hunting knife.

   “The book makes a big deal out of the guy’s brilliance, and also these mushrooms,” she said, waving the fungus at Vilkas. “Maybe if we drop one of these onto the brazier…”

   Vilkas set the book back upon the altar and crossed his arms, watching Melrakki as she tossed the mushroom onto the brazier. Instantly, flames rose up and devoured the offering, and not long after the screech and grind of stone on stone signaled the opening of the pathway to the rest of the cave.

   Melrakki gave Vilkas a triumphant smile as she drew her sword. He shook his head with a chuckle, and stepped into the newly opened corridor.

   Casting one last glance around the room they were in, Melrakki grabbed a torch from the wall and followed.

   The stench was stronger the further they went down the path. Strange totems were set up at intervals along the walkway, and the sounds of large insects skittering echoed from the dank walls.

   Not far into the carved hallway, Vilkas shoved Melrakki back just as something she could only assume was a Falmer came leaping down from a hole near the ceiling. The creature hissed, hands raised and pulsating with magic.

   Vilkas shoulder-checked the Falmer, using the momentum to bring his sword around and run the creature through. It gave a wail and crumpled to the cave floor.

   Melrakki shuddered. The eyeless thing was the stuff of nightmares and tales told to Nord children who wouldn’t mind their mothers. She stepped over the corpse, peering down the hall.

   “Looks like we can expect to run into more of them down the way,” she said quietly. “It looks like there are huts down there.”

   “Aye. Just remember to look up on occasion, now that we know they like to drop onto us,” agreed Vilkas, continuing down the corridor.

   They made their way to the back of the cave, fighting their way through chauruses and Falmer until they came into a large room. Caged in a hut was a woman Melrakki could only assume to be Mjoll.

   After dispatching the last of the Falmer in the room, Vilkas tried the bars on the hut.

   “It’s locked,” he muttered, banging a fist on the chitin bars.

   Melrakki wiped her sword on her leggings, sheathing it before going over to the bars and having a look. She located the lock.

   “Sure wish you hadn’t lost the torch back there, it would really come in handy,” muttered Melrakki, fishing in one of her pouches for a lockpick.

   “Hurry, before more of those things come,” urged Mjoll.

   Melrakki resisted the urge to snap at the woman, focusing instead on picking the lock. It was a stubborn one, with mechanisms she wasn’t familiar with, but after a few minutes the bars swung open and Mjoll rushed out.

   “What other skills are you hiding, newblood?” asked Vilkas with a smirk.

   “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know,” answered Melrakki, waggling her eyebrows at him.
Behind them, Mjoll uttered a huff of disgust.

   “Perhaps we’d better find a way out of here?”

   Stifling a chuckle, Melrakki walked around the room. She discovered a handle protruding from one of the walls, and pulled it. Part of the stone wall shifted, sinking into the ground. She turned to Vilkas and Mjoll, motioning for them to follow.

Chapter Text

   Vilkas cast a glance around the well lit interior of the Bee & Barb, sizing up each and every patron. Mjoll, or rather some small man called Aerin, had insisted on putting the Companion and the newblood up in the inn for the night. The purchase of the last room available that night brought an uproar of disapproval from a good many of the patrons, resulting in Vilkas’ current mood.

   Melrakki was perched on a stool next to Mjoll, drinking mead while Aerin sat at the table with Vilkas, rattling off something about a Thieves Guild and how it made Mjoll angry. Vilkas sighed. He could tell by the hunch of Melrakki’s shoulders that the whelp was about as tired of listening to Mjoll talk as he was of Aerin.

   His wolf spirit stretched and radiated fuzzy contentment. Vilkas caught himself staring at the way Melrakki’s rose gold hair caught the flickering candlelight and seemed to come alive. Aerin noticed, and gave Vilkas a playful punch to the arm. Vilkas shot the smaller man a dark look before picking up his mead and draining it.

   “Oh come now, don’t give me that face,” said Aerin with a smirk. “You and Melrakki, hmm?”

   “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” scoffed Vilkas, motioning Talen-Jei over.

   Aerin said nothing as the Companion ordered more mead. Vilkas downed half the bottle, ignoring the little voice that said he shouldn’t be drinking so much, but gods be damned if it wasn’t the only way to tolerate the squeaky little fellow sharing his table.

   Melrakki turned, looking over her shoulder at them. She smiled as she her eyes landed on Vilkas, cheeks ruddy with mead. He smiled back at her for a moment, before becoming distracted with movement on the edges of his field of vision.

   Vilkas turned, running his eyes over the newcomer. Tall, red headed and walking with a smooth confidence that bespoke a questionable profession, the man nodded in greeting at several of the patrons before gliding towards Melrakki. Instantly, Vilkas’ wolf spirit bristled, emitting waves of anger that this man would approach Melrakki. He smelled interested in more than one certain thing, and it was all Vilkas could do to remain in his seat as the man sat down next to the newblood.

   “That’s Brynjolf,” said Aerin quietly. “Always peddling some useless elixir or salve to try to weasel septims out of the pockets of the people of Riften. Mjoll and I think he has something to do with the Thieves Guild, but no one will tell us –”

   Vilkas shot Aerin a deadly look, chugging down the rest of his mead and getting up from his chair as Brynjolf placed a hand a bit too far on the small of Melrakki’s back for his liking. Aerin shrank down in his seat and shared a nervous glance with Talen-Jei.

   Crossing the tavern in a few strides, Vilkas grabbed Brynjolf’s wrist and removed his hand from Melrakki’s back, slipping one arm around her shoulders. Melrakki choked on her mead, sputtering in disbelief. Brynjolf and Vilkas locked eyes, and Mjoll and Keerava shared a chuckle. Vilkas caught something along the lines of an I-told-you-so, but didn’t take his attention away from Brynjolf.

   “Is this man with you, lass?” asked Brynjolf, flicking his eyes briefly to Melrakki.

   “Aye. I am, lad,” said Vilkas, voice low and adding extra emphasis on the last word.

   Brynjolf simply nodded and thanked Keerava for the mead, leaving the barstool and going elsewhere in the tavern.

   Melrakki turned and glared at Vilkas. “Can I speak to you? In private?”

   “Sure. I was getting tired of this tavern anyway, might be time to turn in. Got a long ride in the morning,” said Vilkas, looking over his shoulder and smirking at Brynjolf.

   Melrakki rolled her eyes, and left a few extra septims on the bartop before marching up the tavern stairs and to the room they had rented. She stood in the center of it, arms crossed as Vilkas entered, closing the door behind him.

   “What in Oblivion was that?” she demanded, honey-colored eyes flashing. “What if I had wanted to talk to him, did you consider that?”

   Vilkas chuckled, reaching for one of the bottles of mead on the dresser and uncorking it. He took a deep swig, knowing full well he was already quite drunk, ignoring the knowledge that his wolf spirit was testing the edges of his resolve. He offered the bottle to Melrakki, who accepted it and took a long drink before handing it back.

   “Were you really enjoying his company, whelp?” Vilkas asked, raising an eyebrow, still smirking.

   Melrakki snatched the mead bottle back from him, downing half the remaining contents before shoving the bottle back at him and turning away from him.

   Vilkas finished the bottle, noticing how the leather of her armor seemed to fit like a second skin, clinging to her lithe form in all the right places. Whether it was the mead responsible for his sudden boldness, or the rush of possessiveness from his wolf spirit,  Vilkas didn’t know, but he found himself moving to stand next to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, tracing his fingers lower the way Brynjolf had.

   “He seemed very…forward, touching you this way,” he said, barely resisting the urge to nip at her ear.

   Melrakki turned, batting his hand away as a deep blush crept into her cheeks.

  “And so what if he did? It isn’t like you –”

   Vilkas pulled her to him, pressing his mouth down on hers in a move that surprised even him. She stiffened for a moment, and then returned the kiss, tangling her hands in his hair. He ran one hand through her silken strands, letting the other roam down her back.

   Vilkas moved from kissing her to nibbling on her earlobe, growling in answer to the whimpers it drew from Melrakki. He paused as he felt his breastplate loosen, stepping back. Melrakki had undone the straps, and was smirking at him, clearly quite pleased with herself.

   She helped him remove his pauldrons, gauntlets, cuirass, and then the tunic he wore underneath, running her hands along the scars and chiseled muscles. Vilkas shivered in pleasure, unable to remember the last time a woman’s hands danced across his bare skin.

   Melrakki kissed him again, and Vilkas was barely able to restrain himself long enough to break the kiss and lean close to her ear.

   “You’re sure you want this…”

   “Do you think you’d still be in this room with me if I didn’t?” she answered, laughing.

   Before Vilkas could say anything, Melrakki dipped her head and nipped his collarbone, drawing a deep growl from his chest. Smirking, she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down onto the bed with her.

Chapter Text

   The ride back to Whiterun from Riften had been something Melrakki wished could continue on forever. Returning to Whiterun meant a return to duties for herself and Vilkas, where she was still a whelp and he a member of the Circle. Vilkas had already mentioned Kodlak would not necessarily approve if he knew what had been going on between them, and yet in that same moment he had asked her to sit and gently applied war paint to her face, smiling all the while.

   Her mind continually drifted to one conversation in particular. One that had taken place after an encounter with a dragon and an ensuing tumble in the bedroll.

   Melrakki felt her cheeks take on a red tinge as she remembered the look Vilkas had given her as the dragon collapsed, its soul swirling out and channeling into her body. It had been a look of hunger, and he swiftly made it known what it was he hungered for.

   Afterwards, she was resting her head upon his broad chest, held tightly in his arms.

   “It doesn’t bother you that I’m…well, that I’m the Dragonborn?”

   Vilkas had propped himself up on one elbow, using a finger to bring her chin up so she looked at him. His expression was odd; somewhere between pain and understanding.

   “No, it is a part of you. It has always been a part of you, you just didn’t know it.” Vilkas sighed. “I understand more than you’d know.”

   Nothing else had been said, and she didn’t feel like pressing the matter. Whatever it was, Melrakki was sure he would tell her what he meant when he was ready.

   They handed off the horses to Skulvar, who congratulated them on their return home. Melrakki caught bits of gossip from the stable master, noticing Vilkas head toward the main gates out of the corner of her eye.

   After handing Skulvar a generous amount of coin to cover a full bath and groom for the horses, she started towards the gates herself. Melrakki thought about drawing a bath once she returned to Jorrvaskr and Kodlak had been given the details of the rescue mission.

   Well, most of the details, she thought with a smirk.

   As she passed the guard house, a hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her into the shadows.

   “Where are you going in such a hurry, newblood?” Vilkas asked with a smirk, tilting her head up. “I wanted one more moment with you before we have to be quieter about this for a little bit.”

   Melrakki smiled. “Well, we’d best make it quick, I’m pretty sure I just heard Farkas go stomping by.”

   Vilkas chuckled. “Aye, that he did,” he said before bending and kissing her gently.

                            *~*~*~*~*~*

The hot bath was everything Melrakki had hoped it would be. Tilma had been more than happy to draw it for her while she and Vilkas reported to Kodlak. 

   Strangely, even though the pair had maintained strict professionalism while talking to the old man, he seemed to be fighting a smirk as he looked at them.

   Melrakki decided not to think about it too much, and just to enjoy the hot water and solitude. Her relaxing was short lived, as the heavy oak door opened.

   “Hurry up, new blood. I have a job for you.”

   Melrakki whipped her head around, glaring at Skjor.

   “Does no one knock around here?” she demanded.

   Skjor merely snickered. “Bath time is over. There is work to be done, and it is to be your trial.”

   Groaning, Melrakki reached for the soft furs piled on a stool next to the tub. “Fine, fine. Just get on out of here so I can dress in peace.”

   “Meet me on the back porch when you’re ready,” said Skjor, and Melrakki waited until she heard the door close.

   Grumbling, she quickly dried off with the furs and put her smallclothes on. She was still muttering as she hurriedly put on a clean tunic and leather pants, slipping on one boot and hopping on one foot toward the door as she pulled on the other.

Chapter Text

   “Looks like someone’s been digging here, and recently,” remarked Farkas, prodding a dead Draugr with the toe of his boot. “Tread lightly.”

   Melrakki looked over her shoulder at him, nodding before returning her attention to the lock she was picking. The chest sprung open, and she quickly rifled through the contents, taking a small coin purse and a few potions.

   “So, you guys ever do anything with these fragments you find?” asked Melrakki.

   “We have a display for them, but that’s about it. If there is a plan for all the pieces, no one has told me. I break things, not so interested in fixin’ em.” Farkas shrugged. “Watch yourself around these, I don’t want to have to carry you to Jorrvaskr on my back.”

   Melrakki chuckled. The sound of steel being drawn echoed through the damp cairn, followed by a guttural growling.

   “Damn dustmen,” muttered Farkas, charging the nearest with a roar.

   Melrakki drew her sword and war axe, whirling and slashing at a Draugr that appeared around a corner. Another lumbered toward them, quickly dispatched by Farkas.

   As they wandered through the tomb, the pair encountered a few more Draugr and the odd skeever. Melrakki hated the giant rodents more than the shambling dustmen. The vermin carried all sorts of foul diseases and usually a small army of fleas.

   The tomb opened up into a wide room with an alchemy table tucked into an alcove. The exit was blocked by an iron gate, and she turned to look at Farkas.

   “Huh. Look around for a way out, but be careful,” he said, wandering over to the alchemy station.

   Melrakki nodded, and checked out a couple decrepit bookshelves before spotting another alcove. There was a table with a couple potions atop it, and next to that was a lever. Glancing over to Farkas, Melrakki stuffed the potions and some leather strips into her pack and pulled the lever.

   She grinned as she heard the iron gate moving, and turned to gloat to Farkas. Her face fell as she realized she had closed herself in the room. Groaning, Melrakki ran a hand over her face as she crossed to the bars.

   “Now look at what you’ve gotten yourself into,” teased Farkas. “Hold on, I’ll find a way to get you out of there.”

   “Sorry…,” Melrakki offered with a shy smile.

   “Don’t worry, I think I saw another lever over there.”

   Before he could move, however, several people flooded into the room. They wore various styles of armor, all carrying ornately carved swords that appeared to be made of silver.

   “Time to die, dog!” a man cried.

   One of the women looked at Farkas, raising an eyebrow. “Which one is that?”

   “It doesn’t matter,” snarled the man. “He wears that armor, he dies!”

   Melrakki frowned. There was nothing remarkable about the armor Farkas wore, and she fought a smirk.

   “An ambush of idiots,” she mused.

   “Killing you will make for an excellent story,” the woman said, adjusting her grip on her weapon.

   Farkas let out a growl. “None of you will be alive to tell it!”

   A cloud of dark magic swirled around his massive frame. The sounds of bones breaking and shifting echoed off the stone walls, and Melrakki stepped back from the gate as she watched his limbs and face elongate. Black fur sprouted, and within moments a beast stood in his place.

   The werewolf – Farkas – let out a blood chilling howl and slashed violently at the nearest ambusher. Melrakki turned her gaze away as the screams and sounds of rending flesh threatened to make her lose her meager breakfast.

   Suddenly, the carnage was over, the gate opening the only sound. The air was thick with the smell of beast and coppery blood. She opened her eyes to see a rather embarrassed-looking Farkas standing before her.

   “I hope I didn’t scare you…,” he managed after a moment.

   “What was that?” choked Melrakki, stepping gingerly over the mauled bodies.

   “Some of us have the ability to be like wild beasts, fearsome and strong,” he said, folding his arms.

   Melrakki thought this over.

   “The Companions…are werewolves?”

   “Not all of us. Only the Circle have the beastblood. It’s a secret to everyone.”

   Melrakki nodded slowly, processing the new information. It explained much, much more than Farkas probably realized. “Are you going to turn me into a werewolf?”

   Farkas laughed. “Eyes on the prey, not the horizon, newblood.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “The shard is in the final room of the tomb. We should get moving.”

   “Who were those people?”

   “The Silver Hand. Werewolf hunters. They don’t like us much,” answered Farkas. “ Come on.”

   With one last look over her shoulder at the mauled corpses, Melrakki followed him down the narrow corridor.

Chapter Text

    Melrakki's muscles ached by the time Farkas said they were in the final chamber. As though fighting the Silver Hand hadn't been enough, there had been countless Draugr to contend with. Her old sword had been lost when she was disarmed by one of the werewolf hunters, and she wielded an ancient Nordic war axe and sword in its place.

    At the end of the chamber, Melrakki noticed another of the strange walls. Just as in Bleak Falls Barrow, the chanting and pounding drums started in her head. It was quiet, for now, but growing steadily louder the closer she got. It was calling to her; and the need to go to it was strong. 

    Forgetting Farkas, she went to the wall and ran a hand over it, closing her eyes as the words came alive and washed over her. Deep inside her chest, the dragon soul seemed to swell with happiness. This was her language, and her dragon soul seemed determined that she would know it.

    "Melrakki?"

    She blinked, looking down at the hand on her shoulder before flicking her golden eyes up. Farkas stared down at her, brow furrowed.

    "I...I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what came over me."

    Farkas studied her face. Her eyes were more draconic than usual, gold and emerald swirling in her irises. He blinked, shaking his head, and when he looked again her eyes had returned to normal.

    "Let's get the shard and go home," he said. "I'm sure Kodlak and Vilkas are waiting for good news."

    Melrakki nodded. She turned to the altar behind them.

    "It seems your scholar was right after all. Is this what we're looking for?" she asked, picking up an ancient shard of steel. Melrakki turned it over in her hand, surprised to feel a faint magical hum emanating from it.

   Farkas opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the sounds of the sarcophagi opening around them. He spat out a curse, and Melrakki shoved the fragment into her pouch, grabbing her weapons from the altar.

    The Draugr seemed endless, their ranks bolstered by Wights and Deathlords. Melrakki fell into a comfortabke rhythm, axe and blade whirling through the stale air of the cairn. She grunted as a blade grazed her shoulder, running her attacter through before planting a foot on its chest and kicking it free of her blade. The creature knocked over two behind it, and Farkas swung his greatsword in a mighty arc to behead the pair before they could stagger to their feet.

    After what felt like an eternity, Melrakki and Farkas were standing in the middle of a pile of dead Draugr. Both were splattered with gore and bleeding from minor injuries, chests heaving from exertion.

    Farkas sheathed his greatsword, passing her a healing potion. Melrakki downed the contents, tossing the bottle aside. A way out had opened through one of the sarcophagi, and the pair trudged up the rickety wooden ramp without a word.

Chapter Text

   Vilkas paced the stone walkway in front of Jorrvaskr, clenching and unclenching his fists. Kodlak had left him to himself long ago, preferring instead to assure Vilkas that Melrakki and Farkas would be back in one piece before going to the back courtyard and readying the celebration for Melrakki's return. Vilkas hadn't been so sure that the fragment of Wuuthrad had even been in the tomb, but Kodlak had a twinkle in his eye that made Vilkas question the identity of the "scholar" who had come forth with the information.

   The wind shifted, and he caught the scent of snowberries and dragon, steel and wolf. Vilkas cracked a smile, but it quickly turned to a frown when he was hit with the coppery stink of blood. His wolf spirit bristled, and his fists clenched again. Mixed with the blood was the sting of silver, and strange humans. 

   "Silver Hand bastards," he grumbled, forcing himself to relax.

   After a few moments, the flickering light from streetlamps danced over red gold hair, sending his heart leaping into his throat. Melrakki followed close behind Farkas, both looking road weary and battered, but alive. His twin walked with a stiffness that suggested a recent transformation, and his refusal to meet Vilkas' gaze as he walked by confirmed it. 

   Melrakki stopped two steps below Vilkas, wobbling slightly. "We got it."

   Vilkas held out his hand and she took it, leaning heavily into his grip as she came up the final steps. By Ysgramor, she looked absolutely exhausted.

   "I never doubted you would, whelp," he said, tone soft as he brushed the hair out of her eyes. His gaze followed his hand, coming to a stop at a patch of missing hair, shaved nearly to her skull. "What happened?"

   Melrakki let out a tired chuckle. "I'd very much like to say it was something like a bandit got hold of my hair and I had to cut it to fight him, but...it got caught in a tree."

   "Bandit it is then." Vilkas ran his hand along her jawline. "I was worried. But, I will have to tell you about it later. Come. The others are waiting for you."

                       ***************

   Melrakki sat outside Jorrvaskr, next to a training dummy. In her lap was a Skyforge steel blade, she had been officially made a member of the Companions and yet...

   Her dragon soul was restless. She felt confined, trapped in the wolves' den. Skjor had approached her, after the ceremony. Said the ceremonial induction into the Companions was unworthy of her, and to meet him at the Underforge later that night.

   She had no reason to trust Skjor, but Aela had assured her he meant no harm, that her eyes would be opened to so much more. That she could be so much more. Melrakki snorted. She was already Dragonborn, able to Shout with the same ferocity as the terrible beasts. How could she become even more than what she was? 

   Her dragon spirit hummed with her irritation, coiling in on itself and going silent. Vilkas had gone to speak with Kodlak and Farkas. Athis had given her a haircut; shaved all but the top of her head which Melrakki gathered into a long ponytail. Vilkas had said it made her look fearsome, and Tilma had given her an old circlet to help her feel more feminine.

   Melrakki didn't know who she was anymore. It felt as though she had ridden to Whiterun to trade years ago, instead of only a few short months. She had gone from ordinary to legendary, then she had become one of the best warriors in Skyrim. Destiny seemed as confused as Melrakki herself was, tugging the Nord woman in every direction just to test which was the correct fit.

   Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Skjor and Aela carrying torches and walking toward a hidden door in the rock. Aela looked her way briefly before the pair disappeared.

  Melrakki stared at the stone door as it closed, fighting indecision on whether to follow or not for a moment before getting to her feet and strapping her new blade to her belt.

   She was already the Dragonborn. What harm could there be in discovering what secrets Aela and Skjor held?

Chapter Text

     Vilkas had been in a meeting with Kodlak when he felt the shift. Kodlak had felt it, too, and the men shared a panicked look. The dragon soul they had become so used to sensing had been disrupted, radiating anger at this new beast sharing its body. It was not the dragon that scared them so.

     It was the new wolf spirit, the taunting and gleeful aura it emitted combined with the fact it was growing fainter and harder to sense that worried them. 

    Vilkas sprang from his seat with a roar, barreling through the double doors of Kodlak's personal quarters.

    "Vilkas, wait!" Kodlak cried, but Vilkas was already halfway down the hall and picking up his pace.

    Vilkas crashed into Njada, narrowly avoiding Ria and Farkas as he stormed up the stairs and out the front doors of Jorrvaskr. He didn't stop until he was outside the main gates of Whiterun. 

     He could smell Skjor and Aela. It was faint, but it was all he needed to mentally condemn them for their actions. The smell of dragon and snowberries mixed nauseatingly with female wolf, enraging him even further. One of them had acted as forebear, giving Melrakki the curse. 

    "For the love of Talos, you stupid girl! Damn it all!" he spat. 

    Footsteps sounded behind him, and he growled. 

    "She will come back."

    "She could be killed, Old Man," hissed Vilkas. "It was Aela and Skjor. They are going after the Silver Hand. You know this. They could not get us to hunt with them, so they preyed upon Melrakki."

     "You are going to make the change, then."

     It was not a question, rather a statement that hung heavily in the frost-bitten air between them. 

     "It is the only way to catch up to them before Melrakki is killed," Vilkas growled over his shoulder, barely looking at the Harbinger.

     "Then go. I will make sure the Guards look the other way. Be swift, my son."

      Closing his eyes, Vilkas forced the change faster than Kodlak had known was possible. With a single, mighty roar, Vilkas was gone.

     Kodlak watched for a while, then turned and slowly made his way back to Jorrvaskr. Captain Caius was waiting for him at the gate, hand on the hilt of his sword and a puzzled expression on his face. Kodlak looked the aging Imperial over, shaking his head.

    "The wolves are out in force tonight, old friend," said Kodlak, clapping the Captain on the shoulder as the gates to Whiterun swung open. "Best keep your men indoors tonight. A new change is upon the winds."

    "Understood, Harbinger. May the Eight be with the Companions," Caius said, motioning for the Guardsmen by the door to follow the Harbinger inside.

     As the gates closed behind them, Kodlak turned and searched the barren plains for a glimpse of Vilkas, but could find no sign. He hoped the girl was still alive. His heart sank as he walked back to Jorrvaskr.

    If anything had happened to Melrakki, Kodlak knew in his heart Aela and Skjor would not be returning alive.

Chapter Text

    Melrakki sat against a tree, eyes screwed shut and hot tears escaping every once in a while. Skjor was dead, Aela had run off, and she had been left to find her way back to Whiterun in the middle of the snowy tundra. A multitude of new cuts and bruises throbbed, and her dragon and wolf spirits fought nauseatingly for dominance. On top of all of it, her body ached from the transformation. Her muscles screamed with every movement, and her bones were aflame with waves of pain.

     The sounds and smells of the forest were amplified, and she clamped her hands over her ears. A headache had begun to make its presence known behind her left eye, and her nose had long gone cherry red and numb from the cold.

     Melrakki cursed the Divines for turning her life upside down, for pushing her away from Riverwood after her father's death, for taking her down the path to the Underforge. She should have known better. Aela and Skjor had just wanted new blood in the pack, nothing more. It wasn't meant to be something worthy of her prowess in battle, it simply had been to give them someone else to hunt with. 

     Vilkas. What would he think? What if she had ruined whatever it was they had between them with this stupid, rash decision?

     Melrakki was so caught up in her thoughts that she caught the wolf scent later than she should have. Her dragon spirit tensed, and her wolf spirit seemed to be humming in recognition. Ignoring her aching body, she stood, hand on the hilt of her sword. Melrakki was conflicted on whether to stand her ground and fight, or welcome this wolf with open arms. Her dragon said one thing, while her wolf radiated familiarity.

    As she struggled with her internal battle, the wolf in question burst through the trees, sending a thrill of terror through her as it barreled straight for her. Before her eyes, the wolf melted away into a much more familiar form, although Vilkas continued his momentum. 

    "By the Gods, you're alive!" he cried, crashing into her and wrapping her painfully tight in his arms.

     Melrakki let go of her sword, tangling her fingers in his hair and pressing her forehead to his. He pulled away slightly, gripping the sides of her face and showering her with kisses. 

    "What were you thinking?" he whispered, burying his face in her neck. "I could have lost you. You could have been killed by the transformation alone!"

     Melrakki swallowed back a sob, leaning her face into his hair and breathing his scent in. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry," she said, voice catching. "I never should have...but Aela and Skjor...They said if I wanted the true power of the Circle, to really be a true Companion...I shouldn't have listened. I was so stupid..."

    Vilkas straightened, radiating fury as he scanned the woods. "Where are they? I will make them pay for this!"

    Melrakki looked away, and Vilkas's temper faltered. He tilted her chin up, pleading with his eyes for her to tell him.

    "The Silver Hand killed Skjor. Aela...has gone somewhere. She left me here, in her grief," she said quietly. "I don't even know where here is. I woke up here, Aela was waiting for me. She said we were going to take care of some werewolf hunters. It...I have seen many things, but what that Silver Hand does..."

     Vilkas sighed, kissing her forehead. His anger had nearly dissipated. His heart ached for her. The first change was something to be supervised in the Underforge, controlled and with a healer at the ready in case of emergency. A priest of Arkay was usually present in the worst case scenario of the man or woman needing last rites. It had only happened once before, but Farkas had come close. One look at Melrakki screamed she had come closer.

     Aela knew better. She and Skjor had planned this, to use the residual bloodlust from the transformation to goad Melrakki into helping with their foolish plan, and what had it gotten them? Skjor had been killed, Aela was missing and if he hadn't come along and found her Melrakki could have been wandering the tundra for days. 

     "Come. Dawn is still far away, and even your dragons-blood won't protect you from the cold all night. We need a shelter."

               ***************************

    Vilkas stoked the small fire, looking beside him at Melrakki. She lifted her newly-silver eyes to his briefly, before returning her gaze to the saber cat pelt she was cleaning. He knew he should say something to ease her guilt, but words had never been his strong point. Instead, he got to his feet and gently took the dagger she was scraping the pelt with from her, taking her by the hand and leading her to the shelter he had made of pine boughs. Shedding his cuirass, pauldrons and gauntlets, he lay down on the pine branches and pulled her down next to him. Vilkas covered them both with the saber cat pelt, making sure to give Melrakki more.

     "The guilt is not yours to bear," he whispered into her hair. "Aela and Skjor made the choice to bring you into this part of the circle, the responsibility for the death of Skjor is not yours." He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and her lips before continuing. "Sleep, little wolf. It's a two day walk back to Whiterun."

     Melrakki opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by another kiss. Sighing, she settled into Vilkas and closed her eyes, the exhaustion of the night finally taking her.

Chapter Text

     "You have a bag packed."

     The statement hung in the air between them, along with everything else that was not being said. She did not turn to face him, only fiddled with the straps on her satchel. Vilkas knew the day would come where Melrakki left for High Hrothgar, he had just been foolishly hoping destiny and the dragon menace would halt for just a bit longer. It was natural for her to go now, she had grown stronger in body and spirit over the winter. Her dragon and wolf spirits had found a balance, a harmony, and there was little that she flinched in fear from. It made his chest swell with pride when he watched her stride calmly towards a dragon even as the townspeople or villagers ran the opposite way. She had earned many more scars in her time with the Companions, but to Vilkas they only made her more beautiful. He didn't want to be far from her side, and he didn't know how to say it.

     Yet, he knew there was nothing stopping her. She was going, to see what the Greybeards had summoned her for all those long, cold months ago, and to unlock the secrets behind being the Dragonborn. 

     "I have to," she said quietly. "I need to know what this all means, and I am ready now."

     Vilkas fought the urge to yell, to beg, to do anything to try to stop her. In his heart he knew he could not, that she needed to go out and meet her destiny head on, but Shor's bones, he did not want to see her go.

     "I will be back, Vilkas," Melrakki said gently, shouldering her satchel and turning to face him. "I'll only be gone a month."

     "A month is twenty-nine days too long," he murmured, caressing her face.

     Melrakki chuckled, leaning into his hand and covering it with her own. "Careful. I might start thinking you're a romantic."

     He laughed despite himself, leaning in and kissing her. "We wouldn't want that, now would we, newblood?"

     Melrakki smiled. "Hmm. Probably not."

     She walked past him, and he followed her to the doors leading to Jorrvaskr's main hall. Melrakki smiled at him over her shoulder before going up the stairs.

     "Melrakki, I..." Vilkas stopped himself, his hand stretched out to her. She paused, looking at him with curiosity. He sighed, lowering his hand. "I hope you find the answers you're looking for," he finished lamely.

     "Oh...," said Melrakki, looking briefly disappointed. "Me, too. I'll be back before you know it, Vilkas."

Chapter Text

     Melrakki stoked the fire and rotated the rabbit she had roasting over the flame. Satisfied, she leaned back against the wall of the cave. It had been three weeks since she had been within the walls of Whiterun. Her heart ached to see Vilkas again, and the comfort of her own bed. 

     She had thought that she would be on her way home by now, but instead the Greybeards had sent her after the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. True to her luck, the Horn was not where it had supposed to have been. A note had been in its place, asking her to come to the inn in Riverwood.

     Riverwood. She hadn't thought she would be going back there. Surely, Ralof had returned to Windhelm by then. Gerdur and Hod, however, would likely be happy to see her. Perhaps they would let her rest for a night.

     Melrakki chuckled, rotating the rabbit once more. She would be less than a half day's ride from Whiterun and Vilkas. Even her dragon and wolf spirits radiated fuzzy contentment and curled in on one another at the thought of him. 

     "At least you both agree on that," she said to herself. 

    She ate the rabbit in silence, looking out at the sparse forest. It was at least another day to Riverwood, and who knew what would happen from there. She would have to go back to High Hrothgar, which would take another month, maybe more, depending upon what Arngeir asked of her next.

     Melrakki made a mental note to leave a message for Vilkas with Gerdur once she reached Riverwood. Hod took firewood to the Guard Garrison quite often, and she was certain he wouldn't mind making sure a letter reached the Companions.

     Getting to her feet, Melrakki placed another log on the fire before crossing the cave to her bedroll. She unbuckled her sword belt, placing it by her pillow and lay down, wishing for the hundredth time during her trip she had asked Vilkas to go with her. A selfish wish, as he was needed in Whiterun, she told herself, and closed her eyes, drifting into a light sleep.

                    ************************

     Vilkas,

      I don't know how you feel about letters, but I would imagine you're going fairly crazy having not heard from me. Just hope you aren't being too rough on Ria. Njada can take it though. 

     I will be gone a while longer, I'm afraid. The Greybeards sent me after a relic, the relic led me to Riverwood, and now I journey to Kynesgrove to see some dragon that is resurrecting the dragons from their burial mounds. 

     I have to see if it is the black dragon. The one that spoke to me. The one that killed my father and ruined my homestead. 

    I will return in one piece. Hopefully. Quit frowning, that was a joke.

-M

     Vilkas had read and reread the letter so often it was worn on the edges. She had sent it with the man from the lumber mill over a fortnight ago. Even his wolf spirit was crankier than normal, and the general mood in Jorrvaskr was dour.

      Everyone missed the boisterous presence of Melrakki. He closed his eyes, forming a mental image of her face. Her silver eyes with flecks of green and gold framed by dark lashes, her red-gold hair, her tanned skin.

     Someone pounded on his chamber doors, startling him. His wolf spirit bristled, and Vilkas himself let out a low growl as he stalked over to the door and tore it open.

    Farkas jumped back, clearing his throat.

    "We're needed. Pelagia's farm is being attacked by a dragon," his twin said, holding greatsword out.

    Vilkas took it, following Farkas through the hall and fervently wishing Melrakki was home.

Chapter Text

   The battle with the dragon had been raging for nigh on an hour. The Whiterun Guard and Companions were barely able to slow the beast, and the damage done to the farm was enormous. Severio Pelagia had long since been ushered inside the walls of Whiterun. Irileth, Farengar, and a few traveling mages had been enlisted to sling inferno magic at the frost-breather, but their spells were having little effect.

    The dragon landed, swiping and snapping at the guardsmen around it. Vilkas watched in terror as the creature lunged with its massive head, jaws snapping around the midsection of a guard. It shook its head violently, tossing the man as though he were no more than a little girl's straw doll. Vilkas ducked as the body flew over him, hot blood spattering over his face. Beside him, Farkas swung his greatsword in mighty arcs, cutting deeply into the dragon's back legs. The creature reared back, bellowing as it slammed back into the ground. It's head whipped around, and it raised its back leg. 

    Vilkas barreled into his brother, knocking him back out of the way just as the dragon kicked. It connected squarely with Vilkas' chest, sending him flying. He landed on the ground with a thud, breath knocked completely out of him. Darkness threatened to close in, and it felt as though the dragon was sitting on his chest, rendering him unable to breathe. Before he knew what was happening, he was hauled to his feet by Farkas, who pounded him mercilessly on the back.

    "Not today!" his twin roared, smacking him between the shoulder blades again.

    Vilkas suddenly took a massive breath, erupting into a coughing fit. He spit blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. Aela limped over to them, still firing arrows. Vilkas noticed with a sinking feeling her quiver was beginning to run low, and the surrounding Guardsmen and mages were beginning to run out of fight. The dragon, a massive creature mottled with white and blue, was slowing, but not fast enough.

    "We need a gods-cursed miracle, or none of us are going to survive this!" yelled Aela over the sounds of battle.

    "I don't think the gods are looking this way," muttered Vilkas, adjusting his grip on his greatsword.

    Aela nodded, dropping her bow and picking up a shield and shortsword from a fallen guard. The trio shared a look, squaring their shoulders.

    "YSGRAMOR!!!!!!"

     The dragon turned in the direction of their combined battle cry, blasting them with icy breath. The trio fell into formation behind Aela, who deflected the majority of the blast with her shield. Vilkas began counting to three, preparing to lead the charge when an all too familiar voice rang out.

   "YOL TOOR SHUL!!"

    The battlefield was suddenly awash in flame. The dragon shrieked, spinning to face its new adversary. Aela lowered her shield, and the trio stared ahead.

    Riding toward the dragon, loosing arrow after arrow into its wings was Melrakki, face grim. As they watched, she leapt from the back of the horse. The dragon reared its head, preparing another shout, but Melrakki was faster.

   "FUS RO DAH!" she bellowed, and the force of her Shout shook the earth. 

   The dragon staggered, and again the Dragonborn breathed an impossible column of fire at the beast. The dragon answered with ice, but Melrakki Shouted a single word and was standing below the beast's belly within the blink of an eye. An unearthly scream came from the creature, and it collapsed. Vilkas shoved past Farkas and Aela, half limping, half running to the collapsed animal. As he neared it, the dragon dissolved into shimmering light, funneling into the heart of the woman who had saved them all.

   Cheers erupted from the exhausted force around them, and Melrakki slowly got to her feet. Vilkas broke into a grin as their eyes met, wincing at the pain in his ribs when he reached out to cup her face. For a moment, he forgot the crowds gathered around them as Melrakki reached up and smoothed the hair away from his sweat-drenched forehead. 

   "You look a wreck," she said quietly, resting her forehead against his.

   "You smell like an Orc," he countered, chuckling until the pain made him gasp. "I think we ought to go visit the healers and baths, respectively."

   Melrakki grinned. "You don't smell like a mountain flower bouquet yourself, you know," she said, before letting out a whoop of surprise. 

   Farkas had picked her up and placed her on his shoulders, where the crowd quickly closed in on them. As the men broke out into song, Melrakki looked over her shoulder at him, eyes dancing. Vilkas beamed at her in return. His heart swelled with pride as he watched her. He loved her, the crazy girl who smelled of snowberries, dragons, campfires and wolf. He loved her with every fiber of his being, and his wolf spirit radiated a desire to make her his forever. 

Chapter Text

     Melrakki looked out across the mead hall. Several of the Companions were gathered almost dangerously close to the roaring fire in the middle of the hall, bellowing out a nonsense ballad about mead. She looked at her own bottle of ale, lip curling as she set it to the side.

     Upon her return to Whiterun, the people of the city seemed to have forgotten her name. Hail, Companion. The Dragonborn. It had been the same everywhere else she had wandered – Riften, Ivarstead, High Hrothgar – and yet, nowhere did it sting as much as in Whiterun. Whiterun was home, and people weren't supposed to forget your name at home.

     Gentle footsteps interrupted her thoughts, coming to a stop next to her.

     “Something troubling you, child?”

     Melrakki looked up, briefly locking eyes with Kodlak before looking at her feet. The hall suddenly felt too small, too confined.

     “I…just need some air, is all,” she muttered. “Excuse me, Harbinger.”

     Kodlak held out a hand, smiling gently as he watched Farkas and Athis arm wrestle.

      “I will go with you,” he said. “I am not as young as I used to be, and I fear I have outgrown this sort of celebration. Mead gives more headache than it's worth, I’m afraid.”

     Melrakki nodded, accepting Kodlak's help. The pair exited Jorrvaskr onto the back patio area, and she felt a large portion of her unease leave her. She had gotten too used to spending her nights beneath the stars rather than a roof.

     “You know, when I was younger and had just been appointed Harbinger, the strangest thing happened.”

     Melrakki glanced over at him, raising one eyebrow. Kodlak looked out the corner of his eye at her before returning his gaze to the training dummies.

     “For a time, I was no longer Kodlak.” He folded his arms. “I was Harbinger, I was the esteemed leader of the Companions. Ysgramor's Chosen. Never Kodlak, though.

     “It was hard. Especially since I had worked so diligently to make a name for myself among the Companions. Eventually, though, I came to realize it was an honor. My inner circle still called me by name, but to the people we protect – not the Jarls or Housecarls or nobles, the common peoples of Skyrim – we are figures of legend. Did you not see how your arrival on the battlefield this morning shifted the tide? Your very presence is inspirational. You are a symbol of hope, a sign that the Divines did not forget us when Alduin the World Eater rose again. That is why they call you Dragonborn, rather than Melrakki Frost-Fire. It is a title worthy of your deeds.”

      He turned to face her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “The world will always remember your true name, girl. It may not feel like it, but every little girl across the nine holds is playing a game of pretend and mimicking you.”

     Melrakki fidgeted with her hands for a moment before muttering her thanks. Kodlak smiled, then turned and entered Jorrvaskr. She watched him go, mind racing as to how he knew what she had been thinking about.

     She crossed the moonlit courtyard, limping a little from a week-old injury where a bandit's arrow had embedded itself in her thigh. Melrakki couldn’t help but chuckle as she thought of how Vilkas would be fretting over her like a mother hen if he knew half the injuries she kept hidden from him.

     Melrakki sensed Aela's approach before the other woman spoke.

     “We have work to do,” Aela said in a hushed tone, holding out a bottle of mead. “The Silver Hand gather at Faldar's Tooth. I got word that their leader keeps documents detailing their plans. I'll keep things busy here. You go and get your hands on that stratagem.”

     Melrakki sighed. “Why are we still hunting them? You don’t think we're pushing too hard?”

     Aela regarded Melrakki coolly. “They killed Skjor. He was only the most recent in a long line of Companions who went to Sovngarde by the way of those vermin's blades.” She shook her head, taking a swig from the bottle of mead. “No, I don’t think we are pushing too hard. They would do the same to us, don’t you ever doubt that. Let me know when you are ready to head out, and I will mark it on your map.”

Chapter Text

     Dawn had come, and Melrakki was packing her bag for the journey. Aela had already given her the map, and Melrakki had already spent a night with Vilkas. He knew she would be leaving, he had even offered to join her, but she had assured him he would be needed at Jorrvaskr. Something wasn’t sitting right that morning, causing her stomach to churn uncomfortably. Her dragon and wolf spirits were on edge as well, adding to her nausea.

     As she shouldered her pack, a soft knock sounded on the doorjamb of the quarters she shared with the lower ranking men and women. She looked over her shoulder, smiling in greeting. Kodlak returned the smile, motioning for her to follow him as he turned and walked down the corridor. Raising an eyebrow, Melrakki kicked her shoes under her bed and hurried to catch up, falling into step beside him.

     No words were spoken until they had reached his private quarters. Kodlak took a seat at the table, motioning at the empty chair across from him. Melrakki obliged, shifting her pack from her shoulder to the floor.

     “I know what it is that you and Aela are doing.”

     The statement hung in the air, simple, honest and yet condemning at the same time. Melrakki looked at her feet, red creeping into her cheeks. Her dragon and wolf spirits curled in on themselves. She felt like a child, being chastised for sneaking a sweetroll from the kitchens.

     “We…we work to avenge Skjor,” said Melrakki lamely.

     Kodlak sighed, leaning back in his chair and nodding slowly. “Ah. But the time for vengeance has long since passed, and I fear retaliation before this is over.” He poured them each a cup of water, deep in thought. “Tell me, girl, do you know how the Companions first became werewolves?”

     Melrakki shook her head, taking a sip of water. “Aela and Skjor said it was a gift.”
Kodlak chuckled, an odd, bitter sound she had not known the old man was capable of.

     “A gift. Hmm. No, girl, more of a curse.”

     Melrakki’s brow furrowed as Kodlak went on to tell her of how one Harbinger had sought out the Glenmoril Coven, striking a bargain with the Daedric Prince Hircine. Her eyes widened in shock as Kodlak revealed he would not gain entrance to Sovngarde.

     “Instead, Hircine will come and take me to his Hunting Grounds,” he said, a tinge of sadness to his voice. “I dream of Sovngarde, and I think I know how to cure the beast-blood. I am too old to go on an adventure.”

     He sighed, leveling his gaze at Melrakki.

     “Rather than senselessly go after more of the Silver Hand, Melrakki Frost-Fire, would you indulge an old man’s wish? Collect a head from a Glenmoril Witch, and bring it to me?”

     Melrakki stared at her empty water cup. She hadn’t wanted to go after the Silver Hand again, that was true. And Kodlak had taken her in, given her a home and family after Alduin had destroyed the only one she had known. Here, with the Companions, she was Melrakki, not the Dragonborn. She raised her eyes to look at him.

     “Mark it on my map, Kodlak. I will do this task for you,” she said, and the old man smiled.

Chapter Text

     Vilkas stared at her empty bed. She hadn't said she was going anywhere that would take longer than three days. She had been gone for six, and the last hours of daylight were fast fading into what would become seven.

     She hadn't even spent the night in Jorrvaskr before leaving, choosing instead to hole up in Breezehome. He smiled as he remembered the day she had bought it. To shut Proventus up, she'd growled. It had become her place of solace when things were bothering her and she needed distance from her shield siblings and their raucous behavior.

     Kodlak had been acting strangely as well. The old man nearly had a spring in his step when he wandered the halls, even going out to the markets and visiting with Eorlund at the smith's home. Vilkas knew the pair had spoken about something before Melrakki had departed, but Kodlak showed no sign of divulging what the conversation had been about.

     Running a hand over his face, Vilkas spun on his heel and marched out to the training yard. It was cold, even for the middle of Evening Star, the wind biting into his roughspun tunic and raking icy fingers across his skin. The two moons were just visible in the twilight sky, a sight that would have been beautiful if he could just have shaken the feeling something was coming.

     Farkas and Aela were on edge lately as well, the former going so far as to snap at Ria, the latter going on more and more frequent hunting trips. Even Athis and Njada were more reclusive than normal. Torvar...well, he was too glued to his mead bottles to notice. Melrakki needed to come home. She was the balance that held them together. Somehow she managed to keep a cooler head than the majority of the Companions, and knew just the right way to soothe them all. 

     Vilkas' lips twitched into a smirk. He could think of a few ways he wouldn't mind Melrakki soothing him. A snicker escaped him as he picked a bench and sat down, leaning heavily against the sturdy oaken table. He had barely closed his eyes when the door behind him opened.

     "Catch."

     Vilkas didn't even open his eyes, just reached to snatch his greatsword out of the air. He cracked one silver eye to glare at Aela through the slit.

     "Bandits at Northwatch Tower. Kodlak has sent you, Farkas and myself to dispatch them." She shook an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. "I'm just as confused as you are. This is something that could be handled by the others."

     Vilkas grunted, getting to his feet.

      "Something is up," he said, pushing past her and into Jorrvaskr.

**********************************************

     Melrakki had emptied the contents of her stomach more times than she would admit while retrieving the heads of the Glenmoril Witches. She looked like she had bathed in their blood. Her armor was ruined, her hair was matted with blood belonging to the witches and herself, and her entire left side ached where one of the hagravens had thrown her into the cave wall.

     "Should have taken Vilkas with me," she grumbled, wrapping the last head in cloth and stuffing it into the saddlebag before making her way out of the caves.

      Her mare protested as she brought the sack of heads to tie to the saddle, and Melrakki wearily dropped the bag to the ground until the animal was calm. Once she was able to secure the bag to the saddle, Melrakki gave the mare a sugar cube before swinging up into the saddle. 

     Pulling the cork from a healing potion with her teeth, she downed the contents and stared at the bottle for a moment before dropping it to the ground. 

     "Come on. Let's go home," she said, leaning forward and stroking the horse's neck before spurring it forward.

**********************************************

     Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela had left their horses with Skulvar, walking in silence to the gates of Whiterun with Aela in the lead. As they got nearer, she stopped, sniffing the air.

     Puzzled, Vilkas glanced at his brother before breathing deeply himself. His nose was assaulted with the scent of copper and the tang of silver. As his mind worked to comprehend why those smells were on the wind, a single horn blast sounded. His heart plummeted.

     "Jorrvaskr...," muttered Aela, breaking into a sprint.

     The three Companions barreled through the gates, a string of curses escaping him as Vilkas realized they were ajar. As they approached the market, the sounds of battle reached a crescendo. Without hesitation, Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela drew their weapons and charged through the market. As they came up the stairs, time seemed to slow.

     Vilkas saw Kodlak battling three Silver Hand warriors. Beside him, Aela released an arrow. It found its mark in the side of one of the attackers, causing Kodlak to look their way. Aela loosed another, dropping the second attacker. Kodlak turned, swinging his sword at the third, but faltered. The old man dropped to his knees, clutching at his belly. A third arrow from Aela buried itself into the final member of the Silver Hand. Kodlak fell backwards, the hilt of a sword protruding from his stomach.

     In an instant, Vilkas felt his world shatter.

Chapter Text

     Melrakki knocked on the door to Skulvar’s house, wincing at how loud it echoed. She knew it was late, and didn't really expect the stablemaster to come to the door as a result. She waited a few more moments before tying her mare to the post of her usual stall and leaving a small pouch of septims in the feed bucket.

     Shouldering the bag with the heads of the Witches, Melrakki slowly began the walk to the gates. Her dragon and wolf spirits were restless, radiating a mixture of hatred, pain, and unease that made her feel sicker than she already had. Melrakki had to stop to lean against a stone pillar, fighting down bile and waiting for her stomach to settle.

    “Hold on, girl.”

     Melrakki looked up. Jornald stood by the gate, holding his arm as though it hurt. His face was grim, and he refused to meet her gaze.

     “Jornald?” she asked, hurrying over to him. “You’re hurt! The air stinks of…”

     Jornald raised his gaze to hers, pain and sorrow etched upon his face. Melrakki’s heart leapt into her throat as she looked at the gates beside them. The thick, carved oak was dented, splintered in the center and hanging at an odd angle.

     “Jorrvaskr was attacked. You’d…you’d better go there now,” sighed Jornald, motioning to the two other Guardsmen posted by the gate.

     Melrakki fumbled in her pack, fishing out her last healing potion and pressing it into Jornald’s hands before pushing through the barely opened gates. The cobblestone streets were empty, and Melrakki ran through them, tripping more than once out of sheer exhaustion. A crowd was gathered around the Gildergreen, and she was barely able to resist the urge to Shout them all out of her gods-be-damned way.

     Aela was standing outside Jorrvaskr, flanked by Athis and Torvar. Dead bodies littered the ground, and Melrakki didn’t even have to glance at them to recognize Silver Hand by the stink of their swords. She shoved a Guardsman out of her way and bounded up the stone stairs two at a time, coming to a stop in front of Aela. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, but her enraged wolf and dragon spirits were making it difficult.

     “That should be the last of them. None survived the assault on our Hall,” Aela said quietly.

     “What…what happened?”

     Aela shot Melrakki a look that she was sure would have been enough to kill her. “That band of Silver Hand I gave you the location of? When you went off and did something else, they used their proximity to Whiterun to plan an attack,” hissed the older woman, hatred blazing in her silver eyes. “If you had done as I had sent you, instead of going off and doing Divines-know-what, this wouldn’t have happened! You would have eliminated them. We would have been safe!”

    “Aela, I was –”

    Aela snarled at her, the edges of her form rippling just a little. Melrakki’s wolf spirit shrank back within her chest, radiating submission in the face of its forebear’s rage. Aela spat on the ground and turned her back to Melrakki. Even Athis or Torvar wouldn’t look at her. Heart hurting and cheeks burning, Melrakki turned and made her way into Jorrvaskr.

    She opened the door, and clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle her cry.

    In the middle of the floor, next to the benches, lay Kodlak. His face was slack and ashen, blood matting his snowy hair to his head. A pool of blood was slowly drying beneath him. Farkas and Njada were consoling Ria in a corner, and Vilkas…Vilkas was hunched over Kodlak’s body, his back turned to her.

      Melrakki was vaguely aware of the saddlebag slipping from her shoulder, plummeting to the floor with a dull thunk. The sudden noise made Vilkas’ head snap in her direction. His face was contorted into an awful mask of pain and bestial rage, silver-violet eyes flaring dangerously as he pushed himself to his feet, stalking over to her.

     “Where were you?” he demanded, shoving her roughly up against the wall. “You said you would be back! You were gone, the Silver Hand attacked. Now Kodlak is dead!”

     Melrakki blinked back tears, pushing Vilkas away from her. “I was doing his bidding!” she protested. “He sent me to fetch something for him, how could I have known something was going to happen?”

     Vilkas roared in anger, grabbing Melrakki by her arm and pulling her so close their noses touched. There was nothing of the man she had come to care about in the face that stared at her now, only hatred, and blame.

     “I hope it was worth it, whelp,” he hissed, shaking her roughly.

     Her dragon spirit bristled, and her eyes flared with amber fire as she swung her fist as hard as she could. It connected with his jaw, causing him to release her and sending him sprawling to the ground. Vilkas kicked out, knocking her feet out from under her and moving to stop her from getting up. Melrakki planted both feet squarely in his chest, kicking with all her might and sending Vilkas onto his ass once more. She got to her feet, tears spilling down her face as she looked down at him briefly before storming out the doors that led to the veranda.

     Melrakki didn’t stop once she was outside, running to the short wall behind the training dummies and knocking over chairs and bowls from the tables as she went. Ceramic crashed and splintered, but she didn’t care. In a smooth movement, Melrakki vaulted over the wall and ran, bursting through the gates and past a confused Jornald. She ran past the stables, out into the open tundra.

     The change came naturally, the pain barely registering. Limbs became stronger, her face elongated into a snout, fur sprouted all over her body. Her ruined leather armor ripped into shreds, and as soon as the change was complete, Melrakki shot off across the tundra with a soul shattering howl.

**********************************************

     Vilkas sat on the floor, chest heaving. She had struck him, and not without a little force from her draconic abilities. His chest and jaw ached terribly. Vilkas closed his eyes, trying to will past the pain, yet all he could see was the look of pain and betrayal upon her face. Growling in frustration, he pushed himself to standing, walking over to the bag she had been carrying. He peeked inside, wrinkling his nose at the grisly sight that greeted him. Hagraven’s heads. Slowly realization dawned on him, tugging painfully at his heart.

     Something golden peeked out of an outer pocket, and Vilkas pulled it out, dropping to his knees. An amulet of Mara. His anger left him, taking with it his ability to breathe. He was vaguely aware of Farkas coming to stand beside him.

     “Go.”

     Vilkas didn’t move. Farkas responded by hauling his brother roughly to his feet, and effortlessly blocking the punch Vilkas threw.

      “Go get her before she’s gone to all of us,” Farkas said, crossing his arms. “Don’t let her get away. We need her. Skyrim needs her.” He paused, jabbing Vilkas in the chest with a massive finger to punctuate each next word. “You need her, and she needs you. Stop being a damn horse’s ass and go!”