She stares at herself in the mirror, tepid water dripping from her chin and into the basin on her vanity. Her quarters in Jorrvaskr are frigid and lonely, ghosts of the past whispering in the darkened corners. She is almost certain she can hear Kodlak's patient timbre among them.

She is Harbinger now.

Elismyra scowls at herself, lip curling and thin brows drawing together. The old man had been out of his head, naming her, of all people, to take his place. She is no Nord, no warrior. She is a mage, born and bred for beauty and magic, not cavorting around bonfires, chugging mead and boasting of tales of valor. Her ways are not the Companions' ways, something Vilkas and Athis and Njada and Skjor had been sure to tell her, time and time again.

Golden fingertips reach out to touch the glass, tracing the outline of her obscenely pointed ear. A silver earring, studded with miniscule sapphires, winks in the candlelight. It had been a gift from her parents, when she had been accepted into the Arcane University in the Imperial City.

The she-elf blinks at her reflection, staring hard to try and see what her predecessor had taken such a shine to. Vivid green eyes stare back at her, slanted and rimmed in thick, black lashes. Her hair is dark and sanguine, a coveted shade of red among her own kind but shockingly out of place here. High, sharp cheekbones and a narrow jaw make her seem delicate, exotic, when faces here are full and round. Her lips are thin, her mouth wide. Skin a deep, healthy gold.

Had Kodlak forgotten it was her people Ysgramor had slaughtered? Her kind that he had vanquished and routed and driven out of their homes? His own axe, now restored, burned in her hands when she tried to carry it. Farkas had had to be the one to bear it to the tomb.

The Altmer sighs, dropping her head. She does not know what to do. The people here will never listen to her, too caught up in their own prejudices to heed her advice and guidance. She cannot entirely blame them; the elves and Nords have been at each other's throats since the dawn of time, and the Aldmeri Dominion's tyranny has certainly done nothing to soothe the horrors of centuries of war. No, she cannot truly be Harbinger, not in this era; perhaps, in two hundred years or so, she might return, see what became of the people she once knew.

But for now, her place is elsewhere.

Elismyra squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, regarding her reflection one last time. She looks proud and strong, able to bear the weight she has been forced to shoulder. The Greybeards called her months ago, and she has neglected their summons for too long. The Companions will not miss her; most will be glad to see her go. Aela and Farkas are perhaps the only two she will truly miss.

She does not think of Vilkas, and his proud bearing. She tells herself she will be glad to rid of him.

She turns from the mirror, to her bed and the open packs that rest there. Her clothes are folded neatly, waiting to be organized and tucked away for her long journey. A worn satchel slumps on the duvet, filled to the brim with potions and alchemy ingredients. Her belt lies, half draping off the bed, wrapped around her elven blade. Three daggers rest next to it, graceful and curving.

Her armor waits on its stand, polished and gleaming and beautiful. She had had Eorlund forge a special set for her, once she had gained the old man's respect. It looks remarkably like the Wolf Armor Vilkas favors, but it is thinner, lighter, quieter. The fur skirt is dyed a rich, royal blue, and there are no heavy pauldrons to clank about. Her cuirass, gauntlets, and boots are padded thickly with fur to keep her warm; she's been the butt of many jokes for her intolerance of Skyrim's perpetual cold. Silver vines are etched into the Skyforge steel, and the likeness of a wolf's head is carved just above the breast. There are strips of dyed leather beneath and between the steel plates to hush her movements. It is her most prized possession, and she regrets not thanking Gray-Mane properly for it.

Elismyra quietly sheds her nightclothes and begins armoring herself, careful to keep silent. It is late, very late, and she does not want to wake her sleeping comrades. She hates her cowardice for leaving in the dead of night, for not facing them as a proper Harbinger would. But, she supposes, she has always known she was never meant to lead them. Her silent escape only serves to drive the point home.

When she is finished, the she-elf packs her clothing and belts her sword around her hips. A gold and emerald circlet goes around her brow, and she sighs wantonly at the feel of the power it feeds her; her magic swirls and crashes in her stomach, buzzing with the desire to be freed. She slides her elven bow into its buckskin tube and slings it across her back, along with her quiver, buckling them across her chest. Her daggers are secreted away-one in each boot and the last strapped under her steel-pleated skirt, snug against her left thigh. She does not bother with food; she will hunt on the road and stop in any towns she might see when the wolf is at rest.

Her black travelling cloak is the last. Elismyra holds it in her hands, stroking it with her thumbs as she sighs. Her family crest is clasped at the throat, gleaming gold in the scant amount of light of her quarters. Two crossed swords encircled by a ring of fire.

She shakes her head. Throws the cloak around her shoulders. Clasps it beneath her chin. Pulls up the hood.

There is a folded piece of parchment on her nightstand. She looks at it for a moment before turning away.

With a wave of her hand, she muffles her footsteps. She walks through the abandoned halls of the living quarters, breathing in each scent and committing them to memory. Aela: snowberries and steel. Farkas: wind and blood. Ria: honey and juniper. Njada: sweat and iron. Athis: smoke and ash. Torvar: booze and desperation.

And Vilkas. Vilkas, who smells of old books and blotted ink and fresh pine. Vilkas, who hates her ruthless cunning and her magic and her love of the wolf inside. Who will argue and irk and egg her on for the sheer joy of it. Who trained her, who is her forebearer, whose smiles are hard-won but genuine. Who loves music but hates dancing.

Who wishes for blonde hair and pale skin and blue eyes and nothing even remotely like her.

Who is everything she never wanted but cannot help but wish for anyway.

She does not linger. As the door to the upstairs eases open, she closes her eyes and does not look back. And then she is gone.

When Vilkas wakes in the early dawn, his bones telling him the sun will rise within the hour, he knows immediately something is amiss. Low voices hum through the hallways, the whelps just waking and grumbling about the day ahead. The smell of Tilma's cooking seeps through the wood, comforting in its familiarity. Farkas and Aela are already upstairs, speaking urgently to one another. He knows he should be concerned, but there is something else-not what is there that shouldn't be, but rather what isn't that should.

He cannot smell the elf woman.

Most days, her scent is everywhere by the time the rest of them begin to stir, she being the earliest riser of them all and already out in the training yard, shooting lightning at the targets. But today, her smell is stale, leftover. As if she is still in bed.

Vilkas wants to snort; of course she would sleep in the first day of her role as Harbinger. He really shouldn't be surprised. He has never met someone so conceited and selfish, who strutted about as if they should all be grateful to bask in her presence. Abusing her new responsibilities is not unexpected.

The Nord shuffles down the hallway to her room, the door already open. He peers inside, mouth open to shout at her to get her ass out of bed, when he realizes the room is empty. Her covers are neatly made, her armoire is locked securely, the vanity cleared of any personal possessions. Her armor stand is stripped bare and there are no weapons lying about.

There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Vilkas turns away, goes back to his room to dress, and hurries up the stairs to the dining hall. The whelps are still sluggish and lazily preparing themselves for the day, but Farkas and Aela are still standing about, speaking very quickly and quietly. He walks up to them, yawning.

The Huntress spares him a glance from the corner of her silver eyes. He raises a brow at her and asks, "Where's the elf?"

"Elismyra," she reminds him sharply. "She has a name."

"Not one I care to remember," he growls at her, and Farkas shifts uneasily from foot to foot. "Where is she?"

It is his brother who answers. "She left."

Vilkas is struck speechless for a fraction of a second. "What?"

"She's gone. She must have slipped out while everyone was sleeping." He nods at Aela, who is holding a letter with a broken seal. "She left a note."

"Give that to me," he demands, snatching it from her hands before she can protest. Of all the cowardly, underhanded, conniving deeds the Altmer had done, the last thing he would have expected of her was to ignore the opportunity to boss everyone around, haughty creature that she was.

Vilkas glowers at the paper, reading her note. She has beautiful handwriting, he notices.

Whoever stumbles upon this first, first let me apologize. I know how craven I am for not facing the lot of you; you deserve better. But I have made friends out of some of you and could not bear to see your disappointment. I am sorry.

I have left Jorrvaskr, and I am likely to not return. Aela was witness to Kodlak passing on the mantle of Harbinger to me, and I cannot accept the title. It is more than not wanting leadership: the Companions were never meant to be led by an elf, especially one so contradictory to your ways as I am. I am not fit to guide you all when I do not think or act as you do; I am many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them.

Do you truly believe the rest of the Companions would accept me as their Harbinger? Did not Ysgramor himself wipe the elves off his corner of Tamriel? You lot are built on his legacy, and I do not wish to soil it. I am not a warrior; I am the very picture of what Ysgramor was trying to extinguish. The Companions would lose a great amount of respect if it was found out that a High Elf was their counselor. That is not what people picture when they come to us; they come for glory and valor and strength, and I offer none of those things; at least, not in the ways they desire. So I have gone to walk a different path.

I am sure you will hear of me soon, if what happened at the Western Watchtower was any indication. Likewise, I will keep a sharp ear out for news of you. Different we may be, but you gave me refuge for a time. I am grateful for it; more than you may know.

As for the title, I pass it off to Vilkas, who should have been appointed in the first place. Lead well, seek glory, and may you die with a sword in your hand...or whatever it is the Nords say. You were an excellent trainer, brutal as your methods were, and I shall not forget our lessons. I must also thank you for consenting to be my forebearer to the Beast Blood. A greater gift I have never received. I hope you get to see Morrowind someday; I hear it is a harsh place, but full of fascinating creatures. Perhaps I shall join you, if you'll have me along. I have always wanted to see a Silt Strider.

Aela and Farkas: you have been better friends to me than I deserve. I hope we meet again one day; I will miss you most of all. Your companionship and tutelage are invaluable, and I wish you the very best. I will see you in the Hunting Grounds, Aela, if we do not meet again on this plane. Farkas, you are wise beyond your years. I enjoyed the simplicity and frank honesty of our friendship; I doubt I will be able to find such a thing in another. Take care of yourselves.

For those who still seek the cure, the key to Kodlak's armoire is in his nightstand. There are heads in there for each of you, if you still want them. I froze them, to keep them from decaying and fouling up the place, so you are free to take them at your leisure.

Ah, but this letter has grown too long; I meant only a brief explanation and to name a new Harbinger. I will think of you often and fondly, my pack mates, and the time we spent together.

Elismyra

Vilkas blinks and rereads the letter, his fists clenching tighter and tighter. His brother watches him warily, and Aela says, "We need to track her down and bring her back; she can't just pass the title and her duties off like that." The Huntress snorts. "She'd have to be dead first."

"That can be arranged," Vilkas snarls, and finally tosses the paper into the roaring fire. He is going to wring her scrawny neck for this, tossing them all aside like rubbish, as if they had not done anything for her at all, as if their precious time wasted on her training meant nothing. She was part of the Circle, a part of their pack: she had said it herself. He is going to drag her back to Jorrvaskr by her hair, kicking and screaming, if that is what it comes to.

"Vilkas," Aela says, detecting his fury. "She's named you Harbinger Regent, since you cannot take her place fully. You have to stay here, keep everyone in line. I'll sniff her out; Hircine knows all you'll end up doing is driving her further away with that damnable temper of yours." She glares at him when he opens his mouth to argue. "I'll be back within the month."

"No," he spits at her, trembling he is so furious; he doesn't even know who with anymore. "I am Harbinger Regent, and you lot follow my orders." The beast rumbles its assent in his chest. "You two will remain here and I'll take care of this-this-" he searches for the right word, "pup. You'll be too soft on her."

"Brother," Farkas sounds well and truly worried now, "I don't think you're in your right mind-"

Vilkas's threatening growl silences him.

Aela's hackles are rising, raising to meet his challenge but he'll be damned if he lets her question his orders. Does she not understand the gravity of what the elf has done? Does she not care? Kodlak's final wish was for the she-elf to lead the Companions; she has disrespected the old man, ignored his will for the group he had given his life for. Hircine take him if he lets it go unpunished.

"Be quiet," he hisses at the Huntress, and yellow bleeds into her grey eyes. "I am going to find her and I am going to bring her back in one piece. You have my word." He storms to the door, throwing it out of his way with a final glance over his shoulder. "Don't follow me. Stay here until we return." And the door falls shut.

Seven thousand steps, she laments to herself. Seven thousand steps. Azura and Hircine, my feet hurt.

It has been three weeks since she's left Jorrvaskr and Whiterun behind. Elismyra, as she travelled, found she much enjoyed the harsh, untamed beauty of Skyrim. She had never seen much of it before now, having only ventured out to the plains of Whiterun (or ran from a great black dragon, but she tries not to think of that), and the mountains are breathtakingly beautiful, if obscenely cold. The land teems with wildlife and plants, and more than once she'd come across a mercenary to walk with for a time. They had such interesting stories to tell.

She'd even run into a strange Khajiit on the road. M'aiq, she thought his name was.

High Hrothgar had been a mystifying experience. The Greybeards were very strange men, living in solitude atop the Throat of the World. She found them wise and humble, but prone to inaction. Their teaching, however, was astounding. Elismyra had scoffed at the very thought of being what the Nords called Dragonborn. She was no worshipper of Talos, did not even believe in his godhood, much less that she was one of his ilk. This nonsense was for the Nords and their folktales, not an educated elven lady who favored magic over the sword.

But she can read the language of the dragons, speak their words and wield their power.

The Altmer sighs as she crosses the bridge to Ivarstead, her feet dragging behind her. It had taken three days to reach the top of the mountain and two to climb back down. Her bones ache, her shoulders droop, and her magic hovers just out of reach. She has never been so exhausted in all her life.

In the darkness, a figure detaches itself from the shadows. The beast inside twitches, and she snaps to attention. They are downwind of her, so she cannot taste their scent.

The person stalks forward, and she sees from the walk it is a man. A tall man, as tall as her, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. As he comes closer, she hears the clank of his armor and sees the vague outline of the hilt of a greatsword over one of his shoulders.

Damn it all. She does not have the time nor energy for this; in her current state, she knows he is more than a match for her. She is simply too tired and too frazzled to fight.

Even still, she manages to summon a wisp. He stops just outside the reach of its luminescent glow, and she lets out a frustrated growl. The beast loans her its strength and she calls lightning into her palm. "Show yourself," she barks, bracing should she need to phase.

He steps forward. She sees it is Vilkas.

She cannot even deny the relief she feels after the surprise fades away. After all this time, a familiar face, one she knows well. He is just as she remembers; dark, messy hair, the shadow of stubble on his jaw and chin, full lips pulled down in a scowl. His warpaint is as fierce as ever, and he smells just the same: old books, ink, and fresh pine. Gods, she has missed him.

But when she meets his eyes, they are not the sharp, pale blue she remembers. They are a cold yellow, the pupils slits. Her smile falls from her face and she steps back.

He is angry.

Very angry.

Before she can open her mouth, to ask what he is doing here, how he found her, he advances, taking a step toward her. "Well," he says, and his voice is flat and sardonic, "If it isn't Elismyra the Coward, wandering around in the dead of night. Who did you abandon this time, elf?" His face twists into a disgusted sneer. "Let me guess: a lover who no longer strikes your fancy? I pity the poor sod."

She refuses to rise to the bait, knowing he is goading her for no other reason than to see her flustered, although she wants to shriek she has never taken a lover before, especially not one she found in such an uncivilized place, so he'd better not insult her honor again if he knew what was good for him.

Instead, she schools her expression into blank neutrality, letting the sparks in her hand fizzle out as she straightens her shoulders. "What are you doing here, Vilkas?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Harbinger," he spits the title like it's poison on his tongue.

Elismyra scoffs. There is no point in stooping to Vilkas's level; he is only here to guilt her and shame her, she knows. He is angry, and while she does not blame him for it, she can most definitely do so for his railing her up one side and down the other for neglected duties when he is doing the very same thing. "I'm not the Harbinger anymore," she reminds him coolly, "Which begs the question: why are you here, chasing geese, when the Companions need you? Don't you lecture me, human. I tied up all my loose ends."

He appears stunned for a moment, and she smirks at him. The Nord shakes his head and glowers at her, and she returns it. "You cannot just pack up and leave to follow the breeze, elf. Kodlak gave you a duty, and you will see it through, even if you think yourself above it." His eyes are gold once more, and she can see his hands are trembling.

She knows she should not provoke him. Not when he is so close to shifting. But his assumptions hurt despite her best efforts and if he wants to play it that way, fine.

Elismyra hurls her pack to the ground, and she hears the breaking of glass as her potion bottles shatter. She cannot bring herself to care; she is so furious, so enraged, at this man who dares question her morality, her code of conduct. She has done everything in her power to undo the damage her kind has wrought, fighting to show the Nords that not all elves were self-righteous bigots, and this is what her efforts have brought her. Scorn, contempt, from a man she admires.

"You think I place myself above you?" she shrieks at him, her voice echoing down the side of the mountain. "You think I'm not grateful or honored by what Kodlak saw in me? I know what it means to be Harbinger, Vilkas! I know leaving was not the least bit honorable, but I didn't have a choice!" Tremors are overtaking her, and she shakes herself to dislodge them. "I left for you! I left because someone like me is not fit to be Harbinger, you ignorant man! No one in their right mind would follow me; I'm not a warrior, I'm not a human, and I am most definitely not the sort to lead them!"

Vilkas snarls at her, and if she was not already so angry she would have been terrified. As it is, the sound only rips one from her own throat. "It's not for you to decide!" he bellows. "You do not get to just shove it off on someone else simply because you don't like it! Have we taught you nothing?" His teeth are pointed now. "Kodlak trusted you to honor his memory, to lead in his stead because he thought you worthy! Instead you brush it off as if he was nothing and hare off on your own pointless venture!"

"Pointless?!" she shrills. She can hardly believe his audacity. "Pointless?! The Greybeards summoned me, you idiot! And I ignored them for you! For Aela! For Farkas! Because Kodlak wanted me to stay!" Tears are burning in her eyes as she thinks of the old man, his deep, gravelly voice and his wise smile. Oh, how she wishes she had been there to protect him, to save him. "He was like a father to me; I would never disrespect him like you accuse me of doing."

Vilkas barks a laugh that is half howl and entirely mirthless. "You expect me to believe it was you the Greybeards summoned? You, a High Elf, the fabled Dragonborn?" He sneers at her, contempt dripping from every pore. If she were any other woman she would have flinched away from the venom in his voice. She jutts her chin out at him instead and nods. "Right. And I'm Queen Barenziah."

She is fed up with him, utterly and totally incapable of dealing with his snide, self-important hypocrisy any more. Elismyra gestures obscenely at him and spits, "Go do the anatomically impossible, Vilkas." She leaves her ruined bag where it landed and sails past him, head held high. To think, she admired this man, thought him handsome and intelligent and talented. He is nothing of the sort; he is just like every other human male she has ever come across. Arrogant, blind, a pig. She wants nothing more to do with him. Ever.

She hears his armor burst too late. She smells the change sweep over him and she is not quick enough.

White-hot pain explodes across her back as Vilkas, crazed with fury, lunges and rakes his claws from shoulder to hip. They slice through her priceless armor like hot bread, gouging into her golden skin and ripping flesh from bone. Elismyra shrieks, this time in agony, and falls to her hands and knees, blind with pain and desperate to flee. In the back of her mind her own beast howls, pushing under her skin but she will not change, she will not turn and attack her shield-brother. She won't. She is better than that.

This is Vilkas. Her Shield-Brother, her pack-mate, her mentor. She cannot bring herself hurt him.

Elismyra gasps, struggling to crawl forward but her blood is gushing from the wounds on her back, slicking up the stones of the bridge and coating her palms and knees. Spots dance before her eyes and she can't breathe, can't find her magic to heal herself, and with a wracking sob her strength fails her and she crashes onto the stones. Her back is flayed open and it hurts, Hircine, it hurts, but she forces herself to roll over onto her side so her blood won't stain her face. She absolutely refuses the indignity of dying face-down in her own fluids.

Through a haze, she feels her instincts prickle as Vilkas phases back. She cannot look at him; her eyelids are too heavy and she doesn't want his disgust to be the last memory she carries to the Hunting Grounds. So, instead, she closes her eyes and breathes a sigh, praying the Lord of the Hunt will come for her soon; she doesn't think she can endure the pain for long.

Maybe, she thinks, in a fog of delirium, Azura will come instead? Moonshadow is the most beautiful of all the Daedric realms; I would very much like to see it.

A voice calls to her, a hand shakes her shoulder and she cries out as it stretches her wounds and sends even more searing agony down her ruined back. She grits her teeth and snarls, wanting more than anything to curl up in a ball and die but she can't, it hurts too much and by all the Aedra and Daedra why isn't she dead yet?

The ground disappears from beneath her and she howls before her will dies in her chest and blackness takes her.

He is disgusted with himself.

Dawn erupts outside the Vilemyr Inn but Vilkas does not lift his head from his hands. His head throbs with the consequences of changing back and forth so quickly but he does not care. Vaguely, he can feel Wilhelm staring at him pityingly from behind the bar but he doesn't care about this, either.

He cannot forget the rage, potent and all consuming. How it drove him, dogged at him, forced him into the wolf's body. How despicable it had seemed for her to walk away from him as if she didn't care, as if she never had.

How easily his claws sunk into her slender shoulder and ripped downward.

Her screams, long and wailing.

Her blood on the stones, on his hands, everywhere. Her trying desperately to crawl, crawl, proud Elismyra, crawling away from him and the monster he was. Her ruined body collapsing and stilling before he even realized through the fog of rage and bloodlust what he had done.

Vilkas blinks at the weathered table, exhausted and burning with shame. To think, he had accused her of being dishonorable, of abandoning her duties and the oath she took as a Companion. He shudders and hunches over further, gritting his teeth. He ought to be expelled, stripped of his rank and tossed out into the streets on his arse. He had come at her, maimed her, perhaps even killed her, because she would not bend to his will. Because she would not sink to his level. Because she had left him behind.

She hadn't even fought back.

The door to her room creaks open and he spins in his seat, eyes finding a pale, drained Bosmer man leaning in the doorway. Vilkas rises to his feet slowly, forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths. He refuses to lose his head again, will not abandon his senses ever again if he has any say in it. The Wood Elf blinks strange yellow eyes at him and nods.

"She's stable," Gwilin tells him, and he sags in relief so huge it nearly crushes him. "I did all I can for now, but I'm not a trained healer. I've sent for Ingun Black-Briar in Riften, and a priest of Mara, but…" he looks over his shoulder at something Vilkas can't see. "I don't know if she'll last that long. She lost a lot of blood and her wounds are deep; like I said, I only know a few basic healing spells."

The Companion shoves the elf aside, but not before dropping a hefty bag of coins in his hand. Gwilin stares at it in wonder before pinning him with a questioning glance. Vilkas nods and says, "Thank you for your help. Go home; I'll call you if anything changes." The elf nods and shuffles out of the inn.

Vilkas takes a deep breath a forces himself to turn and look at the damage he has done.

Elismyra is still and silent, her breathing shallow but steady. She is bare from the neck down to her hips, where a threadbare blanket preserves her modesty. Gwilin has lain her on her stomach with her arms curled beneath the pillow. White bandages cover her entire torso, wrapping from her right shoulder all the way down to her left hip. Her golden skin is pale and sickly yellow with blood-loss, and if not for the shallow rise and fall of her shoulders he would think she is dead.

Vilkas clenches his jaw and his fist, shoving his other hand through his hair before shutting the door behind him. There is a chair by a table with a low candle in the corner, and he settles into it, bracing an elbow on the wood and making himself look at her, look at what his temper and his pride has done to her. Her face is still and relaxed in sleep, and he is startled when he realizes she is beautiful.

The Nord studies her, ashamed of himself for his fascination after what he has done, but he can't stop. There is an earring in her left ear, crusted with blood now but he can still see tiny blue stones inlaid in the silver. Her hair is a deep, deep red, a shade he has never seen before but finds lovely all the same. It is short, longer near her face and shorter toward her neck, and he notices how narrow it makes her jaw seem. Her face is angular and sharp, her eyes slanted, her lips thin but not unbecoming. There is a tiny scar across the bridge of her nose.

With every short breath, tendrils of hair flutter near her mouth. He watches, reassuring himself she is alive. Her eyes flicker behind her lids and he wonders what she dreams about.

Howling. Blood. Darkness. That much he knows, and he prays Hircine will leave her well enough alone. She has paid enough already.

Vilkas sits back in his chair, rubbing his face. He knows he should sleep, but he is terrified that the moment he leaves she will stop breathing and wither away. It would be suitable punishment for him, the guilt and grief of knowing he had killed her, but then it would be at her expense again and that is the last thing he wants.

He was like a father to me; I would never disrespect him like you accuse me of doing.

Do you truly believe the rest of the Companions would accept me as their Harbinger?

I hope you get to see Morrowind someday...

I left for you! I left because someone like me is not fit to be Harbinger!

...Perhaps I shall join you, if you'll have me along.

He slams his fist on the table and growls. Fool, he snarls at himself. You blighted, ignorant fool. She was only trying to do what she thought was right.

It didn't matter if what she thought was entirely wrong, if her skewed sense of logic forced her to leave them in the dust out of some misguided sense of heroism. She did not understand their ways, did not know how her actions would come across. She is an elf and a newcomer; there was no way she could have anticipated her abandonment as such an insult. Vilkas doesn't know what she had been thinking, how she could have possibly thought they would let her walk away without a fight, but he does know she has paid for it more dearly than she ever could have deserved.

You'll be too soft on her.

If it isn't Elismyra the Coward…

I am going to bring her back in one piece. You have my word.

...Who did you abandon this time, elf? Let me guess: a lover who no longer strikes your fancy?

Instead you brush it off as he was nothing and hare off on your own pointless venture!

He recalls his horrible words and curses at himself, rubbing his forehead again, and wonders if they will be the last he ever speaks to her. He glances at her prone form on the bed, still breathing, and sighs. He is no use sitting here and pitying himself; there are things to be done and coin to spend.

Vilkas stands and stretches before making his way out of her room and into the main hall, where Wilhelm stands at his counter and Lynly plucks her lute. He approaches the innkeeper, shoulders hunched and feet dragging.

Wilhelm takes pity on him. "I've given you the room next to hers," he says, and points in the direction of his bed. Vilkas follows his finger tiredly and nods, too exhausted for words. "I'll wake you if anything changes."

"Thanks," the Companion grumbles, and hands him the ten gold coins for the room, as well as a few extra. At Wilhelm's confused stare, he says, "For a courier. I need to deliver a message to Whiterun."

"Ah." The innkeeper nods and takes the sealed letter Vilkas hands him. "I'll find one for you at once. And, eh, lad," he calls as Vilkas turns away. He looks over his shoulder and quirks an eyebrow. "If you don't mind my askin'...what happened?"

For a split second, Vilkas wants to laugh. Throw back his head and guffaw at the ceiling because surely this is far worse than any of Hircine's nefarious whims. Instead, he says, gruffly, "Bear. Got her coming down from High Hrothgar."

"Must have been a big bear." His eyes are wary.

"Aye. I killed it."

Wilhelm eyes him for a moment, and Vilkas worries the old man isn't going to let it go. But finally, he nods, and the Nord thanks whatever Divines are listening as he stumbles off to his room.

A week passes in much the same manner. Vilkas sits vigil in her room each day until he is so tired the words of his book swim before his eyes. Gwilin comes and checks on her, and once the Nord asks why she doesn't wake. The Bosmer looks him dead in the eye and says he is keeping her under so she does not have to face the agony of her wounds that consciousness will bring.

Vilkas asks no more questions after that.

On the second day, Gwilin brings a woman with him, one Vilkas has seen tending the mill when he stares out the window. The Bosmer says he is going to teach her to change the bandages, for Altmer are modest creatures and he doubts Elismyra will want a man to see her stripped bare any more than the elf himself already has. The woman, who calls herself Temba, meets his eyes and he sees how rough and uncaring she is.

"I will change them," he tells the pair, because he does not like the look of this woman and because he needs to see how terribly he has scarred her.

The Bosmer appears nervous and says that he doesn't think this is a good idea, but Vilkas will not be swayed. Altmer culture be damned, they are in Skyrim now and if she despises him all the more for it, he will suffer the consequences. She will hate him regardless, but he cannot tell these people that.

Gwilin finally relents, sending Temba away. He looks at Vilkas with a new light in his eyes, one the Companion pretends is not there. The elf carefully turns Elismyra onto her side and begins to unwind the strips of cloth, and when her back is exposed he cannot help but breathe in sharply.

There are four long, bloody furrows stretching across the entire expanse of her that bear a morbid resemblance to the warpaint Aela favors. The edges are ragged and pale with blood loss, and he thinks he might be sick. The white of her backbone glints in the light streaming in through her window, visible where she has been flayed open, and he prays to all the gods he knows of that he has not crippled her.

"I'm trying to keep them from becoming infected," Gwilin says; Vilkas has almost forgotten he is there, "But they're healing slowly, even with my spells. It's very strange." The Companion knows why - the blood of the wolf inside her prevents her body from repairing itself at a natural speed - but Gwilin has no need to know such a thing. The elf hands the bundle of soiled cloth to the Nord and tells him to take them to the river to wash; they are all he could find in the tiny village, and he needs to work his magic, anyhow.

So Vilkas does so, every day, scrubbing the blood away in the rapids each morning, boiling them in the afternoon, and wrapping them back around her each night - the Bosmer says the fresh air will help heal the wounds, as well. Her skin burns with fever beneath his fingers and he wonders when the healers from Riften will arrive.

The worst part is her nightmares.

No werewolf sleeps easy; he has known this for many years. But Elismyra, plagued with fever and haunted by Hircine, screams in her sleep each night. The walls of the inn are thin indeed, and while he knows they are just dreams, that there is nothing he can do for her, it takes all of his will to keep from cringing in his bed when her throaty voice wakes him in the dead of night.

Once, she calls his name and begs him to stop. He does cringe and bites his fist for good measure.

Sometimes, she speaks in a language he has never heard. It is guttural and broken, but he listens anyhow, curious despite himself. He thinks for a moment it might be daedric, but he has heard those words in his own head before and quickly dismisses the idea.

On the fifth day, Aela arrives, smelling of snow and wind. She regards him with disdain and does not say a word. He takes it in silence; it is nothing he does not deserve.

The Huntress takes over the duty of bandage-changing and snarls at him when he tries to intervene. "You have done more than enough," she tells him, and his shoulders stiffen. "Sulk in the corner if you want, but you'll not touch her." And for once, he obeys her without argument.

It is on the eighth day that Ingun and the priest arrive, road-weary but determined. Vilkas has never been so glad to see someone in his life.

Ingun shoos them all out of the room, including Aela. "You're just going to crowd me," she tells them all, and looks for a fleeting moment a bit like her hag of a grandmother. The youngest Black-Briar is the least detestable of her family, if not remarkably pleasant. He has always found her a bit odd, but does not tell her so. She does good work, he knows.

The priest, a Dunmer swathed in obnoxiously orange robes, looks up at him curiously. "Gwilin tells me you've been looking after her," she says, her lips twitching, and Vilkas nods hesitantly. "You're not married, are you? I don't recall you coming to the temple."

"No," the Nord says slowly, having the sense he is going to regret this conversation.

The elven woman laughs, a rich sound, and her red eyes twinkle with mischief when she looks at him again. "Oh, she is going to have words for you when she wakes, Serah," she says, and disappears into the room after Ingun. Vilkas stands, embarrassed, and shakes his head.

Aela is sitting at a table, glaring into her mug of mead. Bassianus Axius leers at her out of the corner of his eye, and Vilkas growls at him in disgust. The man is an arrogant piece of scum who haunts the inn, drinking and wasting his days away. Vilkas does not like him in the slightest.

He takes a seat across from the Huntress and folds his arms, tucking his chin to his chest and preparing to try and nap, when she speaks to him for the first time in three days. "What happened?"

Vilkas glowers at her. "You know what."

"I know what you wrote. I want you to tell me exactly what you did, ice-brain."

There is nothing Vilkas is more loathe to do. He would rather her impale him on a spike than recount how utterly out of control he was, how beastial and savage. The way ice settled in his stomach when he saw her blood on his hands, his claws, leaching her life away onto that deserted bridge. How she had screamed.

"I ruined my armor," he says instead, because he cannot force the words to come. They are too shameful.

Aela looks ready to murder him, and Vilkas forces himself to meet her gaze. He will not cower before her, not beg her forgiveness because he knows he will not receive it. He refuses to let her punish him, because she cannot possibly say or do anything to him he has not already said to himself.

"When we get back," he begins again, slowly, measuring each word, "I will go for the cure. This cannot...it will not happen again."

"Do you give your word?" Aela snaps at him, and he winces, "Since you seem to place so much value in your promises." Her glare is feral, but he admires that there is no yellow in it. "If it were me, I would have killed you. I don't have the slightest idea of why she didn't."

Vilkas doesn't either, but he keeps silent. "I'll have to see Eorlund about new armor for...both of us. I could only find my gauntlets, and they're in shreds."

The Huntress laughs, a cruel and bitter sound. "I think you should start looking for armor more suited to a mercenary, whelp; Skyforge steel is too good for you."

He turns away and crosses his arms, staring into the roaring hearth in the center of the room. "Yes," he answers quietly, so she has to strain to hear him. "Perhaps that is best." When he looks back at her, her face has lost its edge, because Aela does not soften.

They do not speak again for some time. Instead, they listen to the faint voices issuing from behind Elismyra's closed door, straining to pick up anything that indicates how she is doing. He trusts Ingun, trusts her knowledge of potions and plants, but he cannot help but remember the markings, the gleam of stark-white bone against red and angry flesh, and wonder if it is beyond her skill.

"Vilkas," Aela says, breaking their silence, and he jumps before glaring at her. She is watching him, something that is not quite concern in her grey eyes. "When did you last eat?" She wrinkles her nose, "Or bathe? You are absolutely foul, man."

He is startled when he realizes he doesn't know. His last meal was yesterday, and his stomach rumbles loudly in agreement. Aela smirks pointily at him and all but shoves him out of the door, saying he was not to come back until he was clean, and that there would be a hot meal waiting for him when he returned. He grumbles, but goes to the river anyway; he knows she is right, can feel the grime clinging to him like a second skin, and hopes the raging headache that has been dogging him for a week will wash away downstream with the rest of his troubles.

When he returns, his hair dripping in his eyes but feeling better than he has in days, there is indeed a plate of seasoned trout, buttered potatoes and roasted leeks on the table. The main hall is empty, and he guesses Aela has left to hunt for herself; she has been with Elismyra for nearly three straight days.

Vilkas eats, but as he stares at the closed door to the elf's room, the food turns to ashes in his mouth and it is all he can do to keep from spitting it out. He forces himself to stomach it, because he is no use to anyone weak and stumbling from hunger.

Aela returns to find him reading, and when he lifts his head to acknowledge her, she gives him a wan smile. He nods, and their truce is sealed.

It is well after night has fallen that the door finally creaks open and Ingun and her priest slouch out, exhausted and pale. The elf's scarlet eyes are half-lidded and the alchemist is yawning, but the duo comes to them anyway. Black-Briar's smile is triumphant as she says, "She's going to live. Gwilin did an excellent job with such scant resources; he saved her life."

Relief so violent he nearly groans washes over him, and he hears Aela clasp her hands together loudly. "How is she?" He almost doesn't wish to know.

"The wounds weren't poisoned, obviously, so we didn't need to worry about that. They've been healing slowly, which I'm going to guess is from a disease the animal might have been carrying, but they're mostly scabbed over. I've given her a tincture to numb the pain; I'm leaving a few bottles with you, and she must take them twice daily, along with a salve to keep any infections away." Ingun slouches into a chair as the elf goes up to the counter. "Her biggest problem now is going to be keeping them clean. She obviously can't wash them herself, so you two are going to have to help her; otherwise, they'll get infected and you're going to have to drag me all the way back out here again."

"And the fever?"

The woman blinks at him; he sees the bags under her eyes and the lines on her forehead, and wonders how long it has been since she has slept properly. "It lingers. Dinya and I will stay until it breaks, and then we will leave for Riften; I don't think it will last more than a few days."

Aela nods sagely and turns toward the open door. They cannot see Elismyra from where they are sitting, but they can see the shadow of a flickering candle dancing across the pine walls. The Huntress asks, "When can we see her?" And turns back to the two of them. "She hasn't woken since the attack, I hear."

"Gwilin was keeping a spell over her to keep her asleep; his foresight was remarkable. I'd quite like to have him as my apprentice." The elf - Dinya - appears with two plates of food, and they both begin eating ravenously. "Dinya lifted it once we were done; there isn't any need for it anymore, since the wounds are closed. She should wake within the hour."

Vilkas sighs and clasps his hands over his knees, staring at the straining tendons as he forces himself to ask the question burning on his tongue. "Are there going to be any…" he clears his throat, "lasting effects?"

"You mean is she going to be crippled?" He almost flinches at the elf's blunt paraphrasing. "No, I don't think so. Elves and humans are very similar; since her backbone was not broken, she shouldn't have any problems moving about normally once she is fully healed." She takes a large bite of venison. "Her recovery is, however, going to be long and painful. She'll have to be careful of her muscles as she works to recover her strength, lest she pull something vital. I don't think she'll be summoning fire storms or swinging a sword any time soon, but in a few days I'd expect her to be sitting up and feeding herself. She'll be weak, though." Dinya leers at him, "She's going to need a lot of help, since her injuries are so extensive. Bathing, for one, she should not be doing alone."

Vilkas coughs into his fist, although he has no idea why he is so embarrassed at the presumption. She has nothing he has not seen before, and he has seen parts of her, as well. Modesty is a foreign concept among a werewolf pack, where clothes are constantly ruined. She has still managed it somehow, though, keeping her back to them all when she phases.

Ingun pushes her plate away from her and stands, stretching her arms over her head and arching her back. "Do either of you know any restoration magic?" When he and Aela shake their heads, Ingun clucks her tongue. "Hm. She'll have to use her own, then, since Dinya and I can't stay for more than a few days. Don't let her exhaust herself with them, but let her practice if she needs it; I hear magical buildup is rather unhealthy."

Just then, a faint whisper floats from Elismyra's room. It is a groan, one born from those waking from an unnaturally long sleep.

He and Aela are up out of their chairs in a flash, hustling to her side. The Altmer is still stretched out on her belly, but the room now smells sharp and clinical, the odor of potent herbs seeping into the walls. Her eyelids flutter for the briefest of seconds, and then a small sliver of vibrant green appears.

Her muddled gaze fixes on him, and he suddenly finds no breath in his lungs. He cannot tear his eyes away, even as the fog clears from her own and they snap wide open, suddenly wild with fear.

It hurts more than he expects.

Aela steps between them, her soothing voice and protective presence easing the sudden tension in Elismyra's shoulders. "Where am I?" she rasps, and her cultured voice is hoarse with disuse. "I thought…"

"Hircine does not have you yet, Harbinger," the Huntress says, crouching down by the elf's bedside and smoothing her red hair away from her face. Vilkas has never seen her so gentle, and he watches, his voice caught in his throat. "You're in the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead. You've been asleep for eight days; you gave us quite the scare."

"Eight days," she marvels, and Vilkas closes his eyes and just listens to her speak. "I can certainly feel it; everything hurts."

He hears Aela shift uncomfortably and smells her unease. "Ah," she says, "I…do you remember…?"

"What happened?" If she were not so weak, Vilkas knows her voice would be cold and sharp. As it is, she still struggles to form words correctly. "Yes, I do. Quite well."

He suddenly feels her eyes on him, heavy and probing, but he cannot bring himself to look at her. Shame scorches through him for his cowardice, but it is quickly replaced by disgust for himself. What right does he have, to stand here with her, when it is by his hand that she lies, stricken, in her bed? She should send him away, banish him to the far corners of Skyrim for what he has done. It is what he deserves.

When Elismyra speaks next, her voice is so quiet he can barely hear her. "Aela," she says, "I want to speak to him. Alone."

"I-" the Huntress appears torn, glancing back and forth between the two: Vilkas, with his head bowed and eyes downcast, shoulders hunched in on himself. She has never seen him brought so low. And Elismyra, their Harbinger, sprawled on her belly with fever and wounds that have come from the very man himself.

"Please."

Aela finally nods and turns to go, but not before pinning the Nord with a frosty glare, full of dark warnings. When the door closes behind her back, he sinks into his chair at the table in the corner; the room is still small enough he can reach out and touch her, if he wants.

She is the first to speak.

"You're still here." It is amazing how a woman so sapped of strength can sound so abrasive. He has known she will be angry, has prepared himself for it, for her inevitable rejection. Even so, he hates to hear it.

"Yes."

"I'd've thought you'd have left me to die."

He cannot stop himself; he flinches at the burning accusation and grits his teeth. She has every right to her anger, and he knows that if she had been any other Altmer, he very well might have. The thought sears through his mind and down into his belly and he is so ashamed. "I couldn't."

"Why? You certainly didn't have qualms about laying me out like this."

Vilkas snaps up to meet her flaming green eyes, angry despite himself. He knows she is right, knows he has done everything to earn her condescension and ire, but it chafes nonetheless and he will not lie down and roll over like a wet-eared pup. "Because of the guilt; it wouldn't have been right to leave you there."

He wants to pull the words back as soon as they are out of his fool mouth.

If Elismyra could have sneered, she would have. As it is, she only shifts to prop herself up on her elbows and winces; he moves to help her, hands fluttering, unsure, but she spits, "Pah. So you did it for you, and not for me. Why am I not surprised." He is taken aback by the bitterness in her voice, and she somehow manages to look down her nose at him when she snarls, "So I'm going to guess you stayed here for so long because you were guilty, too? No other reason, like, I don't know, because you were actually worried?"

"No, I-"

"That's what you said," she snaps at him, and he clenches his jaw. He will not lose his temper again, he won't. Not with her, and especially not when she is right and bears the scars to prove it. "If that's your only reason, you should have gone back to Whiterun a long time ago. You should be there now."

Abruptly, she hangs her head, arms quivering and a curtain of red hair obscuring her face from him. He hears her sigh, and she mumbles a curse to herself. "You're an ass, Vilkas."

"I know."

"You haven't even apologized." She sounds so tired.

"Are apologies enough?"

She sighs again and sinks back down onto her pillow, her arms folded beneath her cheek as she regards him shrewdly. He stares back at her, so incredibly relieved to see her awake and alert, even if her eyes are too bright with fever and her movements stiff with pain. "I suppose not."

"I…" He isn't sure what to say. What is there, what plea, what promise can he make to her to try and redeem himself after falling so low? He is nothing but a feral, rabid and wild and savage. "I know my actions are...unforgivable. But I swear," he makes sure she is listening by holding her heated gaze, "If I could go back, to that night on the bridge, I would. I would do it in a heartbeat and do anything to change it." He clenches his fists on his knees. "I've been doing nothing but sitting here while you slept, hating what I've done. I didn't stay just because of the guilt, but there is plenty of that." He looks away, out of her window, at the velvet navy sky, "I didn't want you to die. If you must know anything, know that."

There is silence for so long he thinks she has fallen asleep. When he forces himself to look back over to her, she is watching him, her eyes shuttered so he cannot see what she is thinking. He meets her gaze steadily, and he is startled when he feels a stirring in his soul.

Suddenly restless, he shifts in his seat.

Finally, Elismyra speaks. Her voice is breathy and soft and so exhausted he cannot help but pity her. "I'm so furious with you, Vilkas."

"I know."

"You should be expelled, attacking me like that."

"I know."

"I should hate you."

He is so shocked he reels away from her, completely caught off guard. "You mean you don't?"

Elismyra sighs and looks away from him, fixing her impossibly green eyes on the pale gray-brown of her headboard. "I want to. It's no more than you deserve. But I don't think I could ever hate you, Vilkas." Her voice is worn and exhausted, and she gives a self-deprecating snort. "It's so pathetic, but I can't. Not even for this." She flicks a glance at him and blinks, her brows furrowing tightly and her mouth thinning. "What a pair we make."

Vilkas shakes his head and smiles for the first time in eight days. He knows he is not forgiven, knows perhaps he never will be, but she is alive and not-quite-well, but on the mend, and surprisingly, that is enough for him. He could live with her hate, knowing she is alive and that he has received his punishment. It is far more than he imagined that she does not, and that he still has the chance to prove himself to her.

He vows to himself, as he leaves her room to rest, that he will do just that.