Celeste's head snapped towards her lover, and she stared at him without shame.. "...Honey?" She asked, her voice tentative. Why was he scared? What ailed him? His face gave nothing away, but the silver-gray of his eyes confirmed his emotions. He looked away from her.

"You three go on back," Farkas said, turning away fully, "I'll stay behind and make sure we got all of them."

"But.." Celeste didn't want to leave him. She wanted to ask him why he was afraid. She didn't understand. Had she shamed him? Was he afraid because she was a terrible warrior?

She felt Aela's hand on her shoulder. "Come, sister. We will talk. Farkas will be alright."

Reluctantly, Celeste allowed herself to be led away by Aela and Vilkas, though her thoughts never left her mate.

"Why?" She asked, when they broke into the night; the moon shone clear, like a truth in a far away place that she would never reach.

"Why what?" Vilkas asked sharply. She was starting to realize that this was his way, and that his short manner and constantly irritated behavior actually meant nothing about what he truly thought of who he was speaking to.

"Why is he afraid?"

"Heh," Vilkas laughed softly. "Don't you worry about that. He'll get over it."

"But why?" She insisted, and there was a whining edge to her voice. She colored slightly. She felt a bit like a child, but this was important. She needed to know.

Vilkas and Aela were quiet for a few seconds, and Celeste felt like she would die from the suspense.

Finally, Vilkas spoke up. "All my brother knows is fighting. He feels that all he can offer you is protection. What do you need of him, when you can protect yourself so well?"

Celeste's mouth went dry. "But...that's ridiculous," She said, aghast.

"Maybe so," Aela said, "But it is not us you need to convince of that."

Celeste sighed, picking at her sleeves. "It's such a silly fear."

"Why is that, exactly?" Vilkas' tone was different this time; not quite so snide, almost curious. If she didn't know better she would say he was honestly interested.

"Because I could never be as strong as him. I'm not even good." She felt humiliated, admitting this. "I'm not a Companion, or..."

"You're different," Vilkas said, "But in your way, you are a strong fighter. You don't have to wield a battleaxe and wear iron to take care of yourself."

Celeste felt red again blossom on her face- this time at the praise. "But I'm really not-"

"But you are," Aela said. "Listen. We don't say that to just anyone. Your arrows are sound, and if I couldn't smell you I'm fairly sure I would have lost you in the room. Though if you ask me, the Ice-Brain ought to be excited. He could take you with him on jobs and you'd be an unbeatable team."

"I don't want to fight," Celeste said hurriedly. Now she was afraid, the subject matter becoming something else entirely.

"Then why did you learn in the first place?"

"I had no choice."

Aela and Vilkas fell silent, waiting for her to continue. She didn't. The secret was hers to keep, and they didn't need to know. Thankfully, they didn't press, and they continued in silence, the moon as their witness.

Celeste chewed on her bottom lip, looking up at the sky. Her breath came out in a soft fog, and it struck her that she was finally used to the frigid air of Skyrim. "You know what amazes me," She murmured, aware that what she was about to say was incredibly off-topic...but that was what she needed right now.

"What's that?" Aela asked; Celeste supposed that neither of her companions were much for small talk, but she had to fill the air, somehow. Too much silence made her crazy, made her remember.

Silence, my brother.

She pushed the thought away with her hurried words, "The sky." It sounded stupid and incomplete, so she elaborated. "It's the same as in Cyrodiil. Somehow, I expected it to be different." The sentence hung in the air, and she felt awkward, hunching over. She should stop talking, she realized, but she couldn't. If she stopped talking, then she would be alone with the memories of a past she was working hard to forget.

So she talked to them about anything and everything from sweet rolls to shoes, and by the time they got back, Aela and Vilkas looked ready to kill her.

Farkas stayed in the keep for a long time as he tried to comprehend the truth.

Celeste was strong. Celeste...used to be a part of the Dark Brotherhood.

She had made it out like she had been so bad as an assassin. But from what he could tell, there was no way that could be true. Her technical skills were precise. He had originally been worried she'd misfire and hit him with an arrow, but not only did that not happen, she'd become one with the shadows completely, becoming almost invisible.

Sure, there were better. She wouldn't beat Aela in a firing contest- indeed, not many could. But she had seriously undervalued her own fighting skills. She had no idea what she was truly capable of. And it was because...

She had been a part of the Dark Brotherhood.

By the gods, he couldn't get his mind around it.

He was pacing the rooms of the keep angrily, killing any survivors without mercy. His sweet little Celeste had killed innocent people. Had orphaned children.

And it wasn't her fault.

He knew there would be some that would argue that point, but he didn't care. Who could tell another how to act in that situation? They had kidnapped her when she was a child; brainwashed her; broken her...

And then, he was furious.

Rage overtook him and his wolf-brother burst forth and took to the hills. Before, when she had told him her story, it hadn't really sunk in. But now, it was clear as day that she'd been telling the truth. She'd been taken as a child, a sweet, innocent child, and forced to kill other people for profit. He'd seen the proof of it tonight.

No matter how much game he killed, no matter how much blood his fangs shed, it didn't satisfy him. He didn't want to kill deer or rabbits or goats. He wanted to slaughter the Dark Brotherhood. Every last one of them. He knew some of their names; the important ones, the leader and her husband...Astrid, the tall blonde, and Arnbjorn, the traitorous ex-Companion.

He tried to picture them from the details Celeste had told him: a beautiful woman with a deadly glare, a tall Nord with a scarred face and gray hair. They were such vague descriptions that he couldn't put the faces together, and that made him angrier.

He would make this right. If it was his last act in the world, the finalwhisper in his dying breath...he would make it right.

By the time the night was done, the snow was stained red with the blood of the innocent.

Blood for blood.

While she escaped from Aela and Vilkas alive, she wasn't able to sleep.

She had grown used to her giant lover sleeping peacefully beside her. His scent, wilderness and battle and loyalty, was still in her bed. But he was not – and because being along wasn't something she was used to anymore, she was anxious.

On top of that, felt Farkas' anxiety and anger leaking through their bond. She could feel that, but he was not letting her be privy to his thoughts. To combat the compounded stress, she worked on all of her back-orders, and when she was done with that, her current orders; and when she was done with that it was still an hour before sunrise. He was still not back.

Her fingers were pricked and bleeding and raw from her anxious sewing and fastidious work. She started doing something she never did - cleaning around the house - because there was nothing else to do. She became more anxious with each passing minute. Did he not want her anymore? Did she disgust him?

The others said she was strong in her own way; an efficient hunter. But all those beatings and painful lessons, the assurance that she was merely mediocre...she was sure Astrid was right. She wasn't meant for killing people. Was it mediocrity that Farkas saw? Or was it worse?

...Maybe he finally saw the blood on her hands.

The thought made vomit rise in her throat. The scream of the orphaned boy rang in her ears and she covered them with her hands, screaming along with him. All she wanted as a peaceful life, away; far, far away from that life. She wanted to pretend that it never happened, but her past deeds haunted her in her dreams and in the moments between sleeping and waking.

She ran the water too hot and it burned her hands; she tried to cut and salt the meat but she cut her forearm; she tried to move a box of potatoes and she dropped it on her toe. All these things, these little pains; her anxiety, her mate's anxiety, and the dreadful truth of Ophelia turned her eyesight red, and suddenly, she wanted all of it gone.

She threw all the dirty pots on the ground, knocked the vegetables from the counter-top, broke her finest china on the kitchen floor. Still unsatisfied, she went to her work table and scattered and ripped her papers, orders, new designs...

She paused momentarily as she saw her newest dresses, waiting to be displayed when she had room. But then she saw her latest work: a beautiful, pure-white wedding dress embedded with real pearls. It was to be fashioned with a lily corsage when the time came. If she ever got married...she could never wear anything like that. The dress would have to be red, for...

She tore the dress apart using her hands and nails and teeth and she didn't stop until it was shreds and the pearls scattered across the floor like broken dreams.

Celeste went through her entire home like that, causing disaster and chaos to everything she had worked so hard to create. She left not a single room untouched in all three of her floors. She wanted nothing in particular except for relief; relief from her pain, relief from all the worry and stress. She just wanted to feel better.

More than anything, she wanted Farkas to come home and say he still loved her.

When there was nothing more to overturn or destroy, she sat there in the ruins of her front room, the last to face her wrath. She was too exhausted to continue, having worked through the night on the time-proven fuel of anxiety. She lay against the hearth, the fire long since burned out, all dried tears and puffy eyes.

About an hour after sunrise, the door swung open.

He did not care about the mess. He did not care about her burnt and bleeding hands, the cut on her arm, her swollen foot.

He did not care about the debris and rubble and the pearls that somehow clung stubbornly to her tattered nightgown.

He ignored the fact that she looked sad and tired and her eyes were puffy, ignored the fact that she had been up all night. He had too, and he did not look any better.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving a smear of blood across it.

He strode right across the floor and pulled his mate up to her feet, looking right into her eyes, gold into silver, the Sun and the Moon.

"I don't care how long it takes. I don't care how many of them there are. I don't care how skilled they are. I don't care if they live in the gates of Oblivion. We will find them, and we will end them. I will kill everyone who did this to you."

His words were like stone, and as he spoke them, they became not only promise but oath, prophecy, the events of the future.

"But Fa-"
"And," He continued roughly, not letting her interrupt him, "When it is all over, you will marry me."

Though it was phrased like a command, from the look in his eyes, she knew it was a question. A much deeper, more profound question than words could ever describe.

"Yes," She exhaled, breathlessly.

She did not know how either of them found the energy to be up a few more celebratory hours, but those hours were filled with such passion, love, and relief, that doing anything else seemed completely pointless in comparison.