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Chapter Text

This is odd, Farkas thought as he lifted his mug of ale.

It was a calm night in the mead hall. Most of the Companions were in bed or away on jobs, though a few remained. But Farkas was up, drinking in the hall. And Kodlak was up, waiting. It was clear that something was on the old man’s mind, but it was anyone’s guess what.

Calamity came bursting in through the doors in the early hours of the morning. Aela was crying out for help before they were even through the threshold. He leapt up, ready to aid his Shield-Sister. 

Farkas could see Skjor’s face, pale and weak. Something terrible had happened, that much was clear. Then he saw Kjolti.

She held the other end of the shields that held Skjor. Faint and covered in blood, it was clear that pure adrenaline got her back to Jorrvaskr’s doorstep. Farkas felt his heart drop to see her injured.

But his next inhale told him even more, and Farkas was shocked.

Kjolti had taken of the beast blood.

And he hadn’t been there for it.

There wasn’t time for shock and hurt. Skjor was dying.

“Careful, careful,” Kodlak instructed as Companions appeared to get Skjor below. Once they saw him safely carried to the living quarters, he wheeled to face Aela.

“What were you thinking?” It was the closest Kodlak had come to yelling.

“It needed to be done!” Aela snapped. 

“It needed to be done?”Kodlak asked incredulously. “You needed to sway this whelp to take the beast blood, likely without her full knowledge of what that meant? You needed to release her through Whiterun, killing innocents and harming many more? You needed to take her to Gallows Rock, to wipe out an entire fortress when you knew she would be in a weakened state? You needed to allow Skjor to go on ahead, alone?” There was vitriol in the old man’s voice.

Aela darkened and crossed her arms. “Skjor is a capable warrior and made that decision for himself.”

“Yes, and it is he that we must bring back from the brink of death. Go. Fetch Danica from the Temple. We will need her talents.”

Aela furrowed her brow but obeyed, storming out into the night. Kodlak turned to Kjolti. 

“You are in need of healing as well, I see.”

Kjolti nodded and swayed.

Kodlak sighed. “I cannot say I am pleased that you have taken the beast blood. You are young, and young to the Companions at that. But, your actions have more than proved your worthiness among the Inner Circle, and I would not remove you from our number. I just hope you know what you have done, and to what you have committed yourself.”

Kjolti mumbled and began to wobble from her own wounds and loss of blood. Farkas caught her arm and steadied her.

“See to her wounds, Farkas. I am needed elsewhere.”

Farkas nodded and helped a wavering Kjolti down below. She was limping, and clutching one arm. 

“What happened?” He asked in a whisper.

Kjolti inhaled shakily. “We were outnumbered,” she croaked. “Foolish, foolish plan. But Farkas, the power. It was too sweet. I couldn’t stop myself. Do you know what it’s like?”

He nodded, knowing all too well. “You’re a werewolf now.”

“I am.” Kjolti sounded distant, but whether that was from her injuries or her newfound lycanthropy, Farkas couldn’t say. “I’ve never felt anything like that. I don’t think there is anything like that, you know? There was this…this hunger. A drive I’ve never known. It’s incredible. And terrifying. Does that feeling ever change?”

Farkas considered for a moment. “No, not really. The first time is always the strongest, but the hunger is always there. I feel it constantly.” They had arrived at Kjolti’s quarters. “Let me help you with your wounds.”

Kjolti opened her mouth to refuse, but reconsidered. “Fine.”

He sat her down on her bed and finally assessed her wounds. Her armor was rent open at her hip, the blood surrounding making it impossible to see how bad it was. The wound on her arm was long, but looked shallow. 

Farkas shifted. “Um. Uh. We’ll need to remove your armor.”

Kjolti, thankfully, was too weak to notice his discomfort. “Yeah, okay.” She began to reach for the clasps and laces securing her armor, but winced and shook from the pain it caused.

“Here, let me help,” Farkas found the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He reached and undid the fastenings that held her armor in place, and pulled the steel plates from her body. Kjolti gingerly bent and removed her steel boots.

Okay, this is fine. I can handle this. He distracted himself from the thin homespun jerkin she wore underneath her armor.

Oh Divines. Her mail greaves. They needed to be removed before he could properly clean the wound on her hip.

Fortunately, Kjolti was a step ahead of him, and though grimacing, was beginning to slide the chain mail off her hips. But her blood had dried, partially fusing the metal to her wound. She cried out. 

“Shh, shh, here,” Farkas grabbed a flask from the nearest shelf and handed it to her. “Drink.”

She obeyed. Trying his best to keep his gaze down, Farkas finished sliding the greaves off Kjolti’s legs. The sight of her bare legs made his ears turn red. Kjolti had cotton small clothes to keep her modesty, thank the divines.

Kjolti giggled. “Farkas, you aren’t shy, are you?”

He blushed, but the dim lighting hid it. “No,” he grumbled. Yes, he thought. He stood abruptly. “I need some clean cloth, to dress you. Your wound!” He quickly left.

Coward. You pathetic, shy, coward.

Farkas found the shelf where Tilma kept their medical supplies. He reached for a ball of tightly wound cotton. 

She’s a werewolf now. Just like you. The thought made his heart leap.

***

Aerisif stirred as tender fingers ran through her hair. She moaned gently, feeling the ache of her body wake up too. She hesitantly opened her eyes.

“Bryn?”

Her favorite smile in the world grinned back at her. “I’m here, lass.”

She groaned again. “What the hell did I do?”

He chuckled softly. “You made quite the display, lass.”

“Divines. What did I do, Brynjolf? I don’t remember.”

“Well. For starts, you pulled off a brilliant heist in Whiterun. That bastard Belethor is in for a rough time.”

“Okay, I remember that.” She nudged her head towards Brynjolf’s gentle touch. “Then what?”

“You insisted we celebrate. And who was I to argue with both my lass and my Guild Master? So…we celebrated.”

“How?”

“By stealing an entire keg of mead and draining it while we took a carriage from Whiterun back to Riften.”

Aerisif moaned again and closed her eyes. “That explains it.”

“That’s not all, lass.”

She opened one eye to peer up at Brynjolf. His trademark smirk graced his face. “It’s not?”

“Nope. Upon our arrival to Riften, you marched right over to the Meadery and bought another keg.”

“Divines. That’s why I feel like death.”

“Still not all, lass.”

Aerisif perched her head up on one arm, distraught. “It’s not??”

“Nope. We brought the barrel down to the Flagon, to the delight of our fellow Guild members, and shared it. But you were in fine form, and insisted on challenging anyone who would take you up on it to a duel.”

“A DUEL?”

“Aye lass, a duel.” He was still smirking. 

“Bryn?”

“Aer?”

“Who did I duel?”

He sucked in his breath. “You engaged in unarmed combat with Dirge.”

A defeated moan flew from Aerisif. “Dirge. Great. I picked a fight with our biggest heavy. Well, did I at least win?”

“Delvin and I intercepted before a winner could be declared. Both of you were getting a little too batted around for our liking.”

“Gods. I am a natural disaster masquerading as a person.”

Brynjolf leaned in close and planted a gentle kiss on her temple. “You are a force of nature, Aerisif.”

Aerisif smiled and looked up at Brynjolf. His gleaming emerald eyes were filled with love. 

“Bryn?”

“Aer?”

“I love you.”

But Brynjolf didn’t say anything. Instead, he was fading away.

“Bryn?”

She almost couldn’t see him now.

“Brynjolf!”

Aerisif woke up as she called out Brynjolf’s name. She looked around, startled in her unfamiliar surroundings.

Then everything came into focus. She was in her room in Jorrvaskr. The pounding aches she felt came from her arm and hip, from the injuries she sustained at Gallow’s Rock. She was alone.

Aerisif looked down at her hip again. It was cleanly dressed in linen, as was her arm. Someone had cared for her wounds. She smiled sadly. Not totally alone.

Chapter Text

Brynjolf pulled his fur cloak tighter around him. Windhelm always chilled him to the bone. He was thankful that he wasn’t here on Guild business, as his leathers didn’t do as much to keep the cold out as furs did. He paused at the large fire outside of Candlehearth Hall to warm himself. Hovering his hands over the flame, Brynjolf looked up at the ever-looming Palace of Kings.

There were about five ways into the keep that Brynjolf knew of that were seldom or never patrolled by the guards, but he wouldn’t be using them today. He wasn’t here on Guild business. Not official business, anyway. 

Trudging onward, Brynjolf kept from making eye contact with any of the citizens milling the streets. Only a few would know him by name, and less that would be foolish enough to greet him publicly in the streets like this. Guild contacts were more discreet than that. But still, one could never be too careful. Particularly when identity was involved.

Cautious as he was about protecting his identity, Brynjolf wore no cowl, no disguise. He wore his typical blue robes, covered by a thick bear pelt. For the first time in recent memory, there was not a lockpick to be found upon his person. He wore only the simple sword at his hip, not his traditional Nightingale Blade. The gold in his coin purse was honestly gained, or at least, not stolen from Eastmarch. 

There was nothing about his appearance that would suggest he was a thief. He wasn’t here on Guild business. Not officially. 

As he entered the courtyard, Brynjolf craned his neck at the colossal doors to the Palace. Don’t think I’ve ever walked right in the front doors like this, he mused. The guards at the doors eyed him suspiciously but did not bar his entry. With a hefty shove, Brynjolf heaved one of the doors open. 

Inside the hall it was warm and dark. It took Brynjolf’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the lighting. He found himself at the end of a very long hall, filled with a very long table. At the far end of it he could make out a raised dais and a throne.

Hushed whispers drifted across the hall, and Brynjolf’s rogue instincts couldn’t help but catch whispers of the war. He was sure that if he tucked into one of those archways he could disappear and learn all sorts of things he shouldn’t. But that wasn’t why he was here.

As he approached the grand throne, a thick man wearing a bear’s head for a hat blocked his way.

“Who approaches the Jarl?” A gruff voice barked.

Brynjolf cleared his throat. “A concerned citizen of Skyrim,”

The man eyed him carefully. “On what business?”

“Helgen.”

The man opened his mouth to turn Brynjolf away, when a deep voice from the dais spoke. “Let him approach, Galmar. What kind of leader would I be to reject those seeking my counsel? I grant the bold stranger audience.”

Galmar stepped aside.

Brynjolf proceeded toward the throne. The Jarl sat lazily in the throne, slouching leisurely. Not the posture I expected of the would-be High King, Brynjolf mused. A few paces away, Brynjolf respectfully took a knee, as he knew was expected of him. 

“Jarl Ulfric, thank you for granting me audience,” Brynjolf began.

“Rise, citizen. Let us speak as true Nords.” Ulfric inspected him closely. “You are not a citizen of Eastmarch, are you?”

“I see you know your people well, Jarl. No, I am not.”

“Where are you from? Who are you, and what brings you to my hall?”

“Jaffir of Ivarstead, Jarl. I come to ask you about Helgen,” Brynjolf began. 

Ulfric looked bored. “I have told that tale many a time, it is well known by now. If you come seeking stories of dragons—“

“I come seeking answers,” Brynjolf cut in brashly. Ulfric looked surprised but let Brynjolf continue. “A woman was in the cart with you. I’m seeking information on her whereabouts.”

His eyes sparked with recognition. “I remember you,” Ulfric studied him. “We saw the Imperials kill you.”

“Aye. They tried their best, but Sovngarde won’t have me yet.” Brynjolf felt the still tender wound on his abdomen throb.

Ulfric chuckled. “Spoken like a true Nord.”

“Please, Jarl, do you know what became of the woman?”

Suspicion leered down from the throne. “Why do you seek her?”

“She’s—she’s dear to me,” Brynjolf choked. Against his wishes he knew his face was portraying his emotion.

Ulfric nodded slowly. “Another tragedy of this cursed war. Pitting kinsmen against each other, families rent apart.”

“Please.” Brynjolf was pleading. “Do you know if she survived? I have coin, I’m a skilled man, I’ll do anything, I just need my lass back.”

Ulfric waited for Brynjolf to compose himself. “I’m sorry kinsman. I know not if she survived. I barely escaped myself. Talos willing, she did. I’ve heard rumors that Tullius managed to escape as well. But I saw no survivors other than myself and one of my men.”

Brynjolf only nodded and looked at the ground. 

A gravelly voice spoke up. “How can the Imperials not see what they are doing to Skyrim? To her people?”

“They care naught for the damage they cause, I fear, only for fulfilling the wishes of the cursed Thalmor who hold them by the throat. But they have underestimated us. We will not be controlled by those who know nothing of our ways, our customs. Who care nothing for the land and her people. Who would tear families apart,” Ulfric gestured at Brynjolf. “But we will put an end to that, Galmar. We will see Skyrim free, and her people united once more. Would you join our cause?”

Brynjolf raised his eyebrows. He had not expected this when he planned his visit to the Palace of Kings. “I’m sorry?”

“You say you are a skilled man. I believe you know how to wield that sword at your hip, and wield it well. Would you take up arms for your kin, for your love, for your land?” Ulfric had risen from his throne.

Brynjolf considered him a moment. The Jarl made an imposing force, that much was undeniable. And he knew how to wield words as well as he could wield a weapon. 

He looked Ulfric in the eyes. “No.”

Both Ulfric and Galmar were surprised. “No?”

Brynjolf shook his head. “This is not our war,” he quoted Aerisif. Then he turned and left.

He needed to get to Solitude. There was a General he needed to question.

Chapter Text

Kjolti strode down the winding path that led away from the Whiterun gate. The cool evening Second Seed air swirled around her, rushing in from the plains. She quickened her pace. It was important that she get to the trading camp before the caravan left.

As anticipated, the Khajit trading caravan had set up near the stables. Kjolti could still remember their trading routes, even though she had not had contact with the merchants in months. She straightened her helm. Ri’Saad may not have seen her in months, but he was sharp and would recognize her face. 

Kjolti approached the Khajit beginning to pack up his wares in front of the tents.

“Ah, welcome traveller. Perhaps this one has something you need?”

“I’m looking for Ambrosia.” Kjolti spoke in a lower tone that she normally did.

Ri’Saad purred. “Ambrosia? Come now, you must know that the flower is very rare. Very difficult for this one to come by.”

Kjolti knew what game the trader was playing and was well prepared for it. “Oh? I thought that a skilled merchant as yourself would be quite capable of obtaining it.”

“Ah, this one did not say that he did not have it. But it comes at quite the price. Three hundred gold.”

Kjolti smirked inside her helm. “Two hundred.”

“The warrior knows the flower comes only from a specific forest in the Reach, yes? Two hundred and seventy-five.”

“And the merchant knows I could go and get it myself, and not buy from him at all, no? Two hundred and twenty-five.” 

The Khajit appraised her. “Two hundred and sixty, and that is my final offer.”

“Two hundred and thirty.”

“Two hundred and fifty-five.”

Kjolti crossed her arms. She had the coin for it, but that was higher that she had hoped to pay. But the fact was she could not take the time to go to the Reach and get it herself. She needed it now. 

“Sold.”

“A pleasure doing business with you.” Ri’Saad began unlocking a series of locks on his trunk, and pulled out a carefully wrapped burlap bundle. “You bargain well, warrior. Have we met before?”

Kjolti counted out the coin she owed and handed it to the merchant. “No.” Taking the parcel, she turned and walked back toward Whiterun.

Returning to Jorrvaskr, Kjolti removed her helm and hurried to the small room where Aela was waiting.

“I have it,” Kjolti held up the bundle.

Aela hardly looked up from where Skjor was laying. “Hmm?”

Kjolti unwrapped the flowers. “The ambrosia. To cleanse, and fortify.”

Aela stroked Skjor’s hair. The warrior was sleeping soundly, despite the hour. Kjolti found the miniature brazier she had convinced Eorland to fashion out of scraps. Kneeling on the floor, she separated out a single flower bud from the bunch. Even dried, the petals were fragrant. She placed the delicate bud in the brazier and dug out her flint.

“I wish I could remember the words,” she cursed under her breath.

“What’s that?” Aela asked.

“Whenever my mother did this, there was words she would speak. A prayer, or an incantation of sorts. But I don’t remember them.” In a couple of strikes Kjolti had formed a spark and lit the end of the flower. She let it catch for a second, and then blew it out so it would smolder for hours. “But I do remember this smell,” she said as she inhaled deeply.

The smoke smelled golden and warm. It instantly took Kjolti back to her childhood in the Reach. Back when she was a girl named Aerisif, who was going to be a farmer. She shook the fog from her mind and returned to the present.

“Light this for a few hours every night, and you’ll find he’ll regain his strength even sooner.” Kjolti rose to leave.

“How do you know?” Aela turned to look at her, worry still living in her eyes. “I’ve never even heard of this flower.”

“It only grows in the Reach,” Kjolti explained. “My parents, they knew the land better than anyone. My father could have been an alchemist, my mother always said, but he loved the land too much. He wanted to cultivate it.” Despite her will, Kjolti was getting caught up in a misty memory of her family. “And my mother knew everything and anything that grew out there by at least two different names and could tell you all of its properties.” She laughed, for allowing herself for getting sentimental. At least she knew she could trust Aela. “And here I am, only good at swinging a sword.”

“Your parents would be proud of you,” Aela said sternly. 

No they wouldn’t, I’m a thief, Kjolti thought. She stunned herself for a moment. No. Not anymore. Now I’m a Companion. Now I’m Dragonborn. She felt her throat constrict again at the thought of her destiny. Hot tears began to well in her eyes.

“I should go.” She wheeled and marched out the door. 

Kjolti could feel her pulse rising. The mantle of Dragonborn was so overwhelming, it was suffocating her. She knew she had to go and talk to the Greybeards, but she couldn’t do it yet. She wasn’t worthy. 

The all too familiar feeling of her inner beast awakening was rising in her chest. She didn’t want to deny it. Even in human form, she found she had some wolf-like senses, like enhanced smell. A couple of sniffs told her where to find Farkas. 

Her Shield-Brother was in the training yard, practicing diligently with his greatsword. Even though the heat of the day had passed, he had collected a sheen of sweat on his bare chest. Muscles ripped as he swung and blocked invisible foes.

“Farkas,” Kjolti called softly.

He instantly looked up at the sound.

“To the plains?” Kjolti pleaded. She needed to escape. 

Wordlessly, Farkas placed his training blade on the rack and took off running with Kjolti. The pair bolted through the city with urgency, both feeling the beast within fight for control. The guard gates were startled at their mad rush, but didn’t dare deny exit to two charging Companions. 

Kjolti leapt over the stone wall and hopped her way down from boulder to boulder, Farkas right behind. They made it to a dirt outcropping before they could no longer deny the wolf blood. 

***

The familiar agony of bones snapping and growing filled Kjolti. She reveled in the sensation of her mouth filling with vicious teeth and of razor sharp claws protruding from her finger tips. Midnight black fur appeared and covered her skin. 

Her transformation complete, Kjolti tipped her head back and let loose a wild howl. Farkas, also having completed his transformation, joined her. They heard their cry echo across the plains. Their plains.

They took off bounding, now unchained in their power. What would have taken several paces as humans they overtook in a single leap in their beast form. Deep trenches were cut into the dirt where their claws gripped the earth. Farkas and Kjolti surged across the Whiterun plains. 

A scent hit their noses. They stopped, sniffed the air for more information. 

Sabre cats. Sniff. Not a league away. Sniff. One, no, two of them.

Farkas and Kjolti took off in a new direction. The werewolves found the sabre cats quickly. 

The four predators leapt at one another with raging snarls and fearsome claws. Powerful jaws snapped and roared. Kjolti swiped hard at the beast before her, feeling her claws tear through the animal’s flesh. The satisfying coppery taste of blood filled her maw. Farkas howled in victory beside her. Kjolti joined in. Their prowess was undeniable. 

But her power was starting to wane. Kjolti knew what was happening, and so did Farkas. Mauling animals did not prolong their blood like mauling man or mer did. It was time. 

They feared no attack, as no hunter or predator would dare approach the place their howls had originated from. Kjolti fell to all fours, feeling her claws and teeth retreat and her human form take over. And soon, it was all dark. 

***

Farkas rolled his neck as he felt his consciousness return to him. He sat slumped against a rock, sweat covered and short of breath. The cold night winds of the plains chilled him. The post transformation euphoria washed over him, and he basked in it. 

Why would anyone reject this power? He wondered. He looked over to where Kjolti sat, in a similar dazed state. She had a lazy smile on her face. That, combined with her silver moons of eyes, sent stronger chills down Farkas’s spine than the transformation could ever provide.

“Thank you,” she breathed, still catching her breath.

Farkas nodded, unable to find the right words.

Chapter Text

Kjolti stumbled out of her quarters. Her mouth felt dry and her tongue thick. Head pounding, she slowly made her way toward the hall. This condition was the usual result after a night of revelry with the Companions. 

What the fuck did I drink? She wondered, rubbing her temples. On some level, Kjolti knew that it wasn’t what, that was the problem, so much as how much, but she did not want to admit that to herself. She had started drinking fairly heavily since her induction, and she didn’t care to stop.

Upon turning the corner, she squinted at an unfamiliar figure moving about. Kjolti blinked. A woman came into focus, a pretty young thing wearing rather impractical clothing.

“Who the fuck are you?” Kjolti grumbled. 

Some combination of Kjolti’s tone, and likely her disheveled appearance, frightened the woman, because she startled at the rough question. She released a high pitched yelp of surprise that made Kjolti wince, and scurried off toward the stairs even faster.

“What the—“ Kjolti leaned against the wall, trying to figure out where the woman had come from.

Oh, of course. Naturally. Vilkas’s door was slightly ajar, and loud snores could be heard from within. Kjolti rolled her eyes and continued onto her goal: breakfast. 

The daylight streaming in through the halls windows made Kjolti blink. She sank down onto an empty bench and hungrily attacked the loaf of bread before her. 

Bread, she cooed in her head. Bread seemed about a hundred times better when she was hungover. Tilma was passing by with a tray full of tankards and Kjolti grabbed one without caring what was inside. A sip confirmed it was a nutty ale. A little hair of the dog—wolf, she mused to herself with a bleak smile. Her stomach rolled at first but quickly accepted the food and drink.

Kjolti then became aware of the others in the hall, all in similar states as she. Athis and Ria were sitting a little while down, Ria looking rather sickly. Torvar was still face first into a pie, where he had obviously crashed last night. Farkas sat slumped against a empty barrel of mead.

Kjolti then became aware that she was being watched, just as she was doing the watching. She caught Kodlak and Skjor sitting in the corner, chuckling deep together. Grinning, she stood and made her way over to them on wobbly legs. 

“Enjoying the scene?” She asked as she planted herself on the bench next to them.

“Oh, very much,” Skjor chuckled. “It brings two old men life to watch the young drink up—quite literally—their youth.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kodlak said with his nose in the air. “It was certainly just yesterday that we were waking up in our own puddles of mead.” They all laughed at that. 

“Kodlak, do you want me dead? You’ll split my wounds open!” Skjor grinned.

Kjolti grinned too. She was beginning to feel something that she didn’t think she could anymore. Family.

“You know, you fit in here quite well, Kjolti.” Skor’s voice was soft and warm.

She looked up, startled. “Thank you Skor…that…that means a lot to me.”

“It seems I owe you a great deal. I have heard that you were instrumental in keeping me alive, after the raid on the Silverhand.”

Kjolti shrugged sheepishly. “I did what any one of us would do, Skjor. Never leave a Companion behind, right?”

“I was on the death’s door once again, and yet again, saved by a member of your family. You have brought honor to your family and this hall.”

Kodlak nodded in agreement. “You have done the Companions proud, girl. Your father would have been proud as well.”

Kjolti felt tears welling in her eyes, but refused to let them fall. This is my family now.

***

Farkas blinked awake, heading pounding and vision blurry. He groaned as he felt the crick in his spine from sleeping leaning against the mead barrel all night. With a loud snap he righted his back.

Taking account of the rest of his body, Farkas found he was aching all over. More mead, he thought. That’ll help. But as he began to rise, he froze as his eyes landed on a beautiful sight. 

Kjolti sat across Jorrvaskr, laughing heartily with Skjor and Kodlak. Farkas softened. Her smile, her bright silver eyes. They always made him pause. He sat back down heavily and sighed. 

And she has no idea how I feel. The very thought of telling Kjolti how he felt paralyzed Farkas. He, a member of the Inner Circle of The Companions, direct descendants of Ysgramor’s Five Hundred, a fearsome werewolf in his own right, was terrified at the very idea of telling the woman he was obsessing over how he felt about her.

Coward, he berated himself. He rubbed his face in his hands, peeking through his fingers at Kjolti again.

She looked well. It wasn’t long ago that she and Aela returned with Skjor on their  shields, all three covered in blood. It had been nearly six moons since that night. He knew then how he felt. He knew it much longer ago than that. And yet here he was, still watching Kjolti from a distance. 

But not so distant anymore, he thought with an inner smile. Now that Kjolti was a werewolf too, they had become closer. They transformed and hunted together, and often. Maybe too often. There are risks. But the risks disappeared in his mind as Kjolti saw he was awake and started to carry a loaf of bread over to him. 

***

Solitude always impressed Brynjolf. As he strolled through the gates, he took in the city. It certainly was closest thing to a metropolis in Skyrim. He took a deep breath in of crisp mountain air.

When I find Aerisif, maybe we’ll retire here. The thought was nice: the pair of them dressed in fine robes, strolling around the market, attending festivals at the Bard’s College.

But a tiny seed of doubt was growing in the pit of his stomach.

Brynjolf walked past The Winking Skeever just as an Argonian emerged. Golum-Ei lifted his head. They locked eyes for a moment. Brynjolf gave him a warning look. Not today. You don’t know me today.

Golum-Ei seem to understand. He quickly looked away and carried on with his business, as if the redhead was just another stranger in the city. Brynjolf released a breath and continued forward. Dressed as he was in his standard blue robes, Brynjolf looked like just another stranger. As was his intention.

Brynjolf veered off towards the stairs that lead to Castle Dour. 

“I’ve got a little work if you’re interested, traveller,” a voice called out from the shadows.

Brynjolf knew enough about voices that call out from the shadows and the kind of offers they made. He didn’t even look in its direction as he continued toward the stairs.

“Everyone’s got to work,” mumbled the shadows.

Aye, but I’m not here on business. Maybe if Brynjolf was here on Guild business, he would see what the Argonian was about, see if the Guild could use him. But not today. Today, he had a mission. He continued up the stairs and through the stone archway. Brynjolf pointedly did not make eye contact with the guard flanking the door to Castle Dour. Easier to stay unnoticed when you don’t make eye contact.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the castle interior. Brynjolf immediately picked up on an agitated conversation from the room ahead.

“You people and your damm Jarls.” The speaker was frustrated. Brynjolf edged closer, and inferred that it was General Tullius himself.

“Sir?” A legate standing nearby measured her words carefully. “You can’t force a Nord to accept help he hasn’t asked for.”

“If Ulfric’s making a move on Whiterun, then we need to be there to stop him. Draft another letter with the usual platitudes, but this time share some of your intelligence regarding Ulfric’s plans. Embellish if you have to. We’ll let it seem like its his idea.”

“Yes, Sir.” Brynjolf could see the legate’s face now. He recognized the expression. It was one he had worn many times when receiving orders from Mercer.

Tullius shook his head. “You Nords and your bloody sense of honor.” He began to walk away from the large table when he saw Brynjolf in the doorway. “Are my men now giving free reign to anyone who wanders into the castle? Do you have some reason to be here, citizen?”

Brynjolf straightened. “Aye, I do. I’m here about Helgen.”

Tullius rolled his head in annoyance. “If you think you can waltz in here to be entertained with stories of dragons like I’m some damn Moon-Singer, you are sorely mistaken. I have a war to win.”

Brynjolf held up a hand. “Please. I don’t need more than a moment of your time. I’m not here about the dragon.”

Tullius raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?”

“No. One of the prisoners. A woman. Black hair, silver eyes. Did she escape?”

The general crossed his arms. “Are you asking me for confidential information on an Imperial prisoner?”

Brynjolf crossed his arms and stood tall. “Aye, I suppose I am. Did she escape?”

Tullius gave Brynjolf a measuring look. “Why should I tell you anything? I don’t know who you are, why you’re here, or who sent you.”

“I’m Gormund, of Dragon Bridge, I’m here about the prisoner with black hair and silver eyes, and I sent myself. The sooner you answer my question, the sooner I’ll leave. Did she escape?”

Tullius considered for a moment, then relaxed his expression. “I’m not going to waste either of our time. There’s no point. I don’t know your prisoner, or if she escaped. She wasn’t on our lists, it seems my men threw her in the wagon anyway. Something about a disturbance at the camp. She made it to the block, but that’s when the dragon attacked. We didn’t kill her, but I can’t say the dragon didn’t. That’s all I know.”

Brynjolf’s eyes held fire as he listened to Tullius’s account, but he maintained his stony expression otherwise. “Thank you for your time.” He turned and left. Brynjolf’s gaze was unfocused. Passersby looked at him curiously, but wisely did not approach him.

He made it all the way outside of the city gates before he unleashed a near-feral shout of frustration, anger, and grief. 

Chapter Text

Kjolti clenched her jaw as she saddled her horse. This has got to be a cruel joke, she thought bitterly. Kodlak is having some fun at my expense. Kjolti tightened the last strap and straightened. 

Vilkas finished tacking his horse beside her. “Are you ready to leave, partner?” he grinned.

Kjolti only grunted and mounted her own steed. Vilkas shrugged as he climbed on his horse. “I stand by my earlier assessment that we only needed one horse,” he winked. “Still time for you to change your mind?”

Kjolti sneered. “Besides the obvious that one horse does not have the stamina to carry us, both decked in heavy armor as we are, I would literally rather die than be that close to you.”

Vilkas scoffed. “Such ice, Shield-Sister!” But his lecherous grin soon returned. “And I’ve got plenty of stamina for the two of us.”

With cold disdain in her eyes, Kjolti pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it on her string. She didn’t draw, but it was aimed suspiciously at Vilkas.

“What’s that for?”

She held eye contact. “Trolls,” she said unflinchingly, and nudged her horse onward.

When Kodlak had issued her the job in Dawnstar, Kjolti had gladly accepted. It was only after she had agreed that Kodlak had informed her that she would be partnering with another Companion for the job. Vilkas, to be specific.

She had thought about refusing the job. Quitting. But Kodlak had shown her such kindness, such warmth, since her arrival. Refuting him would have felt cruel and ungrateful.

But did it have to be with Villkas? The one Companion I can’t stand?

Okay, that’s not entirely true. Torvar is a drunk, and Ria is kind of a bitch.  

Kjolti knew both of those flaws were only masking pain and insecurities, and could understand that. But Vilkas. She grit her teeth. Vilkas was exactly what he presented. He was cocky, arrogant, and had a mind for one thing and one thing only: bedding women.

What a waste, she mused. It was unfair that Vilkas was actually as skilled as he boasted. Maybe I should be grateful, she grumbled internally, that they thought me talented enough to be paired with one of Vilkas’s skill. She scrunched up her face as she pondered that. No, nope. Don’t care. Would rather they think me inept. 

The horses swayed in their gait as they trudged northward. Kjolti kept her bow in hand, arrow still on the string. Her eyes swept all around, looking for bandit traps or beasts looking for prey. And flinching, her eyes lifted skyward, terrified for the monsters that roamed the heavens.

As they neared the Lorius farm Kjolti looked over at Vilkas and was shocked. “What in Shor’s name are you doing?”

He looked up from the book he held. “It’s called reading. Kjolti, have you never seen a book before?”

Somewhere deep within her, the jest made her ache for an older time, a different life of hers. She pushed it down. “Why are you reading? We’re on a job, and in the wilderness besides that! Don’t you think you should be on guard?”

Vilkas flashed a grin. “Why? We’re barely out of Whiterun! The worst we could encounter is a pack of wolves or some half-witted bandits. Beginner’s prey.” He returned to his book. 

Kjolti wouldn’t let it go. “I’ve never seen you read a book before.”

He looked up again. “No? Huh. I read quite often.” He showed her the cover. “Have you read this one?”

It was The Amulet of Kings. “I have, actually,” Kjolti replied hesitantly. “Do…do you like history?”

Vilkas actually paused and considered the question. “It is not my favorite subject to read, but I believe it is imperative to know what our ancestors were concerned about and faced.”

Maybe this won’t be such a bad trip after all, Kjolti mused.

***

It HAD to be with Vilkas, Farkas commiserated. He took another long draught of ale. Farkas didn’t often wish he was his twin, but today, he gladly would have traded boots with his brother. He couldn’t suppress his worries, no matter how much ale he drank. He knew his brother and his rather charismatic talents. Farkas knew what his brother was about.

Farkas sighed deep into his now empty tankard. If you would just TELL her how you feel, dung-brain, maybe you wouldn’t be in this mess. He laughed cruelly at himself. Like he would actually tell Kjolti that he was in love with her.

He was still surprised at himself. That he would ever find himself in this state. Farkas wasn’t a stranger to women, or intimacy, but there was just something about Kjolti. She was unlike any woman he had ever encountered before. Her tenacity, her drive, her stubbornness— they made a hefty cocktail. And then when you considered her raven hair and silver-moon eyes? Farkas was reduced to a puddle. 

His one consolation was that he knew that Kjolti despised his brother. She made it very clear. His bold advances and borderline lewd language had no effect on Kjolti. But that also intimidated Farkas. If his silver-tongued twin couldn’t soften Kjolti, what made him think that he could? Farkas knew himself. He wasn’t eloquent or charming. He was good at bashing skulls in.

But so is she, a wicked voice piped up.

It was true. Kjolti could match blades with Farkas. She had grown into her role in the Companions, and while she hadn’t done it easily she did it scratching and clawing.

Literally, he smirked. Kjolti’s taking of the beast blood only endeared her to Farkas further. Her werewolf form of thick, black fur was an imposing force. And they would go hunt together. They made excellent hunting partners.

Everything that you are, so is your brother. And he is more, a cynical voice told him.

Farkas poured more ale.

***

“They should send us on a real mission, next time!” Vilkas boasted.

Kjolti rolled her eyes. “What, seven bandits plus their chief wasn’t enough for you?”

Vilkas laughed. “It will take more than that to bring me down.” The horses swayed onward. Vilkas looked over at Kjolti. “You fought with vigor, back there.”

Kjolti glanced over. “Thank you,” she replied hesitantly. It wasn’t like Vilkas to give her a skill-based compliment.

“I mean it. That is what the Companions are about. You,” he paused. “You have made a fine addition to the Inner Circle, Kjolti.”

Kjolti was taken aback by the earnestness of his remark. “Thank you, Vilkas.” Bemused, she allowed a half-smile to form on her expression. 

Dusk began to settle on the northern landscape. Kjolti opened her saddle bag and fished out a loaf of bread. She was about to take a bite into it, then reconsidered. Kjolti tore the loaf in half. “Here,” she called. “Catch.” She tossed the loaf to Vilkas, who caught it easily. He smiled and bit into the bread.

As she chewed, Kjolti pondered this new side of Vilkas. How very unlike him to give a genuine compliment, not at all based on her appearance. Was it a ploy? Or was his chauvinism an act that he puts on when he has an audience? She snuck a sidelong glance at Vilkas, who was engrossed in the loaf of bread. Only time will tell, I suppose. 

“We could make it back tonight, you know,” she offered. “That raid took us no time at all. If you’re not opposed to riding into the night, we could still catch a meal and mead in Jorrvaskr and sleep in our own beds.”

Vilkas smiled. “That sounds like just the thing after a good battle. And besides, I fear not the night.”

Kjolti opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out of her mouth. She heard it. Trembling, she dropped her bread and pulled out her bow.

“What is it?” Vilkas frowned.

The sound came again, tearing into her. Then the beast came into sight.

The earth shook as it thudded into the ground. Screaming, the horses faltered.

“A dragon.” Kjolti whispered. 

Chapter Text

It isn’t fair. Farkas took another drink. It should have been me. 

The sun had long since stopped streaming through Jorrvaskr’s windows, replaced now by the glow of the central fire pit of the mead hall. While the room had filled up with other Companions, Farkas continued to sit alone.

It could have been me. I am just as talented a swordsman. I am just as strong. Just as capable. He drank. Why him, and not me? The image of Kjolti and Vilkas out on a mission together would not leave his mind. Riding together, fighting side by side. Making camp.

Farkas moaned. They would make camp tonight, or stay at an inn. The proximity was too much to bear. It’s not like their rooms here are all that far apart, he reminded himself. The thought didn’t help. 

He could feel it calling. His blood was heating, begging, clawing at him. Farkas shifted, agitated. An eye twitched.

I can’t. I shouldn’t.

His fingertips absently clawed at the wooden table.

The hunger was insatiable. 

Across the room, Aela observed Farkas’s agitation. She looked around. No one else seemed to notice his obvious discomfort. We may be warriors, but our observational skills leave something to be desired. 

Farkas had already been drinking by the time Aela returned to Jorrvaskr. The man held his alcohol so well it was impossible to tell how long he had been in his cups, or how drunk he actually was. But Aela had a hunch that it was more than he ought to have had.

Aela could see Farkas twitch from across the hall. Again, she was surprised that no one else noticed. Farkas nearly jumped out of his chair. Aela looked closer. Yes, she knew that look in his eye. Knew it well. When Farkas leapt to the door, Aela didn’t have to use her nose to know what was about to happen. Farkas was changing. She quickly got up to follow him.

His heavy footsteps were easy to track through Whiterun. Aela followed from a safe distance. Farkas threw open the large city gates and Aela charged through after him. He raced down the path to the plains and leapt the final wall. Aela jumped after him.

She lost him briefly in the darkness, but soon heard an anguished cry, half human and half wolf. This is not good.

***

“Take cover!” Kjolti shouted as she shoved her helm on. Vilkas rolled behind a boulder as a blast of fire spiraled where he had been just moments before. The dragon spread its massive wings and took to the skies once again. 

“Use your bow!” Kjolti called, already notching another arrow. “We have to get it to land again!”

Vilkas nodded, pale as he was, and obeyed. They sent up arrow after arrow to the beast, with only a few striking the airborne target. The dragon roared and sent another torrent of fire down upon them. Kjolti was able to sidestep the blast.

The dragon began to lower itself to the ground again. 

“Loose! Now!” Kjolti barked. In its descent, the dragon was easier to hit. Between the two of them, they managed to lodge several arrows into its thick hide. But the landing of the beast shook the ground once more and they lost their window to use their bows. 

“Blades!” Kjolti ordered. She switched her weapon as fast as she could. Ignoring the pit in her stomach, she charged at the dragon from the side. She swung wildly at its flank, trying to do as much damage as possible before it took flight again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vilkas charge forward as well. The dragon began to turn.

“Vilkas! Away from its maw!” 

The dragon began to open its jaw.

Vilkas sidestepped the column of flame just in time. 

Frustrated, the dragon launched itself into the air again.

“Always stay away from its head,” Kjolti shouted. “No matter what!”

Vilkas looked at her strangely. Kjolti ignored it for the moment. Not now. I can’t do this now. 

She pulled her bow once again and began loosing arrow after arrow into the heavens. It was dark now, and hard to see the dragon. When its shadowy figure cut in front of the moons, she loosed arrows as rapidly as she could. 

It was long before the dragon thudded down again in front of her. The moonlight illuminated her foe: jagged grey scales, vicious teeth, and cruel eyes stared back at her. But the light betrayed the dragon. Kjolti could see that it was weak, could see the blood loss in its eyes and painted on its hide. She knew what she had to do.

She had to ignore her own advice.

“Vilkas, stay on the bow and cover me from there!” She commanded. Vilkas continued to send arrows toward the beast.

Kjolti gathered what was left of her courage. She took a deep breath in, and charged toward the beast staring back at her.

“Kjolti, what are you doing?!” Vilkas shouted.

“Keep loosing arrows!” She called back.

Blade raised, Kjolti bore down on the beast. She struck, then stepped back as it snapped its mighty jaws at her. She swung again, and the dragon screamed. Arrows continued to pierce its hide.

Just one more.

The dragon began to open its maw.

Kjolti braced herself. She felt the power surging in her veins, like it had after she slew the dragon at the watchtower. That strange word was forming in her throat, the power of it overwhelming, until it boiled over into a shout.

“Fus!”

The flames stopped before they even began as the dragon was pushed back a pace, startled.

Go, go, go, now is your chance! Kjolti summoned her strength and drove her blade into the beast.

The dragon released an anguished cry, recoiled, and then fell still.  

Kjolti fell to her knees, kneeling in front of the dead beast, peeling her helmet off as she gasped for breath. She could hear Vilkas approaching, calling out to her. No, she pleaded. Stay back, you don’t need to see this—

But it was too late. The dragon’s corpse began to ignite. Scales turned to ash and floated heavenward. 

“Shor’s Bones,” Vilkas gasped.

Then it became visible. The soul, swirling and whirling, lifted itself from the bones that had housed it. The energies gleamed like the stars in the darkness, the orange and purple hues gleaming even brighter. They rushed toward her, filling Kjolti till she was overwhelmed. Unaccustomed to the feeling, Kjolti grimaced as she felt the dragon’s soul become a part of her. 

And then there was silence. 

“Kjolti?” Vilkas whispered, his voice filled with awe.

“Vilkas, I—“ She faltered for the words.

“Kjolti, you’re—“ he swallowed. “The Dragonborn.” He said the word like a prayer.

Kjolti opened her eyes to look at him. “I am.”

***

Aela tore across the plains after Farkas. He let out another pained howl as he raced away from the city. While Aela was fast, she could not keep up with Farkas in his beast form. His periodic howls helped her to track him.

The last two outbursts were in nearly the same location. She ran toward the spot, and could see Farkas’s terrible silhouette in the moonlight. She charged after him. His form was not the only one. Aela could make out a small group of bandits, who had no idea what they were truly up against.

Farkas swiped one away easily and lunged at a second. He snarled viscously as one landed a strike on him. 

Aela was fast approaching. Not caring for stealth any more, she charged noisily across the plains. 

Another bandit lay motionless after meeting one of Farkas’s massive claws. Now within range, Aela whipped out her bow and began to take aim. She landed an arrow in the head of one that began to charge Farkas from behind. He staggered to his knees, and dropped to the ground at her second arrow.

Farkas was encircled in foes. Aela picked them off from a distance, weakening their attack. Farkas seemed to take no notice of her aid. 

Two more fell from Farkas’s mighty jaws, and a third from a well placed arrow. One remained, courageous in his ego. Farkas released a bone chilling growl and dove into him with his razor teeth. Aela lowered her bow.

Farkas mauled the bandit, who screamed in terror as his life ended. But Farkas didn’t stop. He kept at the man, well after his life had extinguished, well after it would have provided him further strength.

Farkas, no, Aela pleaded. She ran towards him.

“Farkas!” She shouted.

He looked up.

“Farkas, its me,” she called softly. “Aela, your friend. I’m here, Farkas, I’m here.”

The werewolf before her heaved. Gasping, Farkas began to resume his human form again. Aela averted her eyes. While she was comfortable seeing her shield-brothers in their beast form, there was always something unsettling about watching the transformation itself.

A moment of silence passed and Aela looked up.

Farkas was curled into a ball beside the body of the man he mauled, clearly distraught.

Aela walked up to Farkas and sat beside him. Tentatively, she placed a hand on his back. He flinched.

“Farkas, what’s going on?” she asked gently. 

Tension hung thick around him. She could tell he was uncomfortable. “Farkas, its okay. Its just me.”

His voice was hesitant. “Sometimes, we come out here. Kjolti and I. To the plains.”

Aela nodded, keeping her hand on his back. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. We come out here to kill. Beasts, man, mer, it doesn’t matter. Whatever there is to kill, we kill it.”

“Why?” Aela tried to keep her concern out of her voice.

He shrugged. “She needs to, sometimes. It keeps whatever haunts her at bay, I think.”

Aela swallowed. “Why do you go too, then?”

Farkas gave no answer but shuddered and dug his face further into his arms.

Aela took a deep breath. “You love her,” she answered her own question.

Farkas made a choked sound and nodded, his wild hair flying.

“Her eyes,” he breathed thickly. “They’re perfect full moons. Hircine himself could not create a more perfect person.”

Aela sighed.

“She’s going to fall for him,” Farkas blurted out. Aela couldn’t see his face but could hear that he was crying. 

“No, Farkas, she’s not,” Aela comforted. “She…she’s closed off. I’ve seen it. You’ve seen it. Whatever ghosts she carries with her are still too fresh.” She took a deep breath. “Kjolti’s not going to fall for anyone, right now. She’s in too much pain. You must know it too.”

Farkas’s breathing was beginning to return to normal. He lifted his head. His face was weary, his expression ragged.

Gently, Aela cupped her hand on his face. “Come on, now,” she murmured. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

Kjolti winced as she slid off her saddle, the contact of the ground making her body ache. 

“Kjolti, I —“

“You promised, Vilkas.” She fixed him with an icy stare. “You promised me.”

“Aye, I know, but we killed a dragon! A dragon, Kjolti! Think of the glory our victory would bring us! The mead that would flow, the songs the bards will write!”

“No, Vilkas! I don’t want any of that.”

They continued on in silence up the path to the Whiterun gates. The guards bowed their heads respectfully at the Companions as they let them in. Whiterun was nearly deserted, with only a spare floating torch illuminating the streets in the hands of a patrol guard.

“But don’t you think the Jarl should at least know?”

Kjolti violently shook her head. “What the Jarl doesn’t know won’t hurt him…”

“I don’t think that quite works in this situation, Kjolti.”

“I said no.”

Vilkas on the steps to the Wind Disctrict. “But The Companions, they’d understand at least! Let me boast of our battle!”

She shook her head. “It’s not about that.” Kjolti nervously looked down. “It’s…I’m not ready.”

Vilkas cocked his head to catch her eye. “You’re not ready?”

He could see her tense. “I’m not ready. For them to know. To be…” She visibly tensed. “To be the Dragonborn.”

Vilkas considered that for a moment. “I suppose I can understand that. It is an honor, but must be a burden equally.”

Kjolti met his eyes again. “You’ll keep my secret?”

“That I will, Dragonborn.” 

Kjolti grimaced. “Please, don’t—“

He raised his hands. “Kjolti, Kjolti. I will keep you secret, Shield-Sister. None shall hear it from my lips.”

Still pale, Kjolti nodded. “Thank you, Vilkas.”

***

Farkas sat on the steps to Jorrvaskr, waiting hopefully for Kjolti and Vilkas to return. He wasn’t sure how long he had been waiting. He knew they may not even return that night. It didn’t matter.

The moon was high in the night sky when he saw two forms ascend the steps to the Wind District. His heart lifted. Farkas knew instantly it was Kjolti and Vilkas, the moonlight reflecting off their wolf armor. He stood and opened his mouth to greet them when he heard them whispering.

At first it was undistinguishable from the whispering leaves of the Gildergreen, but eventually he could make out the words.

“…Kjolti. I will keep your secret, Shield-Sister. None shall hear it from my lips.”

“Thank you, Vilkas.”

Farkas felt his heart sink all the way down to his boots.

The returning Companions made their way up the stairs to Jorrvaskr.

“Ah, brother! How kind of you to greet us!” There was a spark in Vilkas’s eye, and he grinned wide. “Tell me, is there any food left? I’m so hungry I could eat a whole mammoth.”

Farkas grit his teeth for a moment before unclenching his jaw. “Plenty,” he grunted.

“Excellent!” Vilkas headed towards the doors, clearly in fine spirits. “You two coming in?”

“I’ll be in soon,” Kjolti said, her voice thin. “I just need a moment.”

Vilkas shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pushed open the doors to the mead hall.

Kjolti slowly sat down on the steps.

Farkas stood between the doors and Kjolti. He looked back and forth. Maybe she’ll tell me, too. He walked over to where Kjolti sat.

“How did it go?” he said as he lowered himself down with a thud.

The moon was reflected in her wide eyes. She was didn’t say anything for a while.

Kjolti clenched her jaw. She opened and closed her mouth.

“Kjolti?”

She looked over at him, then down at the ground.

Farkas leaned in a little closer, concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I—I’m fine, Farkas. It was just a long trip. I’m tired.”

Farkas leaned back. “I see.” Silence sat between them again. “Do you want to go inside?”

Kjolti was staring off at the mountains. “Hm?”

“I said, do you want to go inside? Kjolti, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I… I just need some more air. The moon is so pretty tonight, I just want to soak it up a little longer, you know?” She smiled weakly at Farkas. 

He returned the gesture, but it was a hollow smile. Kjolti was hiding something from him, that much was for sure. “I understand. Can I sit with you?”

She smiled again, a little stronger this time. “Of course, Farkas.”

***

Kjolti spread her long, wolf form out as she lunged across the plains. Paces flew underneath her without her paws even touching the ground. Her powerful hind legs propelled her through the night. She caught the ground again with her forelegs and pulled herself across the land.

Farkas flew beside her, with a wild look in his eye and a snarl. Some blood remained on his maw, from the wolves they took down moments ago. Kjolti was certain she had some on her jaw as well. Feeling the power from their recent kill, Kjolti let it wash over her and released a howl. Farkas joined her, and together they released a dreadful cry that haunted the plains. THEIR plains. 

A sabre cat appeared to Kjolti’s right. She wheeled and snapped at the cat. Farkas circled around and began to slash at the beast from the rear. The sabre cat growled in pain. Kjolti stood and lashed with her razor sharp claws. With a deranged cry, the beast fell. Kjolti and Farkas ate what they needed, and continued across the plains.

Farkas skidded to a stop. He sniffed the air. Kjolti halted, trying to catch the scent. She sniffed, and finally caught it. Men. To the north.

Within a heartbeat, the pair of hunters tore across to the north. The ground thundered with the pulse of their sprint. Unable to contain the surge, Kjolti released a howl again. The camp was in sight now. 

Her battle cry caught the attention of the guard on watch. He frowned, unsure of what he had just heard. But when his eyes caught the sight of two werewolves barreling toward him, he cried out in fear. He shouted to his fellow soldiers, but had not the time to save his own life. Farkas reached him and wrapped his jaws around the man’s midsection, mauling the man to fuel his beastial form. 

Kjolti charged toward the next soldier to arise. The woman hoisted her battle axe in the air. Kjolti had to admire her courage, to be able to face her death with such bravery. Kjolti drew herself up tall on her hind legs, and with a few swats of her claws, the woman fell to the ground, limp.

As Kjolti lowered herself to the ground to feed, she recognized the armor the woman wore. This was an Imperial camp. It made no difference; Kjolti had no alliance in the war. Imperial or Stormcloak, they all died the same in the end.

But something about this Imperial camp seemed different. There was an air of familiarity to it, but Kjolti couldn’t quite place it. 

Farkas dispatched another Imperial solider a few paces away. Kjolti’s next foe was barreling down on her, sword and shield raised.

And then, as if a different life crashed down on her, Kjolti recognized the man. The man that charged at her now, was the very same that had thrown a rope-bound thief in rags named Aerisif into a wagon, to send to the headsman’s block.

An inferno of rage overtook Kjolti. She roared and reared, and charged toward the man who sought to kill her again. She leapt the final distance and was able to catch flesh and steel in her jaw. The man yelled and began to swing his sword down upon her.  Kjolti retreated a few paces. 

That sword.

She recognized it, too. Though she had seldom wielded it, Kjolti would recognize it anywhere.

It was her Nightingale Blade. 

She released another terrible roar. The man balked at her show of aggression. Kjolti snarled and slowly strode closer to the man. She watched the fear take over his form with sick pleasure. 

Snap. She broke the man’s sword arm with a swipe of her paw.

Crack. His leg broke from the weight of her foot upon it.

She could hear someone shouting, but ignored it. The man’s cries of fear fueled her, and she chose to focus on that. 

Kjolti had the Imperial trapped now. Growling low, with blood and saliva dripping from her jaw, she slowly inched her face closer to the man’s. He was crying now, beginning for salvation from whatever god he prayed to. 

With one last thundering snarl, Kjolti fed on the man.

She could hear more shouting, but ignored it once more. She leapt up and searched the camp for more prey. No foes appeared. She batted tents away like flies, hoping to uncover cowering Imperials hiding inside.

The shouting was sounding familiar. Another enemy?

She turned toward the sound. A man with wild brown hair was shouting and waving at her. Hungrily, she stepped toward him.

Chapter Text

Farkas had hunted with his shield-sister countless times, and he was familiar with her hunting patterns. Kjolti was a fierce hunter, but this aggression was beyond her normal tactics. Something was wrong.

Kjolti was terrorizing her prey. This was unlike her. Kjolti didn’t waste time playing cat and mouse with her prey when in her beast form. She was a highly efficient hunter.

But as Farkas watched her systematically disable her prey, Farkas knew that something was very wrong. 

Farkas circled around, hoping not to see what he suspected. He caught her eyes, and was filled with dread. Where he normally saw sharp, intelligent eyes, Kjolti’s silver moon eyes were wild.

Farkas felt his heart sink to his stomach. He had seen this happen once before, when he was new to his beast form. It had not been a member of the Companions, but they had been hired to hunt down the feral werewolf. When he saw the beast, it was clear they had lost grip of their humanity. It’s all in the eyes.

And Kjolti’s eyes looked nearly feral.

Farkas knew he didn’t have much time. He let his beast form fall away, begging to change quickly. His blood was pumping so fast that it didn’t take long for his wolf blood to filter out. Farkas was returned to human form, but he still felt the power of the wolf surging through his veins.

“Kjolti!” she either couldn’t hear him, or chose not to.

“Kjolti!” He bellowed. “Kjolti! Come back! Kjolti!”

She ravaged the Imperial before her. Blood and gore didn’t bother Farkas, but the pure rage Kjolti released made him turn his head away slightly. She sprung away, searching for more enemies. Farkas chased after her. 

“Kjolti! Come back to me! Kjolti!” 

She was upending the tents when he saw her ears prick up. Slowly, she turned to him.

If Farkas had been a lesser man, he would have likely run at that point, such was the wild rage in her eyes. He searched for a sign of his friend, of Kjolti in them. He couldn’t see her.

“Kjolti, it’s me! Farkas!” She snarled and stepped toward him.

By Hircine, no.  

“Kjolti!” he shouted. “That’s who you are! You have a name! And friends!”

Her eyes wavered then, releasing the beast for a heart’s beat, but fell back to the wildness that had overcome her.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and Farkas charged at Kjolti.

The brash move startled her, and she was unable to stop him before he reached her. With all his weight and the element of surprise, Farkas managed to knock Kjolti down. She snarled at him, but Farkas summoned every scrap of courage he could and gripped the midnight fur on either side of her violent face in his hands. Sinister teeth were poised to sink into him, just inches from his face.

“You are Kjolti of The Companions! You are my friend!” He shouted at her.

For a moment, nothing changed. Farkas thought all was lost. But then her eyes softened, and her maw closed. Farkas could see Kjolti in her eyes again, and then she began to shift. He released her and stepped away.

Kjolti, returned to her human form, lay prone on the ground. 

***

Farkas stepped forward, his heart racing. “Kjolti?”

She moved slightly. He hesitantly sat next to her. “Kjolti, it’s okay. You’re back.”

Sniffling, Kjolti sat up. Human as they were, her eyes looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. She was looking around the destroyed camp, her expression vacant. 

“Kjolti? What is it?”

She swallowed. “Did…I did this?” Her voice was cracked.

Farkas scooted closer. “You…yeah.”

She finally turned to look at him. She looked scared, and that frightened Farkas more than her werewolf form. “What happened to me, Farkas?”

He swallowed. “You almost went feral.”

Kjolti’s eyes went wide. “Feral?” Her voice trembled. 

“It’s okay, though, you didn’t. You’re back.”

Kjolti rubbed her head in her hands. Suddenly she froze, her eyes latched onto something on the other side of the camp. Wobbling, Kjolti rose to her legs and made her way over to an upset tent across the way.

“Where are you going?”

She knelt beside a worn leather pack. Farkas could see tears well in her eyes as she reached out to grab it. Kjolti felt the leather between her fingers before she opened it, holding her breath.

Whatever she saw inside, it brought her to tears. She rummaged through it for what felt like hours, sometimes pulling an item out and holding it close to her. Farkas watched as Kjolti pulled out a black leather garment that as soon as it was removed from the pack, seemed to disappear into the night. It brought Kjolti fresh sobs. 

Eventually, Kjolti sniffed and stood. She walked over to the last Imperial she killed, bent down, and took the ebony sword he had held. Kjolti opened the pack and slid the sword inside.

Farkas couldn’t believe his eyes. The sword had been larger than the pack; how did she make it fit inside? Especially with everything else there?

Kjolti wandered around the camp, picking up items here and there from tents and bodies. To Farkas’s continued amazement, she managed to fit item after item into this pack of hers. It’s enchanted, dumbass, he finally realized.

Finally, she returned to Farkas. He stood, towering over her. Kjolti stared up at him, unfazed by his height. 

“Farkas, promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell anyone about what happened tonight, and ESPECIALLY don’t tell anyone about this pack.”

He squinted. “Why?”

“Please, Farkas. Just don’t say anything.” Her eyes were pleading. 

Farkas held his breath for a moment. “Kjolti…” He knew there was more here than she was letting on. He crossed his arms. Kjolti was still visibly shaken from her experience. “Let’s get back to Jorrvaskr.”

***

He didn’t answer my question, Kjolti thought. But she didn’t press it for now. She slung her enchanted pack over her shoulder as they began to walk away from the wreckage of the Imperial camp.

The pack slid so comfortably over her back. Having it returned to her almost felt like a friend returning from the dead. Kjolti teared at the thought and bit her lip. Pushing the grief aside, she tried to focus on the positive: she had all her things back.

When she and Brynjolf, Gods, Brynjolf, had been captured in Falkreath, the Imperials took all her belongings. Including her armor, as she had woken up in rags. This enchanted pack held basically everything she owned. All the Stones of Barenziah she had found were still there, thankfully. The Imperials probably didn’t even know what they were worth.

But what made her heart lodge itself in her throat was her Nightingale Armor. Just seeing it brought back a wave of emotion Kjolti hadn’t been prepared to deal with. The mysterious folds of onyx leather called to her, called to a different version of her. Kjolti felt like her old life had slammed into her, and it made her head dizzy.

How long had it been since Helgen? Kjolti strained to count the moons. Shor’s bones, its been more than a year. 

Kjolti walked onward, her head fuzzy. She became aware of Farkas walking beside her. He was silent, but every sense she had told her he wanted to say something. 

“Farkas?”

He didn’t answer, but turned at looked at her strangely.

“Something on your mind?”

He blinked. “Something on my mind?” Kjolti couldn’t read his expression. “You’re the one that goes nearly feral for no clear reason, then picks up some strange magic pack, and then asks me to keep quiet about it? And you want to know what’s on my mind?”

Kjolti stopped in her tracks. This wasn’t like him. “Farkas,” she started.

“Forget it,” he snapped as he stomped ahead.

Kjolti blinked. What’s gotten into him? She hurried after him. They were nearly at the Whiterun gates now, and the watchfires lit the night with a soft glow.

“Farkas, wait,” she called. He didn’t even turn around.

What the fuck?

Summoning the last of her strength, Kjolti ran as fast as she could till she was once again beside Farkas.

“Farkas, talk to me.” She lay her hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Kjolti was taken aback. “What?”

Farkas’s expression was stormy. “I’m not stupid. I know there’s some big secret you’re keeping from me. You ask me to keep all these secrets, about our transforming and hunting, about your thievery, now about this magic pack. But there’s something else. I know it, and you know it.”

Kjolti’s mouth was agape. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered.

“No? Well why don’t I go ask my brother? He sure seems to know, to be your favorite secret keeper.”

“Farkas!” Kjolti was indignant. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You know I trust you!”

Their shouting had drawn the attention of a guard, who ran forward. “Who goes there? What’s going on?”

“Oh, fuck off!” Kjolti snapped at the guard. The guard drew her weapon until she recognized Kjolti, then immediately sheathed it and backed away.

“Oh, sorry. I—I’ll be on my way, my Thane.”

Kjolti winced as she said the word.

Farkas turned to her slowly. “Thane?” his voice was a whisper, trembling with frustration.

Kjolti turned away. “Yes,” she said. She didn’t meet his eyes. 

Farkas snorted. “You’re a goddamned Thane, and didn’t bother to tell me?”

Kjolti was still looking at the ground. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“For how long?” His voice was like low thunder.

Kjolti sighed. “Since I got to Whiterun.”

“Since you—“ Farkas cut off in anger. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “You’ve been a Thane since before you even joined the Companions, and didn’t share that with me? You ask me to keep all these secrets, tell all these lies, but you won’t even tell me that you’re a Thane of the hold!”

“I have never asked you to lie!” Kjolti found she had some thunder in her own voice.

“Yeah, well you sure haven’t asked me to tell the truth!”

“I don’t owe you anything! You don’t get to know everything about me, just because you want to! Just because you have no secrets doesn’t mean I can’t have mine!”

“Have no secrets?” Farkas raged. “You think I have no secrets?”

“Everything you want, everything you think, is just written on your face for all to see!” Kjolti knew she would probably regret that later.

Farkas’s eyes widened. “That’s what you think?”

“It’s true!”

Farkas scoffed. “You have no idea, Kjolti. What I keep to myself!”

“What’s there to keep! You’re an open book!”

“Then you must be very bad at reading, if you can’t tell.”

“Tell what?”

“Tell how much I—“ Farkas stopped himself short. He flushed.

“Tell how much you what, Farkas?” Kjolti’s voice was sharp and angry.

Tell how much I love you, Farkas thought as he sunk inward.

“Companions! Quick!”

Both Kjolti and Farkas snapped their heads toward the sound. A guardsman was waving frantically at them.

“There’s been an attack on Jorrvaskr! Hurry!”

The pair raced onward, argument forgotten. Whiterun blurred past them as they spent the last ounces of stamina sprinting to the hall. Bodies lay strewn about the steps leading to Jorrvaskr.

Silverhand, Kjolti recognized with dread.

They burst in through the doors. Combat had ended recently, the smell of blood still fresh. Athis lay prone by the fire, clutching his abdomen.

But even worse, was the crowd surrounding a body laying too still on the ground. The standing Companions parted when they entered.

It was Kodlak. He was whiter than snow, and drew no breath.

Kjolti stumbled. She felt her breath leave her too as she fell to her knees. She wanted to run. Her blood raced and raged but had no more power to transform, no fire to feed the wolf. She was empty.

All she could do was crumble.