Vilkas glanced around, trying to figure the best way out of their current predicament. He should have known that there weren't enough Silver Hand guarding the shards of Wuuthrad, and now he and Lyra were going to pay for it.
Speaking of the remarkably tall Breton, she was pressed against his back, tension etched in every line of her person. He watched her knuckles whiten as one hand clenched her blade and the other lit up with a Destruction spell from the corner of his eye, even as he tightened his own grip on his greatsword.
They'd been through worse.
Right?
"Surrender now, you filthy beasts, and maybe you'll live to see another day," one of the werewolf hunters surrounding them offered.
"Like hell we will," Lyra spat back, the room echoing as her voice tinged with the thu'um.
Vilkas let his lips curve up slightly. He couldn't have said it better himself - and he could say a lot of things better than a lot of people.
"Then die!"
Several of the Silver Hand retreated to provide arrow cover as the building shook with the power of the Voice. "Yol... Toor Shul!"
Two of the thieving bastards he was fighting took the chance to glance away at the sound and met their deaths on the end of his blade. "There could be no other end," he said coldly to the corpses as an arrow pinged off of his armor, leaving a scratch and making him take note of the next victim to fall by his sword.
The Silver Hand, numerous as they were, were not terribly adroit and died fairly easily as he hacked and slashed, blocked and parried, his mind focused utterly on the battle.
It didn't take too much longer for him to find himself alone in a room full of corpses as he scoffed. "Fools."
And then he glanced up, expecting to see Lyra cleaning the blood off of her blade, or doubled over with exertion from the fight, or lazily dancing sparks across her fingertips, or shaking her hair out as she pulled off her helmet, or giving him that damnably attractive smirk that said she killed more than he did.
But she wasn't there.
Instead, he found himself - he, who never panicked, never ever - running to her body, sword dropped at some point in his haste and worry.
A jagged wound had been sloppily carved into her chest where a warhammer had cracked the armor earlier - the Spellsword had pointed it out to him before, not even a day ago, remarking that she would have to get it fixed when they went back to Whiterun.
Dying wasn't supposed to have been an option, and that was the only thought in his head as he carefully tugged her helmet clear of her face and checked her pulse with shaking hands.
Nothing. In fact, Lyra's skin was starting to chill quickly without the pulsing muscle in her chest to keep it warm.
For a moment, his anger flared and he though for sure he would shift right then and there and eat her body or something, but he reigned it in and settled for punching the cold stone floor angrily instead.
Damnit. Gods damn it all! It wasn't supposed to end like this! She was supposed to live so that they could head to Ysgramor's tomb and free Kodlak's soul.
She was supposed to live because she wanted to drive the Thalmor from the land.
She was supposed to live because she'd taken children into her home, despite being unmarried.
She was supposed to live because there were no doubts in his mind she would be named Harbinger.
She was supposed to live because he loved her; she'd made sarcastically true comments about wearing an Amulet of Mara once everything was sorted out.
Ignoring the wolf inside threatening to break through his skin, take him over and tear. Something. To. Shreds, Vilkas collected his blade and the shards of Wuuthrad - no point in making her death in vain - calmly, monotonously, like a hollow shell that barely had the will to move.
Once he had everything he needed, Vilkas picked up the lifeless woman (why, why hadn't he noticed sooner, why hadn't he saved her, why hadn't he done something, anything) and carried her through the door, taking care to make sure he didn't bump her against the frame or the wall.
There was a funeral to plan and revenge to be had.
Vilkas/F!DB - Tonight the World Dies 1/1
Vilkas glanced around, trying to figure the best way out of their current predicament. He should have known that there weren't enough Silver Hand guarding the shards of Wuuthrad, and now he and Lyra were going to pay for it.
Speaking of the remarkably tall Breton, she was pressed against his back, tension etched in every line of her person. He watched her knuckles whiten as one hand clenched her blade and the other lit up with a Destruction spell from the corner of his eye, even as he tightened his own grip on his greatsword.
They'd been through worse.
Right?
"Surrender now, you filthy beasts, and maybe you'll live to see another day," one of the werewolf hunters surrounding them offered.
"Like hell we will," Lyra spat back, the room echoing as her voice tinged with the thu'um.
Vilkas let his lips curve up slightly. He couldn't have said it better himself - and he could say a lot of things better than a lot of people.
"Then die!"
Several of the Silver Hand retreated to provide arrow cover as the building shook with the power of the Voice. "Yol... Toor Shul!"
Two of the thieving bastards he was fighting took the chance to glance away at the sound and met their deaths on the end of his blade. "There could be no other end," he said coldly to the corpses as an arrow pinged off of his armor, leaving a scratch and making him take note of the next victim to fall by his sword.
The Silver Hand, numerous as they were, were not terribly adroit and died fairly easily as he hacked and slashed, blocked and parried, his mind focused utterly on the battle.
It didn't take too much longer for him to find himself alone in a room full of corpses as he scoffed. "Fools."
And then he glanced up, expecting to see Lyra cleaning the blood off of her blade, or doubled over with exertion from the fight, or lazily dancing sparks across her fingertips, or shaking her hair out as she pulled off her helmet, or giving him that damnably attractive smirk that said she killed more than he did.
But she wasn't there.
Instead, he found himself - he, who never panicked, never ever - running to her body, sword dropped at some point in his haste and worry.
A jagged wound had been sloppily carved into her chest where a warhammer had cracked the armor earlier - the Spellsword had pointed it out to him before, not even a day ago, remarking that she would have to get it fixed when they went back to Whiterun.
Dying wasn't supposed to have been an option, and that was the only thought in his head as he carefully tugged her helmet clear of her face and checked her pulse with shaking hands.
Nothing. In fact, Lyra's skin was starting to chill quickly without the pulsing muscle in her chest to keep it warm.
For a moment, his anger flared and he though for sure he would shift right then and there and eat her body or something, but he reigned it in and settled for punching the cold stone floor angrily instead.
Damnit. Gods damn it all! It wasn't supposed to end like this! She was supposed to live so that they could head to Ysgramor's tomb and free Kodlak's soul.
She was supposed to live because she wanted to drive the Thalmor from the land.
She was supposed to live because she'd taken children into her home, despite being unmarried.
She was supposed to live because there were no doubts in his mind she would be named Harbinger.
She was supposed to live because he loved her; she'd made sarcastically true comments about wearing an Amulet of Mara once everything was sorted out.
Ignoring the wolf inside threatening to break through his skin, take him over and tear. Something. To. Shreds, Vilkas collected his blade and the shards of Wuuthrad - no point in making her death in vain - calmly, monotonously, like a hollow shell that barely had the will to move.
Once he had everything he needed, Vilkas picked up the lifeless woman (why, why hadn't he noticed sooner, why hadn't he saved her, why hadn't he done something, anything) and carried her through the door, taking care to make sure he didn't bump her against the frame or the wall.
There was a funeral to plan and revenge to be had.