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The air is stiff. In a tomb that had otherwise been sealed off for however many years, that is to be expected. Only one other time had it recently been opened to visitors, and it was more or less the same people the last time, too.
Ysgramor’s tomb.
Situated in front of a cerulean flame is Vilkas, holding a burlap sack with an uncertain look about him. To his left is Midri, someone who he’d come to respect and even love as of late. To his right is Uskerva, the Harbinger.
In the tightly sealed sack is one of the few remaining heads of the Glenmoril Witches that the Orc had killed off over a year ago. The cursed magics kept it unsettlingly pristine, as though no rot had come over it whatsoever.
Midri can tell that both Vilkas and Uskerva are beyond ready to be rid of the damned thing.
Her hand finds rest on his pauldron, giving the Nord a jolt. He cranes his head back towards her and sighs with closed eyes.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Midri gently asks him, but she’s sure she knows the answer to this already.
“I am certain,” he says with a shudder, turning back to face the flame. “The day I realized I was playing into Hircine’s hand was the day I knew I wanted to do this.” The cool blue glow flickers in his tired eyes.
“Then why do you seem…off, if I am allowed to ask?”
“Perhaps it’s because I’ve gotten as used to the beast as one can get without being Aela. I’ve forgotten what it means to be clean.”
“We also do not know what to expect from the process. Aela and I have only seen it performed on Kodlak, not a living person…” Uskerva chimes in, but Midri feels that her words are more a hindrance to the cause than helpful.
Vilkas looks down at his free hand. Another shudder - this one with an audible whine.
Uskerva prods at him to remind him what he’s here for. “Let’s get this over with before you start having second thoughts.”
With a nod, he unwinds the sack and presents the head to the flame. He clutches it by its thin, matted hair, dangling it a foot away from the fire. Midri reels and gags a bit. Uskerva is entirely unphased.
“Euch, they couldn’t have made this easy, could they?” Vilkas questions the Orc beside him, a sorry grin reaching his face for a second.
“Afraid not. Put it in, and let’s hope for the best.”
“Right.”
His hand reaches over the blue glow, and he lets go. In an instant, the head of the hag is engulfed in flames. For but a moment, everything is fine.
Then, it begins.
Vilkas throws his head back, choking on a scream. Trembling, he collapses to his knees slowly. A beast - blue as the blaze, and bigger than the standard wolf of Skyrim - emerges from his back. It leaps from inside of him to take an ethereal form behind the agonized man, who is now gasping and sweating in pain. It howls in a low pitch.
Moments later, Vilkas slumps onto his side in an unconscious heap. His hair falls over his face as soon as his head hits the ground.
Midri shrieks. Her instinct is to check on him, but she resists the urge deep inside. She knows she now has to fight the beast that has already lunged at Uskerva, with Uskerva socking it good in its jaw as she draws her blade.
She then looks expectantly at Midri. “A little help, please?”
The Dunmer snaps her fingers, swiftly wielding a ball of orange flame in her palm. She curls her fingers inwards before swinging her arm and releasing a blast of fire at the spirit wolf. It yelps and snarls, then turns to attack her, but Uskerva keeps its rage focused on herself with a blunt bash. Midri volleys two more fireballs at its side while Uskerva stabs through its flimsy chest with her greatsword. Its being warps around the sword, wisps coming loose, and the puncture soon is back to normal.
“What does it take to kill this thing?!” Midri cries, rethinking her approach with a bit of lightning magic.
“Patience,” Uskerva advises. “Have you never slain a spirit before?”
“No?” Her arms spread out at her sides in confusion.
“It goes faster with a holy artifact.” The Orc grunts while delivering another blow to the beast’s head.
This woman has truly done everything, it seems.
Midri couldn’t say she was jealous.
For a few minutes more, the two tire themselves, chipping away at the spirit’s vitality. Just when Midri thinks she’s going to keel over next to Vilkas, she zaps it one final time and stuns it. Uskerva takes this opportunity to drive her greatsword vertically through its head. It yelps, and fades into Oblivion.
“Gods, just as bad as I remember it being,” Uskerva says through pants. She brings herself down on one knee and props herself against her blade.
Midri herself falls to the floor in an attempt to scramble over to Vilkas. In the end, nothing can stop her, and so she crawls to him. She roughly shakes him by the shoulder whilst whining his name.
Instinctively, he pushes her away. This, however, does stop her - more out of joy and relief than anything else. She watches intently as he rises, slowly, rubbing at his own face as though he’d arisen from slumber. When he is fully sat up, Midri realizes she no longer smells the taint of Hircine on him as she once did.
“Is…is it over?” He asks, voice gruff and throat dry, turning his gaze to their Harbinger.
Uskerva curtly nods. No longer is she panting, but still is positioned against her trusty sword. “It is. Are you alright? How are you feeling?”
“I…it’s like waking out of a dream,” he starts with a satisfied smile on his face. “I can breathe more deeply now. And no longer can I smell your heart beating - either of you - but…my mind is clear.”
“I’m glad I could provide you this, Vilkas,” Uskerva replies fondly.
“If only now we could do the same for Farkas. He may not have told you, but he’s…not complacent with Hircine’s curse any longer, either.”
“We now know what to expect when it’s his turn,” Midri confidently says, scooting a little closer to Vilkas, “but you really did have me worried for a moment.”
“You should know I’m heartier than that. Better than anyone,” he replies, a daring look in his eyes.
“I’m going to stop you right there. I don’t need to hear about your…activities,” Uskerva interrupts with a bold wave. She’s disgusted now, but Midri and Vilkas can only laugh at her misery.
Ignoring them, she continues. “Now, let us leave this miserable place. Kyne knows I can only stand to be here for so long.”
⁂
Two rooms at The Frozen Hearth, a delicious stew to drive away the bitter cold, and what appeared to be endless drinks on Uskerva. The only problem being that Midri was the only one who took her up on her offer for two drinks. Clearly haggard in his motions, Vilkas insists on a good rest to truly rejuvenate from the ordeal in Ysgramor’s tomb. Midri eventually retires early as well, if only to watch over Vilkas in his rest should he become, for some reason, ill, or…Gods know what.
No. Perish the thought. Vilkas will be fine.
She, in coincidence, reads 16 Accords of Madness, v. VI: a tale of Sheogorath and…of course, Hircine. It is not a book she read before, but a book she picked up by chance when packing for the journey to Winterhold.
Vilkas is no longer restless in his sleep, as he once was in the past. He sleeps soundly, which is new to Midri. In her anxiousness, she puts the book down every now and again to check that he’s still breathing. Why wouldn’t he be?
Anxiety is not reasonable, it turns out.
Eventually, she ditches the book. The elf turns her attention entirely to him, laying down against his left side. She presses herself into him to absorb some of his warmth, but reaches her hand out of the blankets to fiddle with his hair. Dry, soot black strands are run between her fingers. She keeps at this for a few minutes, humming quietly to herself.
Her repeated motions slow to the point where her arm lazily falls over his shoulders. Midri loses the fight to sleep, and momentarily, it claims her, too - Vilkas’s warmth being the culprit that soothes her.
Her last waking thoughts are of undying love and the safety she feels being with him.
⁂
For once, Vilkas is the first to awaken in the morning. His measured attempt to pry away from Midri without rustling her fails, and she soon awakens with him as he is rising from the bed.
Their eyes lock in that moment, Midri inspecting his face thoroughly. His icy blue eyes gleamed with life, and while he still retained the bags of fatigue and wrinkles of stress, they seemed…lessened.
“Mmm…how are you?” Midri sleepily instigates.
“To tell you the truth, I do not remember the last time I felt like this. Surely it had to have been countless moons ago…before…” He finishes his sentence with a swirled hand gesture, implying the lycanthropy without words.
It would be unwise to be too loud about that in public, especially with Uskerva and Midri still retaining the wolf’s blood.
“So…good, then?” She raises her head high enough to receive a kiss on her scarred cheek. It is gentle, and so warm and welcoming. This Vilkas is different from the Vilkas she first knew, but she had to admit: she loved this version of him more than anything.
If getting rid of the beast would ensure him more happiness, then she was all for it - even if she did not quite mind having it herself.
“Absolutely. I’ll order us breakfast, then we should see about heading back down to Whiterun with the Harbinger.” Another kiss, and he excuses himself to the main room of the inn.
Midri’s head falls back against the straw pillow with a sigh. She lays there, thinking of what’s next for them in their life together.
Perhaps…marriage?
She overhears him sharing a laugh with the innkeeper, and cannot help but smile.
Maybe.