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“Job for you two.”
Kodlak held a piece of paper out for Sif to take. Farkas read over her shoulder; they were being sent to a farm out in Eastmarch. A bear was killing livestock.
“A bear?” Farkas mused as he and Sif gathered their things to go. “The spring salmon run is late, or something?”
No, that had definitely started. Bears weren’t really hunters, anyway. They preferred to scavenge when they weren’t sat with waiting mouths in the river.
“‘Farmer says’,” Sif repeated with a second look at the note. “So he thinks he saw a bear. I wonder what it really was.”
Kjurt’s farm situated along the White River, near where it ran into the Yorgrim—close to Kynesgrove and north of the sulphur pools. Sif and Farkas moved as quickly as they could, which was pretty easy once they’d transformed into wolves. Running so quickly was nice anyway, even if their typical territory ended where the Whiterun plains gave way to the the eastern hills. Many other animals had marked all along the White River, especially bears. They’d just come out of hibernation with the arrival of spring.
Maybe that was the problem: a very hungry bear, along with some vulnerable livestock. The note didn’t say what exactly the bear had killed. They were known to go after calves if the opportunity presented itself.
Nothing seemed out of place when Sif and Farkas arrived at Kjurt’s farm. He had about twenty head of cattle with a few calves running around. They didn’t act spooked, and Sif couldn’t smell fear on them. Well—that shifted now. The cows sensed wolves among them. They couldn’t know that Sif and Farkas meant them no harm.
Kjurt emerged from the barn and hailed them with a wave. As Sif and Farkas approached, he stuck out a hand. “You’re with the Companions, aren’t ye?”
“Aye,” Farkas confirmed as they shook. “Farkas. This is my wife, Sifkni.”
“Aye, think I’ve seen you lot go by on the road here and there.” Kjurt was old enough that his eyes disappeared into wrinkles when he squinted in the sunlight. “You’re here about the bear, then. Come, I’ll show you what it’s done.”
They started toward the back of the pen.
“I left everything as it was,” Kjurt continued. “If that damn thing came back, I figured best it clean up what it already killed. The birds won’t even go near it. Not even the wolves or sabre cats are interested.”
The sickly sweet of rotting flesh touched Sif’s human nostrils. A mound protruded out of the long, tentative grass. Insects certainly had no qualms with the carcass. They buzzed and crawled all around it.
Horns.
“This is a steer,” Sif commented.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard him out here bellowing.” Hands on his hips, Kjurt sighed. “I’ve never had anything go for my fully grown cattle. Not even cats. They’ve got easier things they can hunt in the wild. There’s plenty of rabbits around.”
“Aye.” Sif had chased a few of them on her and Farkas’ journey here.
“And that thing. . .” Kjurt shuddered. “I’ve never seen no bear like that before.”
“You saw it?” Farkas asked.
“With my own eyes,” Kjurt replied with a solemn nod. “You two listen. I’m willing to bet you’ve dealt with your share of bears. I have too. I grew up in the Rift. I been around them all my life. But this one. . .” He trailed off briefly, then came back to himself with a lamenting shake of the head. “Bears aren’t all that brave. You spook them well enough, they’ll run off. I shouted at this one. Not that it mattered I suppose, since it had already made its kill.” He looked down at the steer’s carcass again. “Don’t like the way it looked at me. I was about to run back into the house, but I didn’t think it would even help. That thing looked smart, like even with those huge paws it could open my door. I know that sounds mad.” He frowned. “But then it stood up.”
“Stood up?” Sif repeated.
“Stood up.” Kjurt nodded. “And walked away. Right over the fence, if you’d believe it.”
He pointed at a low spot among the fence posts.
“Thing was probably as tall as my barn,” Kjurt mused. “We’ve seen many a weird thing around here. Especially lately, when those dragons were constantly flying about.” He peered across the sky nervously, as if mere mention was enough to summon one. “Even before that though, so close to Kyne’s sacred wood, some terrific beasts would wander out of there from time to time. Maybe the dragons displaced something that used to live so deep in there nobody knew it even existed.”
With a sigh, Kjurt’s gaze dropped again to the carcass. Its skeleton had started to peek through in places, particularly the face. Insects had made quick work of its eyes and cheeks. The horrible grin of a skull almost mocked Kjurt for his theory.
Sif needn’t look at Farkas again to know they thought the exact same thing. This creature certainly came borne of some old god. Not Kyne or Kynareth, though.
Hircine.
Kjurt left them to their investigation, shouting over his shoulder that he’d be over here or there if they needed him for anything. Sif already moved toward the fence. It being made of wood, she found quickly what she looked for. Some tufts of golden brown fur had caught on a nail. Sif dislodged it and lifted it to her nose. Immediate confirmation: this was no ordinary bear.
“Scent?” Farkas asked as he came up on Sif’s rear.
“Weak,” Sif replied. “But there.”
The werebear didn’t intend to leave its scent behind, as if marking its territory or searching for a mate. It had left when asked. But where did it go from here? Sif jumped the fence and walked downhill toward the river. Several days had passed since the werebear’s visit, and it hadn’t stuck around. Sif could barely smell it in her human form. She wished she could transform back into a wolf, but it wasn’t a good idea so close to Kjurt’s farm in daylight.
Spring wasn’t the ideal time for an investigation either. Temperatures still dropped below freezing at night, and the ground remained hard with frost. Snow only piled up in the shade now. There wasn’t any around here, given the lack of trees. The angle of the hill would’ve made whatever fell here in winter run off that much quicker toward the rushing waters below.
Sif spotted what she looked for at the edge of the grass, before ground gave way to rocks. She kneeled down and waited for Farkas to catch up again.
“Damn,” he commented when he saw what Sif had. “That print’s gotta be a foot wide.”
Claws larger than Sif’s fingers had dug into the earth, although not especially deeply. The werebear hadn’t left in a rush.
“It headed for the river.” Farkas contemplated the frothy white spray that collided its way along massive boulders and hollowed out banks. “Crossed, I bet. Kjurt couldn’t have followed, not that I think he would have, either.”
“No, but that’s showing rational thought.”
Farkas stared longer at the river before his grey gaze dropped to Sif. “Did you recognize it?”
“The scent?” Sif lightly shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to, but—no, well. Maybe?”
She wished again to turn into a wolf. This would be so much easier.
“I don’t know any werebears,” she told Farkas, rather pointlessly. He would know that.
“I recognize it,” Farkas replied. “Can’t place it, though. But I’m sure it’s someone I’ve met before.”
“But someone you didn’t know was a werebear at the time?” Sif asked. “So, a newly turned one, then.”
“We should cross the river.” Farkas started looking for a way to do that. “Pick up the scent. Follow.”
Sif stood. “Aye.”
Further downriver, Sif and Farkas found a place suitable to ditch all their stuff. They were also far enough away from the farm now to transform. Crossing the river still posed a challenge. Its levels were up, and the boulders Sif would typically use as jumping points were wet and slippery. She had no choice but to try and traverse a calmer section standing on her rear legs.
Sif dropped onto all fours on the opposite bank and put her nose to the ground. She followed the werebear’s scent back toward Kjurt’s farm, taking care to remain out of any potential line of sight.
The werebear had left the farm in a straight line. Wet from the river, a stronger scent remained. As if following a perfectly preserved set of prints, Sif took chase. The werebear had caught a steer. It had left when asked. After crossing the river, it had dropped onto all fours and ambled away. Farkas was right. Now Sif could smell better, she too recognized this scent. To not immediately know who it belonged to was maddening.
Sif turned a hard right along with the werebear’s path. It would have only done that if it caught the scent of something. Another hunt, perhaps? No. Further along, deeper into the woods, Sif caught onto something else. It remained faint, and then suddenly there. She’d followed the path of the werebear as it met up with someone—right here, where Sif currently sniffed at the ground.
There hadn’t been a hunt. Just a meeting. And not with another werecreature. This one was human. Sif knew it too, well enough for a face to burst into her mind. She transformed back into a human and waited while Farkas reached the same conclusion. He too reappeared where his wolf had just stood.
“We need to go to Windhelm,” he said.
They returned to their things and sought the road. Once Sif and Farkas passed the Windhelm stables, Sif worked her nose more intentionally toward the werebear. She caught a tantalizing whiff in the Palace of the King’s courtyard. Opening the door, well.
Sif might as well have stuck her head into a bear den.
The power of it—earthy, not musky, thankfully—stopped Sif briefly in her tracks. Farkas too, to the point he rested a hand on her back. Everything else was as it ought to be. Ulfric Stormcloak sat upon the throne at the opposite end of the hall, tending to court business as the voice of whoever addressed him echoed lightly off the finely worn stone walls.
Already from this distance, Ulfric was irritable in body language. He leaned heavily on one arm of the throne, fiddling with his facial hair. His leg gave a twitch. He sighed loudly enough that Sif could hear it. The person addressing him, too.
“Am I boring you, Jarl?” the Dunmer asked.
“Not at all.” Ulfric sat up straighter again, perhaps having realized the degree of his lean. “Go on.”
“—Greetings,” came a voice from Sif’s right. Jorleif’s eyes then lit up in recognition and a more genuine smile came over him. “Oh, hello! What a pleasant surprise. Do the Companions have business they’d like to conduct with the court today? Or is this a more personal visit?”
Sif considered that a moment. “Perhaps a bit of both.”
“Jorleif.”
Ulfric’s deep, booming voice reached where they all stood not much differently than if he stood right beside them. Expression craggy in his seriousness, Ulfric gestured Jorleif over. Now it was the Dunmer addressing the court who sighed. He looked back over his shoulder at Jorleif, and then glared at Sif and Farkas. Well, not at them, specifically, Sif didn’t think. But at the interruption that was clearly so much more important to Ulfric than his business.
Whatever Ulfric whispered to Jorleif went unheard. Jorleif nodded anyway and then returned to Sif and Farkas. His geniality remained. “The jarl only has one more appointment after this. He would like for you to stay, so that you can discuss whatever you’ve come for. Can I offer you any hospitalities? The jarl has invited you to go upstairs to the residence. Lady Lys is up there.”
Sif’s mouth twitched toward a laugh. Did Lys know Jorleif called her that? It didn’t seem like something she would have ever agreed to.
“Sure,” Farkas agreed for both of them.
Jorleif gestured for them to follow. The jarl residence was beyond the throne, through a side room. As they drew closer to where Ulfric sat, Sif witnessed the moment he realized two werewolves had entered his domain. His head swivelled toward her and Farkas. Sif wasn’t close enough to see that his nostrils likely flared. He’d changed in appearance, though. There had always been scars on his face for as long as Sif knew him. There were more now. Ulfric had been busy in recent years; were these new scars from his being turned, or from when he went south to fight the Dominion again in Cyrodiil?
“Should I just come back later?”
“No.” Ulfric’s attention returned to the Dunmer before him. “I’m listening, Sedaris. And I happen to know exactly which Dwemer ruins your financier is referring to.”
“Oh good.” Sedaris sounded surprised.
“It’s quite a hike into the Velothis.” Ulfric settled back into the conversation just as he did his seat. “Are you certain you’re up for it? Or will I be sending mercenaries to retrieve your body later on request of loved ones back home?”
“I’ve already assembled a team. Found some rather brick-headed individuals looking to make coin at that inn by the southern city gates, in fact. . .”
“That’s where they tend to congregate,” made Sedaris laugh, and his tone to follow sounded warmer.
The conversation fell behind Sif, Farkas, and Jorleif as they reached the residence entrance. They climbed a set of stairs. Sif had never been in this part of the palace, so was uncertain if she should be surprised how much it felt like Jorrvaskr. Furs, weaponry, and hunting trophies covered the walls so thoroughly that Sif could almost convince herself there was wood behind. Rugs contained the fire pit’s heat. For how hot that kept the upstairs, Sif wasn’t surprised to see a window cracked. Through a wall of windows—one a door, leading out to a balcony—some of the other taller structures of Windhelm were visible. Smoke too, curling lazily upward from other chimneys in the city.
The smell of werebear was present here too, even stronger than downstairs. Before it could become uncomfortable, instinct telling Sif they ought to leave, there came more footsteps. Lys entered from another hallway. Her lowered brow gave way to brightened red eyes in recognition.
“Sif, Farkas,” she greeted them, then nodded at Jorleif as he bowed his way out. “It’s been a while. Is everything—?” Lys faltered then. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve come bearing bad news from Whiterun. Who’s dead?”
“No one,” Sif answered with a glance at Farkas. “At least, not that we know of. We’re here on Companion business, actually.”
“Oh.” That came out like relief. “Well—good! What do you like to drink? Mead? Sujamma? The stuff that comes in from Raven Rock is excellent.”
“Mead’s good,” Farkas replied right away, then smiled with a shrug at Sif that clearly said there was no sense in turning down a free drink.
Really, maybe a little alcohol would make this easier, because catching Lys without Ulfric—or before speaking to him—might soften the blow of the chat to come. Lys looked tired. Sounded it too, really, as Sif mulled Lys’ words over again. Whatever pick-me-up a surprise visit from old friends provided had quickly subsided. It was in Lys’ face too. Her posture. The way her mouth turned downward at each end. In her eyes, how her smile didn’t quite reach them.
Beyond that, Lys seemed to have adjusted well to life as a jarl’s wife, and to Windhelm in particular. Back when Lys floated here and there through Whiterun, she only ever wore common clothes. She worked outside of the city a lot; the handful of times Sif had caught her scent in the Reach always led to iron so thick a wolf’s nose could choke on it. Reachmen warned Sif away from those sites. More Thalmor would always be along. In pursuit of finding whoever was responsible, the elves had taken to hauling Reachmen away for interrogation. Only a few returned, and no one would call them lucky for it.
The witch, the Reachmen called Lys. The tabard she donned while killing Thalmor bore an Aetherial glow. Whispers passed from camp to camp that while her stirring things up brought them trouble, she had also come to their aid when the Thalmor showed up with ill intent. Some briarhearts spoke of Lys’ eyes like those of a predator’s. Wherever Thalmor were—downwind, across the valley, you name it—she could find them faster than the quickest of Hircine’s aspects.
Scraggly. Scrappy. That’s how Sif saw Lys back then. Maybe because they’d known each other well enough, the elegance Lys affected now in furs and deep-red satin merely acted like a shroud. A costume. Through the giant crack of strain splitting her down the middle, Sif could still see the hunter within. She could still smell all the blood. Sif’s ears still rang from the sharp crack of the Dragonborn’s Thu’um.
Lys invited them to sit. Through the course of catching up (how are the kids, how are things around Whiterun, etc), Sif watched Lys struggle to maintain her outwardly positive veneer. Her stress was perceptible to the nose, although overpowered by so much else. Not only did they all sit within Ulfric’s den, but he had scented Lys. Sif had caught it like a light smack to the face when she first accepted her proffered bottle of mead. If Lys moved her arm in a waving gesture, the force of that would nudge it across the table between them again. Mine, mine, mine. The territorial nature of it put Sif on edge, even if she and Farkas bore no threat toward that declaration.
“So,” Lys said following a silence. “What business has brought you to Windhelm?”
There was no use pussyfooting around it. “Kjurt, the farmer out by Kynesgrove asked us to investigate the death of one of his cattle.”
Lys’ face betrayed nothing. A new note of pungency to her sweat, however, spoke to deepened stress. “I heard about that. He petitioned the court for compensation. A steer, too. That’s a huge loss, both financially and for the market.”
“We know, Lys,” Sif bluntly told her.
There, a change. Alertness overrode fatigue. Lys sat board stiff and unblinking. The version of her that Sif had known back in Whiterun returned, perhaps that of which had caught the scent of elves who do not belong out in the Druadach Mountains.
“About Ulfric,” Sif answered the unasked question. “We know what he is, and what he did.”
Lys’ gaze darted between Sif and Farkas. “You’re not going to try to hurt him, are you?”
“No,” Sif quickly reassured her. “Not at all. We were sent to look into it, so we are.”
Whatever fellow predator had emerged disappeared just as quickly. Lys looked less like a hunter again and more a skittish animal backed into a corner. Her body betrayed her beyond the paled nature of her grey skin and a trembling lip. She began to tremble. Gripping her mead bottle in her lap wasn’t enough to hide it.
“What happened?” Farkas gently prodded Lys.
“We’re trying, all right?” Moisture made Lys’ eyes shine, and her voice turned raspy. “It’s so hard, harder than we could’ve ever thought it might be. And it’s all my fault he has to deal with it.
“He’s not dangerous,” Lys insisted. “He just got away from me. It. . . It hibernates, in winter. He’s fine, and then spring comes, and it’s. . . It’s a monster.” She reached up in a jerking motion to rub her cheek, back to where her jaw met her neck in an attempt to self-sooth. “He hates what it’s done to him. He’s worked so hard.” Lys fended off a full crumple. “He’s done so much to grow Windhelm—and Eastmarch—and regained respect he thought long gone or just impossible. Balgruuf—gods, even Titus Mede. All for this, because I couldn’t. . .”
An attempt to compose herself failed. Lys’ spine bent forward as the weight of it all became too much to bear. She breathed like it was too. No tears had fallen yet, but the area below each of her eyes were damp.
“I think you two would understand,” Lys spoke more to the floor, glancing up once from beneath her brow. “It happened a couple years ago now, when we were returning from Cyrodiil—down in the Pale Pass. Hibernation would have just ended. It nearly tore Ulfric apart. If you’d seen his injuries, you’d have wondered like I did how he could have possibly survived.”
“The beast blood,” Farkas fielded.
Lys gave a jerky nod, and there, tears appeared. “That was the choice. Cure him before the lycanthropy could take, and he would die. Let it heal him, and. . .
“How could I have chosen that?” Lys’ breath hitched. “I couldn’t ask him either. Only later could he say he wished. . . He wished I’d. . .”
She couldn’t say it, and Sif didn’t blame her. She could never choose that either for Farkas. As if Farkas thought the same in kind, his hand slid into hers and settled into a tight grip.
“I don’t think he means it. Not really.” Lys sniffled, gaze stuck to her mead bottle. “He’s frustrated. Angry, when it starts to interfere with everything else. The winter is fine because it goes away. This time of year is really hard. It doesn’t help that it’s close to the anniversary. He needed to-to transform. It was calling him too loudly.” Lys wiped her face. “I know a word of power that can calm wild animals. It seems laughable now to think it might, but it didn’t work on him. He caught the scent of something—that farm—and he was gone.
“Can I even promise it won’t happen again?” Lys threw her hands up haplessly. “I don’t know. He can’t control it. I can’t control him.”
“He’s not a dog.” Sif frowned. “You can’t train him like one.”
“What else do you do?” Lys asked. “There isn’t exactly a handbook for this. I think I’ve tracked down everything there is to read on it. I even asked some Reachfolk, but it’s like we were speaking different languages. They have their own way of thinking about werebeasts. It’s a blessing for them. As hard as he tries, Ulfric can’t see it that way. He might make some headway, and then he remembers he won’t see Sovngarde now. It kills him. He’ll suffer it for this life and after.”
Lys settled back into sniffles, using the sleeve of her shirt not unlike a child to clean her face. The residence’s main door opened. Sif didn’t have to turn around to know by Lys’ wide eyes—like she’d been caught doing something—who’d finished his appointments for the court day.
Breath uneven, Lys beelined for Ulfric. Well, she made for the door. Ulfric had frozen in alarm and moved aside for Lys to exit. She choked out in passing, “I’m sorry.”
And she was gone. Ulfric watched after her, beyond when she would have disappeared from sight. Then, with a sigh, he closed the door. He looked even more tired than Lys upon approach to where Sif and Farkas still sat.
Lys had left her unfinished mead on the table. Ulfric drained it after taking Lys’ seat as well. The facial scars the werebear attack had left Ulfric with pulled the skin in a way that turned any attempt to emote into some kind of grimace. He, like Lys, struggled to meet their eyes.
His tone conveyed exhausted surrender: “You’re here about the cow.”
By the time Sif and Farkas left the Palace later, Sif’s head had gone foggy. She was starving. Candlehearth Hall’s stew on offer made her mouth ache when Farkas opened one of its doors for her. While Farkas purchased their meal, Sif searched for a table. Upstairs, she found one near where Sedaris had collected a gaggle of rough-looking Nords, plus a few more Dunmer. They all leaned over what was probably a map, their voices low and hushed.
Sif and Farkas had been sent out by Kodlak to deal with a trouble bear. Not to counsel a marriage, which was how this had so far turned out. Although not quite as fit to burst as Lys had been, Ulfric leaked here and there. He’d become a burden. He hated how restless he was all the time. It shifted to anger without a proper outlet, and citizens who’d finally begun to warm up to him backed away again.
No matter what Ulfric had been through in his life, he’d always maintained control of his emotions. Survival had already proven a curse in his life, as if the gods just wouldn’t let him die. There were several times it could have happened. But no, he’d lived long enough for this final nail to come down into his coffin. Whenever Ulfric saw Tsun in his dreams—and his father waiting beyond the great bridge to Shor’s Hall—Ulfric could never make it to the god of trials before a great bear would drag him away.
To the Hunting Grounds, instead.
Farkas arrived and set one of the bowls in front of Sif. He carried two meads under his arm. As Sif picked up her spoon, Farkas said, “You look deep in thought.”
“I’m thinking about how lucky I am. How lucky we are,” Sif said. “We never had to deal with that. We were werewolves when we met.”
“It’s easy to take that for granted.” Farkas pondered it a moment, then smiled. He leaned over to nuzzle Sif’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Me neither.” Sif cuddled him back. “I do hope this works, though. I hope it helps.”
They had talked to Ulfric. Was there a cure? Yes, but it was far from an easy road. There was a reason such emphasis was placed upon preventing the lycanthropy taking. For Ulfric, of course, that window had already long closed.
But there was another way to try and soothe the beast. Lys said she had talked to the Reachfolk, but had she really listened? Had Ulfric not gone with her, to hear them for himself? Had something been lost in translation, or did Ulfric himself act as a wall?
I know it sounds like opposites, Farkas had told Ulfric. But giving in doesn’t mean surrendering. The blood wants something. The more you deny it, the worse it’ll get. Like a hungry animal. It’s desperation. But there’s a balance. Aye, you hear about the ones who give in too much. Who stay a beast forever and forget they’re even human. But I was turned as a lad, and I don’t worry about that. And people call me icebrain, so I guess if it had to do with smarts, I’d be in trouble. A sated wolf doesn’t hunt, though.
But a hungry bear will wander onto a farm, Sif had added in emphasis.
The three of them would leave in the morning. They could have left tonight, but Ulfric needed to arrange for Brunwulf to take his throne again in the interim. He wanted to talk to Lys first. He had Sif and Farkas’ permission out of necessity to tell her that they were werewolves. Sif had offered to track Lys down, for her scent was certainly distinctive against the rest of Windhelm, but Ulfric declined. He knew where she would be—down at her cousin’s house in the Grey Quarter—and that she would come back when she was ready. This conversation could take time.
However late into the night Ulfric and Lys tended to that, Ulfric still arrived as planned at the city gates. He’d dressed plainly, which had an entertaining effect on the guards of early dawn. They didn’t immediately realize Ulfric walked among them. It was obvious when they noticed by how their spines straightened. A couple cursed under their breath to themselves. Some greeted him.
Whatever good temperament Ulfric had for the morning withered by the time they passed the stables. He grew quiet instead. Was Ulfric actually grumpy, or just on edge?
He teetered toward the latter when they were all far enough away from the city. Sif and Farkas split off on their own to undress and ditch their clothes somewhere safe. While they transformed, Sif heard a man-like groan shift toward a growl on the other side of the bushes filling this copse.
Sif poked her head around, Farkas not far behind. Where Ulfric had been now sat a massive werebear. Even in this form—perhaps especially in this form—his mope was apparent. Shame rounded his shoulders, as if that might shrink them. Ulfric’s jowls sat heavily on his face, scarred much the same way his human face was. The lines crisscrossed his snout and disappeared into where his fur thickened at the neck. He tentatively stretched his head forward in a sniff, although turned his head away and down when Sif came close enough to return the gesture.
Farkas nudged Ulfric’s front leg with his head, the unspoken follow, and they headed off deeper into the wilderness. Ulfric’s initial hesitation translated eventually into a slower pace. He wasn’t fatigued. He couldn’t be. They’d hardly travelled at all, and Ulfric showed no signs anyway. Sif lowered her ears at Farkas as they two of them sat together at the top of a hilled clearing. Ulfric pulled up the rear as though he dragged the weight of the entire world along behind him.
Fighting it. Ulfric didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to do this. That only became all the more obvious when he sat back down far short of where Sif and Farkas laid. Then came the big sigh. It was a wonder that Ulfric wouldn’t just lay down to his chin and let the entire world pass him by.
Sif marched down the hill, which turned into a prance. Ulfric watched her warily as she approached. When Sif nipped at his back foot, Ulfric twitched and straightened up. Farkas started too. The two of them circled Ulfric, nipping here and there. Barked. When Ulfric growled, harassed and frustrated, Sif dropped to her forelegs in front of him. She sneezed.
Farkas grabbed the tip of Sif’s tail behind her, and Sif chased after him. She jumped when he turned too tight of a corner and grabbed him by the muzzle in her mouth. He sneezed. Sif let herself carry over Farkas in a roll, the two of them shifting into high-pitched barks as Farkas now chased Sif.
They rounded back down to where Ulfric was. He no longer sat, although remained tentative. His head was at an angle as he regarded them. Something had changed in his eyes.
Sif nipped at Ulfric’s front leg. He made to nip back but missed her. His teeth didn’t click, a good sign. This wasn’t a fight. Sif sneezed again. Ulfric didn’t, for that wasn’t a bear behaviour. Sif had seen enough cub pairs rolling each other around to know that.
She ran. A bark from Farkas compelled her to look back, and she yipped in glee to see Ulfric racing up behind her. Sif went as fast as she could. Ulfric kept pace. With a leap from Farkas, the three of them were soon rolling around in the tentative spring grass. Tundra cotton clung to all their fur. This time when Sif sneezed, it was because some had gotten into her nostril. It took several rounds to dislodge it.
Ulfric rolled in the grass, groaning like a bear enjoying itself ought to. With play briefly halted, Sif saw the exact second Ulfric’s human brain came back to itself. He stilled, and his open mouth faltered. Farkas then jumped on him. Whether he’d seen the same thing or not, it worked. Ulfric frantically righted himself off his back and they were off again.
They all panted at the end. Sif hoped that Ulfric was too tired now to think too hard on anything. It was a good sign that when she and Farkas started off toward where the nearest creek would be for a drink of water, Ulfric didn’t need any encouragement to follow along. He even ran for a short stint to catch right up to them.
Water was good. Bears loved water. The coldness of it felt good on Sif’s paws as she bit and lapped at the gentle torrents. Ulfric seemed to enjoy that too, a short way downstream. Back on the shore, he stretched. Every inch of his front claws bit into the soft soil. He then meandered over to a tree. Shredded bark soon covered the ground and the tree’s thick trunk had suffered several deep gashes.
Sif bapped Ulfric with her paw when they all sat together again. He was starting to get it. Permission to give in began to prove the missing link, and look: he hadn’t completely lost himself. He was still Ulfric. Didn’t he see?
A hunt would be good. Sif and Farkas hadn’t eaten that morning. As they moved along through the forest, Sif’s nose alternating between the air and ground, Ulfric took to flipping over rocks and licking at whatever he might find underneath there. Foraging. Good. He licked a snowberry bush clean too. If Sif could, she would have laughed at his stained-red muzzle afterward.
A rabbit, upwind.
Ulfric didn’t partake. Bears only hunted when necessary, and he seemed more curious anyway of watching how two werewolves made quick work of digging a rabbit out of its hole. He sniffed at the remnants of the carcass when they were done, followed by a few tentative licks. There wasn’t really anything left, especially not enough for a bear to subsist on.
Back at the creek, Ulfric circled a telltale lump in the mud. He darted forward with impressive speed and dislodged the mudcrab in one fell swoop. It made to pinch him. Ulfric dropped it before it could, then grabbed its claw the next time it tried. The mudcrab lost its arm entirely, and then the other when it tried again. Ulfric had soon cracked its entire body open and licked deeply into the shell to dislodge all the meat. The amount of the crab he held between his paws soon dwindled to nothing. He lapped at what flesh remained within the crab legs too.
It was a good meal, judging by the way Ulfric rolled onto his side on a drier part of the bank.
Sleep was good. Sif curled up along with Farkas into an even bigger lump of fur. It was a very warm and safe place to be.
After rest came more food. Then, more rest. Bears, like wolves, were crepuscular. The middle of the day was a great time to graze their way through the forests. When Sif began to feel the restlessness of twilight, so too did Farkas and Ulfric show signs of it. Sif and Farkas went off on another hunt. They retraced their steps back to Ulfric to find him in the creek again. He bit at the water, slurping up small fish.
Another snowberry bush was stripped. Ulfric brought a branch back with him. Touched, Sif ate a couple. How could she not?
It was a good first day. They hadn’t made any plans on how long to stay out here, other than to see if Ulfric’s struggle could be mitigated. Sif always enjoyed a good run around in Skyrim’s wilderness with Farkas anyway. Seeing Skyrim as a predator at the top of the food chain was a completely different experience than being confined to the roads. Any weapons they might need were attached to their front paws and set into their mouths. Showing that to someone new made it exciting again in a fresh way.
Sif and Farkas probably shouldn’t be away from Whiterun for longer than a week. Everyone would start to worry after that, even if the two of them could more than handle themselves. The Silver Hand posed the occasional danger. Still, even with that arbitrary time limit, it went unspoken that Sif and Farkas would let Ulfric dictate the terms of this little adventure. It was important for the human to wrangle in the beast on its own, as far as cohabitating went. And if the beast could so easily relent with comfort it would have its chance again in future, all the better.
There was much joy for Ulfric in marking up trees, wading in creeks, and rolling around in bouts of play that he would have never experienced for being turned so late in life. He discovered a favourite thing rather quickly: scratching his back against the roughest trees he could find. The entire thing would shake and he would growl with pleasure as he wriggled around.
A few days later when Sif woke up, she was colder than any other morning. Only Farkas was there. Ulfric’s scent trail headed downhill.
Sif and Farkas followed. They weren’t terribly far from Kjurt’s farm, a fact which existed in the back of Sif’s mind. She’d nearly forgotten, actually. The forest they occupied was on the other side of the river, but that was the direction Ulfric headed. He hadn’t caught scent of that steer carcass again, had he? Hadn’t Kjurt cleaned that up, now the attending Companions had a chance to look it over?
Before the farm was the White River, though. Far shy downstream, Sif and Farkas found Ulfric on all fours in deeper waters than the creek they’d been using. His great backside blocked the water’s spray to create a window through which to better see. Spring salmon jumped tentatively at the rocks beneath Ulfric. Every time, his head would train toward where the salmon had gone back under. His mouth hung slightly open, jaws loose in preparation.
He snapped at a salmon that made a leap for it. Missed. Had he been heading back toward the farm, but then some higher instinct caught him at the river? A fresh fish was definitely better than that aging old corpse, whether or not Ulfric’s guts could certainly handle it.
Another snap. Ulfric was getting better. He’d practiced in the creek, and his dexterity as a whole in bear form had improved from several spells of daily play.
Ulfric caught a salmon. Immediately, he beelined for shore and a spot to eat it. He settled down when the salmon was dead, lowering onto his stomach as his claws and teeth coordinated to shred his meal. Sif and Farkas came down the embankment to him. Ulfric looked up at them with his head still lowered, the whites of his eyes visible at the bottom. When they showed no sign that they’d come to try and take his fish away in a betrayal of their established trust, he focused again on the fleshy little mess between his massive paws.
The salmon was big. Probably enough so that Ulfric had met his caloric requirements for the day. His laziness to follow certainly spoke as such. Sif and Farkas took their turn in the river for something to eat while Ulfric made himself comfortable in deep sleep atop a log. His golden brown fur dried in the sun. For Rain’s Hand, it was actually quite powerful in the sky. Sif enjoyed a good bask as well, once she and Farkas had also eaten.
Ulfric sat awake when they’d roused. There was another look in his eye, one Sif instinctually likened to right after they’d all first transformed. Not a mope, but fatigue. Sif knew what to expect after they’d all travelled further along the river, back toward where they’d all left their things. While Ulfric carried on for his, Sif and Farkas transformed and dressed on their side of the bushes.
The edge of the copse overlooked a deeper part of the river. Sif and Farkas found Ulfric there in human form, dressed, calm, and simply enjoying this part of the hold that men so rarely saw. Some awkwardness on Ulfric’s part was to be expected, Sif thought. They’d all bonded as a pack, but lived vastly different lives as humans. That part of the human mind so keen on categorization had woken again. Sif and Farkas were wolves. They were married with kids. They were Companions, and lived in Whiterun. When they left, they left together. When the three of them all parted, it was with no real idea of when—or if—this pack might ever run together again.
“That was good,” Ulfric broke the silence in a tone snagged by the same lament. “I. . .needed that.”
“Feels better, doesn’t it?” Farkas asked. “Happy bear, happy man. That’s how it’s always been with my wolf.”
The same way they as wolves and a bear lived in symbiosis, so too did the human and beast. Even the scars of Ulfric’s face seemed less drastic now so much weight had come off his brow.
“I could probably live like that forever,” Ulfric admitted what to Sif was a common sentiment of the beast. “But it’s not my only home. I miss Lys. I’m ready to get back on the throne and give Windhelm the attention it deserves.”
“That’s the man in you,” Sif pointed out. “Respect your bear, and it’ll respect that. You’ll be all right, Ulfric.”
“All thanks to you two. I really can’t thank you enough.”
With their farewells all said, Ulfric headed north and Sif and Farkas started south. Neither spoke until they reached the road.
“We should stop in at Kjurt’s farm,” Sif suggested. “Tell him the bear’s been dealt with.”
“Aye.” Farkas took Sif’s hand. “And then I’m ready to go home too.”
Sif had been home again for a few weeks when a courier found her in Jorrvaskr’s training yard. Despite the amount of time the letter would have spent against the courier’s breast, it retained the smell of Windhelm. Sif’s instinct said that the paper had come from Ulfric’s desk, although no official seal denoted jarl business. Neither did the hand it was written in, it turned out:
Sif (and Farkas),
THANK YOU SO MUCH! It’s been so long since Ulfric was happy that I’d almost forgotten what it was like. An entirely new man came home from your little trip. I have my husband back.
We’ve been talking about doing our own thing like that when the pull starts making him restless. A good stint in the spring when that first hunger surfaces would help mitigate a lot, I think. Ulfric’s not just happy, but excited about it all.
Maybe we’ll see you two out and about? Don’t be afraid to come say hello if you catch our scent, I promise I’ll be better company this time. No more blubbering mess.
Lys
Farkas had rested his head against Sif’s as he read over her shoulder. Smiling when she’d reached the end of the letter, Sif turned her head to catch his lips in a kiss.
“I feel like going for a run.” The happiness in Sif’s chest had no better way to be properly expressed. “What about you?”