"Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky.

His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.

Men ran and they cowered, they fought and they died.

They burned and they bled as they issued their cries.

We need saviors to free us from Alduin's rage,

Heroes on the field of this new war to wage.

If Alduin wins, man is gone from this world,

Lost in the shadow of black wings unfurled.

But then came the Tongues on that terrible day,

Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray.

All heard the music of Alduin's doom,

The sweet songs of Skyrim, earth-shattering Thu'um.

And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin's rage,

Gave the gift of the Voice, and ushered in a new age.

And if he is eternal, then eternity's done,

For his story is over, and the dragons are…gone."

A sigh escaped Ulfric's lips as the bard finished her tune, plucking the final string with a sharpened fingernail.

"Thank you," Ulfric's voice sounded strained to his own ears. The bard held her lute to her side as she knelt into a graceful curtsy.

"It's an honor to play for you, my king," she said in a musical voice. Ulfric watched as she receded down the long hall and disappeared into the shadows. He heard the heavy door shut behind her. He turned to his friend, one of his oldest companions, and lazily rolled his eyes.

"Jorleif, have you seen my wife about the palace recently?"

"No, sire, not since this morning," came Jorleif's predictably respectful reply. Ulfric let another sigh escape, this one noticeably more exasperated than the last.

"My friend," he began, before Jorleif cut him off.

"I know, my king, but I'm afraid my formal habits are becoming harder and harder to break as the years pass."

Before he could issue his reply, he was once again interrupted by the door at the end of the shadowed hall slamming shut. He heard her shuffling steps before he discerned his wife's form approaching the throne, round with his child. He stood and descended from his high seat, opening his arms as she approached.

"My dear Queen," he took her shoulders, stopping for a moment to appraise her pale, moonstone skin and her hair that was as black as Oblivion.

The only woman Ulfric had ever loved disappeared from Tamriel ten years past. He had searched, no, scoured in vain for her, even with the knowledge that her soul had never returned to the material realm. At first, and for many years, he had refused to marry, but his stewards had convinced him the importance of an heir to Skyrim's High Throne.

On a tour of the province, he was lucky enough to find a Nord woman who had beautiful features that were mildly comparable to Sif's; Olfeildi was the closest thing he could've ever found had he scoured the surface of Nirn itself.

It wasn't the same, still.

Her features were not sharp enough to noticeably soften from time to time, her eyes were not the color of the golden sun, and she did not burn with lust for the blood of her enemies. She neither possessed the distinctive facial markings nor the seemingly feeble stature of Sif Red-Shadow.

Or, as she had come to be known from the legends and stories of her existence, Sif Dragon-Heart.

"Ulfric, your son will not allow me to sleep," Olfeildi spoke with the thick accent that was common with women raised in Skyrim. She had a mischievous smile on her face as she grabbed his hand and placed in on her round stomach. Ulfric could feel the child beneath his hand, squirming freely. He felt warmth within him to know that his child was alive.

"I suppose he won't, Olvy," he said, using his nickname for her as his icy eyes met her dark blue ones. Whether or not she was Sif Dragon-Heart, she was carrying his child, and he cared for her.

He just didn't love her.

"Why don't I summon the court alchemist?" Ulfric removed his hand and nodded to Jorleif, who disappeared to find Alvina, their Dunmer alchemist. "She will make you a concoction that will allow you to rest."

"An excellent idea, my love," Olvy replied, her playful smile turning into a genuine one. He returned it without feeling. "It's a good thing Skyrim has you making their decisions."

An empty compliment. Olvy's wit was nothing to write stories of. Still, he felt humbled enough to place a light kiss upon her brow.

"Your Graces," he was brought to attention by Alvina's voice. Jorleif had brought her quickly to Ulfric's throne. Even though he had never outright acknowledged that he was aware of Ulfric's opinion of Olfeildi, Ulfric was certain that Jorleif knew of his indifference and resentment towards the young Queen.

He is always quick to find a way to pass her off on someone else, Ulfric thought to himself. He's a damn good man.

"My Queen, Jorleif tells me that you cannot sleep," Alvina said, her crimson eyes flashing from Ulfric to Olvy. "I believe I can help you, if you wish it."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you, Alvina," Olvy crooned in her voice, not at all sharp and concluding as Sif's was.

Ulfric smiled at the Dunmer as she bowed, turning to guide Olvy to her laboratory in the palace's upper rooms. He turned to Jorleif, who was standing at attention.

"What is it, my friend?" Ulfric asked, hoping that Jorleif would have some news of their exploits in Morrowind or Hammerfell.

"Galmar has called for you, milord," he said, to Ulfric's satisfaction. They both took off in stride to Galmar's recently relocated war room in the upper chambers. As Ulfric took long strides up the stairs and down the hallway, he pursued Jorleif's information.

"What news is there?" Ulfric hastily asked, his heart beating in time with his strides.

"A messenger arrived this morning from our ambassador in Morrowind, as well as an envoy of the Crowns," Jorleif could not hide the smile on his weathered face. "From what I know, there was no hostility in their interactions. I believe our efforts may have been a success."

"That's excellent news," Ulfric said as they turned a corner and continued their journey to Galmar's room. Jorleif didn't have time to reply before they charged into the war room, where Galmar was speaking to both a Redguard woman dressed in opulent, colorful robes, as well as a young Dunmer man in much simpler garb.

"High King Ulfric Stormcloak, former jarl of Windhelm, first of his name, leader of the Stormcloak Army and rightful successor of Skyrim's High Throne," Jorleif barely had time to announce before both of the foreigners bowed deeply and respectfully. Ulfric forced his smile away, biting his lip to keep himself from displaying his joy.

"It is my pleasure to welcome you to Windhelm, friends," he said, stepping forward and standing as tall as his heavy robes would allow without protest. "I hope that the journey here was kind to you."

"It is most wonderful to meet you in person, Your Eminence," the Redguard woman spoke first, bowing more deeply than she had the first time. "My lords and ladies speak most highly of your exploits. I am Lady Azhira, Consult to the Crowns."

"I'm glad to provide you with lodging should you stay in my city, Lady Azhira," Ulfric spoke with definite kindness. "Have the Crowns considered my proposal."

He was surprised to hear a musical chuckle escape the exotic woman's lips.

"Yes, High King," she said, pointing to a piece of paper that was resting on the table in front of where Galmar stood. "Hammerfell will be glad to accept an ambassador to Skyrim. Our intelligence has determined that the Empire's downfall has prompted the Thalmor to muster their forces in the city of Senchal, on the coast of the former-Elsweyrian state of Pallatine. They plan to move their forces north in the coming week. Hammerfell would both welcome and appreciate Skyrim's support in defending their province from the Thalmor aggressors, as well as forming a new empire to rule Tamriel."

Ulfric exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. The air didn't feel as heavy as it did moments ago, and he reached up to gently wipe a bullet of sweat from his scarred forehead.

"That is… That is wonderful news," he said, clasping his hands together tightly. "Please inform the Crowns and the Forebears that they shall accept my ambassador, Brunwulf Free-Winter, within three-weeks' time."

It was a decision Ulfric didn't have to think twice about. Brunwulf had been a longtime advocate of Dunmer and Argonian rights, prior to Sif's arrival in Windhelm. Since he took the throne, he had taken Brunwulf as a trusted advisor of foreign policy. Maintaining a beneficial relationship with Hammerfell was vital; Brunwulf was a strong-hearted and understanding Nord. He would surely be able to handle the job.

"I will be certain to do that, Your Grace," Azhira said. "The first draft of the treaty between Skyrim and Hammerfell has been penned, with kind regards from our rulers. Upon our convention and the signatures of the leaders of the three provinces, it will replace the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai. It is enclosed with the letter I've brought."

Before he could enthusiastically reply, the young Dunmer spoken from where he stood across the room.

"My news is of the same nature, Your Grace. I come bearing gifts from House Redoran, in return for the Stormcloaks' assistance in pushing the Argonians back to Black Marsh."

Ulfric could hardly believe it. After weeks of waiting, he finally got the responses he was hoping for. With the power of three combined nations, they would be able to challenge and demolish the Dominion.

"My greatest thanks to House Redoran – no, to all the Great Houses of Morrowind," he said, first to the Dunmer before turning to Lady Azhira. "And my greatest thanks to the Crowns and the ruling families of Hammerfell. I trust you both to inform them that our union will be prosperous and strong. I am aware that once the treaty becomes official, the Thalmor will view it as the first act of aggression in a multi-nation rebellion. We must be prepared for the arrival of their oppressive forces."

"The Houses request yours and Skyrim's aide in reestablishing order in what remains of our homeland," the Dunmer continued, turning to Lady Azhira. "Seeing that Morrowind and Hammerfell will be allies from here on out, I suppose they request the same from your people."

"It will be done," Ulfric and the Lady spoke in unison, looked to each other, and chuckled in acknowledgement.

"A true Nord holds to their word," Ulfric continued. "A true citizen of Skyrim honors their bonds, and cherishes them deeply. Hammerfell and Morrowind may call upon this province for aid, and we will do what we must to ensure their safety."

Ulfric turned to Jorleif.

"With that out of the way, let's arrange lodgings for our friends," Ulfric stated plainly, nodding at Jorleif with confidence. Jorleif had been Ulfric's steward long enough to know when his lord was truly happy, and such a happiness had not been known since the days when the Dragonborn would grace the palace with her presence.

"I'm afraid I am due back at the Embassy of the Crown in less than an hour, my liege," Lady Azhira said, glancing behind her at a window to confirm the sun was still shining. "The court mage of the Crowns will be opening a portal for me to return to the court in a matter of hours. I believe, until then, I will deign to acquaint myself with whatever ale your kind frequently consumes."

Ulfric and Galmar both found themselves heartily laughing at the Lady's statement.

"You would best find that at Candlehearth Hall, m'lady," Galmar growled, speaking for the first time since Ulfric had entered the war room. "We'll have an escort show you there."

She bowed gratefully to Ulfric, then to Galmar, and Jorleif immediately showed her out of the room. That left only the Dunmer, who Ulfric turned to quickly.

"I would be glad to buy you passage back to Solstheim on my personal ship," he said, without pause. The politics he had been practicing for nearly ten years had certainly paid him an advantage, especially dealing with foreign dignitaries that he was obligated to please.

"That would be most expeditious for my journey, High King, and it is much appreciated by House Redoran," he replied with a smile on his face. "Let it be known that the Houses will convene and draft a treaty that includes Hammerfell within its clauses."

Jorleif promptly returned and too showed the Dunmer out. Ulfric turned to Galmar and let a heavy sigh go with a sense of lofty relief.

"Do you think those damned elves will hold to their own terms?" he growled, looking at Ulfric with a sarcastic humor in his eyes. Ulfric briefly chuckled.

"The Thalmor are our only enemy now, Galmar," Ulfric said, cracking a smile that was reminiscent of the one he wore on the night they took Solitude and began to topple the Empire.

"You've really started something, Ulfric," Galmar responded with an approving nod. "And to think, it's all been because of the Drago-"

"Your Grace!"

Ulfric turned on his heel to face the door when he heard Jorleif's desperate cry coming down the hallway, followed by the panting man himself.

"Jorleif! What's wrong?" Galmar shouted before Ulfric could say anything.

"Sire, Queen Olfeildi is giving birth! The baby will be due at any moment!"

Ulfric had no time to exchange looks with Galmar before he took off after Jorleif. They made haste down the stairs, and as they came into the main hall, Ulfric could hear the wail of a newborn baby echoing from Alvina's laboratory. He and his steward followed the sounds until they came into the room to see Olfeildi wrapped in clean sheets, her flushed face covered in a sheen of sweat. She was asleep.

Ulfric's eyes frantically shot to Alvina as she emerged from around the corner, her eyes transfixed upon a bundle of furs in her arms. He crossed the room in two strides and sighed with relief when he saw a smooth, pale, sleeping face beneath the rolls of furs and fabric.

"By the Nine," he breathed quietly. The newborn's face was small and soft, in a state of complete and utter peace… He stared at the face of his child, the future ruler of Skyrim.

"Sire, I'm so deeply sorry that I didn't send for you in time," Alvina whispered, gently pressing the child into Ulfric's arms. "As soon as we got here, the Queen began to give birth right away. I had no time to step away before the child was born."

Ulfric took the baby into his arms.

"I've been present at many births throughout my life, and never have I seen one happen as quickly as your son's," Alvina smiled to see Ulfric, too, enthralled by the newborn.

"What about the Queen?" Ulfric's deep voice was low, as to not stir his son from his slumber.

"She's going to need her rest. I gave her something for the pain, and she fell asleep after feeding him," Ulfric looked up at Alvina when he felt her place a gentle hand on his sleeve. She offered him a kind smile. "Congratulations, Your Grace. What are you going to name the young prince?"

Ulfric stared down at the sleeping baby in his arms, taking the time to notice his features carefully. There was a tuft of dark hair atop his fuzzy head, much like the color of the Queen's. His skin was pale, not quite the tint of moonstone, but it seemed to be giving off the same gentle aura. His nose was square, like his jaw, and flat. He knew that infants looked mostly the same upon their birth, but he couldn't help thinking his son would grow up to be a strapping lad, and the great ruler that the New Empire would deserve.

The High King of Skyrim suddenly felt a pang of regret. Years ago, more years than he thought would pass, he had done the unthinkable and plunged Skyrim into civil unrest. For the past ten years, he had been trying to convince the people who had loved Torygg that he knew what was best for them, but, perhaps…

"I'll name him Torygg," he knew that some would see it as an insult, and he was prepared for it. Elisif wouldn't be happy, that stuck-up crone, but he thought it would be the push that the loyalists needed to finally support him.

"A fine name, Sire," Alvina nodded. She recently immigrated to Skyrim from a slaver's camp in Morrowind, after their campaign against the Argonians succeeded. Too recently to know how Ulfric became High King.

He looked down at Torygg just in time to see the infant open his eyes.

They were blazing yellow.

Ulfric staggered backward, shifting the child in his arms as he inhaled sharply. Those glowing eyes locked onto his in a steady and penetrating gaze that was not typical of an infant born only minutes ago.

They were Sif's eyes. Some cruel taunt, or some gift from the Divines, he was unsure. They were Sif's eyes, though. They were the eyes that fixed on him from his dreams, they were the eyes that he had sought every moment for the last ten years.

"Is there something wrong, Sire?" Alvina's voice interrupted his thoughts just as they began to go rampant. He broke Torygg's gaze and looked up, suddenly thankful that the Dunmer was there.

"May I ask," he said quietly, handing the child to her while carefully avoiding catching the bright gaze he felt burning into him. "I just need a moment… I'm just going to step outside, get some air. I just need a moment."

"Of course," she said, a smile illuminating her dark features as she folded Torygg into her arms and took a seat on the lounge behind her. Ulfric turned away and swept out of the room. He was outside the Palace of the Kings in less than a minute. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he deeply exhaled, his warm breath turning to fog as it met the freezing air. He took a moment to make sure no one was around before bracing his forearm against the stone wall and sighing deeply.

He didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps it was a fluke, something that happened just after an infant was born? He realized how little he knew about children. Ulfric had never met Olfeildi's parents; he had to assume it was an inherited trait from her side of the lineage.

Something in him knew that wasn't it.

He turned, leaning his body against the wall. The cold was bitter; Ulfric was becoming an old man, now. He didn't adjust as well to the frozen climate of Eastmarch as he had in his younger days. Looking up at the night sky, he sighed. His eyes searched the stars above, outlining as many constellations as he knew. He could faintly make out the six bright stars that composed the Warrior with his sword and shield, recognized from memories of the books his mother gave to him as a child. A faint smile graced his stern face. As a child, he had always dreamt of being like the Warrior; strong, bright, fierce, and undaunted.

As his eyes traveled east from where the Warrior shone, he could easily find the next constellation. The fourteenth constellation that had mysteriously appeared in the sky, moments after the dragons had rallied around the Throat of the World and echoed their cries of victory and disappeared from Tamriel. It was a constellation of seven stars, the brightest one shining with a yellow tint in the center of the constellation. He had seen it drawn up in the newer editions of the constellation guides.

They had named it the Dragonborn.

Ulfric could see the shape; the stars faintly formed the outline of a steadfast warrior in opulent armor, standing erect with a wild mane of hair stretching behind them. In some depictions, their mouth was open, but Ulfric could only see it being drawn into a full smirk.

He didn't know exactly what happened to her. The night after she had left for Skuldafn, her former protector Julius Patrinius returned to Windhelm. Ulfric had remembered meeting the old man and directing him to where Sif had been at the time. When Julius returned, he told Ulfric that she had "ascended"; her last wish on Tamriel was for Julius to lend his services as a steward and a scribe to Ulfric. Of course, Ulfric accepted him into his court. Julius served loyally until his death the following year.

When Julius had been a part of Ulfric's court, the two of them spent all the time they had together compiling their information about Sif's life. Julius was an excellent writer; fortunately, by the time he took ill, he had finished writing his complete biography of Sif Dragon-Heart, the last heir to the Septim bloodline. The illness took him swiftly. Ulfric funded the publishing of his masterpiece; he estimated that there were millions of copies circulating the libraries and book binderies of Tamriel.

He knew she had gone to Sovngarde in pursuit of Alduin, but if Hermaeus Mora had truly taken her soul to Oblivion… He would know. In his heart, he would've felt it.

He stared hard at her constellation, her spirit in the sky, feeling the familiar ache in his heart that would never be satisfied. He should've taken her hand, that night, outside of Castle Dour; he should've pulled her back inside and begged her to stay.

But he hadn't.

He took one last, hard look and turned his back to the cold, going back inside.

Vilkas chuckled heartily at Aela's toast, holding his flagon aloft as she continued.

"And may we find that many coins end up in our pockets for this season, and for every season we continue to provide our noble craft. Hail, Companions!"

There came the echoing cry that Vilkas knew well.

"Hail!"

The lot of them proceeded to break the bread, divide the roast, and fight over the next flagon of mead as the feast proceeded. Vilkas's eyes flashed to each spot at their large feasting table as he took another sip from his flagon. Aela, Athis, Torvar… Some of the newer whelps whose names Vilkas couldn't remember, Njada with her arm around a red-faced Ria, both laughing heartily… Farkas was not there.

Vilkas stood from his chair so quickly that it was knocked back, thudding as it hit the ground. Though the others were caught in the festivities, Aela immediately noticed Vilkas's sudden movement. Her sharp eyes snapped in his direction.

"Vilkas?" she said over the noise. His eyes were wide as he scanned the room; once she realized what he was scanning for, she too stood from her chair and crossed the room to stand next to him.

"Where did you last see him?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Do you know what day it is?" Vilkas asked, ignoring her question completely as he turned to look at her with a grave expression.

Vilkas watched Aela's eyes as she thought carefully for a moment, and he saw the realization come over her. She gave Vilkas an anxious look and didn't hesitate to turn and storm out of Jorrvaskr with Vilkas in tow. He didn't ask her where she was going; he already knew. Farkas often went up to Dragonsreach to think, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. When he couldn't be found, he was often at the balcony, leaning heavily on the stone arch and staring into the sky with empty eyes.

"Jarl Vignar," Aela announced as the two of them came into Dragonsreach's great hall. The Jarl was speaking with his housecarl, but immediately turned his attention on Aela as she and Vilkas stormed up to the throne. "We're looking for Farkas. Do you know if he's on the balcony?"

"I haven't seen him today," Vignar replied in his gruff voice. "You're welcome to have a look, Companions."

"Thank you," Vilkas said as Aela ran ahead. When they both came to the balcony, Farkas was nowhere to be found. They searched the rafters, the barracks, even the Jarl gave them permission to search his own quarters. They found no evidence of Farkas.

"It's been ten years, hasn't it?" Aela asked at they descended the steps from the Cloud District. Vilkas remembered what Sif had told him, ten years ago, as they spoke on the Dragonsreach terrace. He remembered her smooth face, her velvety voice… He remembered how jealous he had been that she'd chosen his twin instead of him. None of that mattered, anymore. They had to find Farkas.

He remembered her full lips, her eyes like embers burning into his as she spoke to him in a low voice.

'Please see to it that he forgets, Vilkas. Please. For your brother's sake, you must make him forget. Promise me.'

He remembered his promise.

I'm sorry I failed you, he thought to himself. I tried, and I failed.

It was true that Vilkas was unable to keep his promise. His brother had taken great pains to remember Sif. Every day after she left he went to Dragonsreach; until weeks later, when the dragons convened at the Throat of the World and Shouted of the Dragonborn's victory against Alduin. Farkas disappeared for three days after that. When he finally returned, he revealed little about his journey; only that he had climbed the steps to reach High Hrothgar, met the men that were responsible for helping Sif discover her incredible lineage.

After Julius left their company to serve the High King, it wasn't long before his biography of Sif Dragon-Heart began to circulate around the kingdom. Vilkas had read it twice. Farkas wasn't an able reader, but Vilkas had recalled him studying letters until he could read the biography. Vilkas had known that Sif was special, there was no disputing it, but he had no idea that she was the last link in Tiber Septim's chain. With the knowledge that Talos's living descendant had trained with the Companions, new members flocked to Jorrvaskr. Their ranks hadn't been so affluent since the days of Ysgramor.

The first years had been the hardest. Farkas spoke very little. He spent a lot of time by himself. It worried Vilkas greatly, but there was naught he could do. Sif had left her mark on all of them. Vilkas had tried talking to him, but it solved nothing. Farkas simply listened with a blank stare.

They kept the Glenmoril heads so that those with the blood could cure themselves if they wished to spend their afterlives in Sovngarde, instead of Hircine's plane of Oblivion. Vilkas had not yet used one, he and Farkas promised each other that they would make the decision together, as brothers-

A terrible thought crossed his mind.

"The heads. The Glenmoril heads," he turned to Aela. He saw the wrinkled beginning to form on her face; not as young as she was, but she'd grown ever wiser as the Harbinger. Even if she didn't boast the same vigor and bloodlust she had in her younger days, she still possessed the same rough beauty that drew men to her like moths drawn by a bright, warm flame.

"They're in my room. I had the court mage enchant them so they wouldn't rot," she gestured to Jorrvaskr. "They're in a locked chest at the foot of my bed."

"Do you have the key?"

"Of course, I always…" she pawed at her pockets, reaching into the satchel at her side, becoming more frantic as each pocket turned up empty. "I swear, I… It was in my pocket!"

Vilkas's eyes went wide.

They both took off running for Aela's chambers, blasting through Jorrvaskr as the festivities continued. The two of them sprinted down the stairs and were in the Harbinger's chambers in a matter of seconds.

The key was on the ground next to the chest, which had been left open. Vilkas thought of the last time he'd seen Farkas… Yesterday. He shook his head, ashamed that he could be so careless. He dropped to his knees, reaching into the sack that held the last of the Glenmoril heads. Sure enough, one of them was missing.

Vilkas leaned back, sinking into the doorframe, his fingers knotted in his dirty hair. He felt his eyes stinging, he felt every muscle aching desperately, he felt his stomach revolting at the thought of anything. He squeezed fistfuls of hair as he felt the shaking sobs rack his body. He felt the sudden, strong emptiness that occupied his entire being as dirty, salty tears washed down his scarred face. Aela was speaking, grabbing his arms as she knelt in front of him, but her voice was only an echo. All he knew, in that moment, was the endless, raging pain that was coming from the pit of his stomach.

He mustered his strength, swallowing the scream that was waiting to escape his lips. He was a warrior, he had to remind himself, and he knew what he had to do to find the answer to the question invading his mind.

"I have to see the constellation," he stood, suddenly, as Aela stumbled back with a confused look on her face. When his red-rimmed, puffy eyes met hers, she knew what he meant.

"It shines in the south," Vilkas heard her say as he stalked out of the room with haste. The walls, the rug, everything blurred in his vision. He had to see the Dragonborn in the night sky. It would give him the answer.

The night air stung his wet cheeks. He paid it no regard; instead, he stood in the practice yard, searching the unusually clear sky. He found the yellow star in a matter of minutes, finding the seven stars that formed the body of a fearless warrior.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, something else was appearing.

It started first as a dull, blue flicker, just off to the side of the Dragonborn. Vilkas could see another flicker next to it. Suddenly, the sky was aglow as flickers illuminated new stars, all with an icy blue tint that was all too familiar to Vilkas's eyes. He watched as a new constellation forming in the sky, an extension of the Dragonborn.

It was the shape of a howling wolf.

For years, Vilkas would wonder why his brother's spirit had manifested itself as a wolf; perhaps due to his physical strength, or even his wild mannerisms that manifested in his human form. However, Vilkas never would doubt that his brother had taken the head, gone to Ysgramor's Tomb, and performed the cleansing ritual. He didn't know how he chose to die. Knowing Farkas, he must've requested that the former Harbingers grant him a death in combat. Vilkas knew that his twin had ended his own human life and ascended to Sovngarde. He knew that Farkas had gone there in search of Sif. Whether they were reunited would be something Vilkas would have to find out on his own.

That night, however, all he could do was drop to his knees, his eyes focused on the icy-blue stars that formed his wilder brother's eyes.

Farkas was dead, but he'd never looked more alive.