Skyrim Fanfiction: She's Hale Again
Title: She's Hale Again
Summary: Tilma falls and gets badly injured, forcing the Companions to change their accustomed routines.
Words: 5189
She's Hale Again
“Red!” The shout echoed through Jorrvaskr.
Falka, who had fallen asleep on her desk, jerked awake.
“Red!” Again, the walls echoed from the yell.
Still slightly drugged with sleep, the redguard woman jumped to her feet.
“Red!” A third time, the roar literally shook the foundations of the ancient hall. Vilkas was screaming for her on the top of his lungs.
She was fully awake now, her mind happily supplying horrors that might have prompted Vilkas' frantic reaction.
“Red!”
By the time the echo had died down, Falka was already racing through the hallway. She sped up the short flight of stairs, taking them two steps at a time. Sick with worry, she arrived in the main hall.
“Red!”
The urgency in Vilkas' shout made her expect the worst. And then, she saw him, kneeling in a pool of blood next to a limp body. The sight alone made her stomach turn. Tilma! Her body was sprawled over the short flight of stairs that led out to Jorrvaskr's backyard. Next to Vilkas, Njada, her hands smeared with blood, was frantically pressing some linen against Tilma's head. The fabric was dark with blood. With shaking hands, Vilkas was trying to raise a healing spell to stop the blood gushing from Tilma's body.
“Red!” Vilkas hollered again without looking up from the injured woman.
“I'm here.” Falka placed a hand on his shoulder, dreading what was surely to come next.
Vilkas briefly looked up from his charge, his already pale face white as snow. Sweat shone on his forehead. “You're here,” he acknowledged her presence with an audible sigh, already returning his attention back to Tilma.
“Vilkas?” Tilma asked in a feeble voice. “Did… I… fall?” She spoke slowly, slurring her words, and it took her forever to articulate the simple question.
Njada caught Falka's eye, directing her gaze to the profusely bleeding wound on Tilma's head. For an instant, Njada lessened her pressure against the wound. Blood gushed out and over brow, linen, and Njada's hand.
“I… don't… feel well,” Tilma mumbled. Her eyelids fluttered, then fell shut.
“Can you heal her?”
Falka let go of Vilkas' shoulder and sank to her knees behind Tilma's head. Her eyes darted over the old woman's body.
“No other injuries.” Vilkas' voice was pressed. “Least none that I can see.”
Falka nodded, then again returned her attention to the head wound. She concentrated, and two balls of golden light formed on her palms. Vilkas watched as Falka directed the golden light towards Tilma's head, letting it wash over the injury. Taking over from Njada, Vilkas took Tilma's head between his hands, making sure not to lessen the pressure on the bandage as he did so. The linen was wet with blood. Vilkas felt the healing power as it rushed into the old woman's body, some of it going astray and strengthening his own weary limbs.
Moments passed. Athis and Ria arrived from outside, where they had been training until Vilkas' frantic shouting had drawn their attention. Nobody spoke as all present stared at Falka's hands and the golden light flowing from them. Her hands and arms started to shake from the exertion. The healing exhausted Falka as she drew from the last of her energy reserves. With a desperate shout, she pushed everything she had into one last gush of healing power. Then, she slumped down on the floor next to Tilma, spent and panting heavily.
Njada and Vilkas bent over the old woman. And sighed in relief at what they saw. The bleeding had stopped. Though there still was a nasty gash on Tilma's forehead, Vilkas now dared to slacken the pressure against the injury.
“Farkas?” The old woman's voice was barely a whisper as her gaze ghosted over his face.
“No, Tilma.” He gently stroke her cheek. “It's me, Vilkas.” He looked up from the old woman, smiling. And caught sight of Falka, slumped on the stairs and weak from exhaustion. Concern replaced the relief on his face. “Red?”
“'m fine,” she mumbled. “Give me one moment.” And waving at Tilma, she added, “See to her.”
Gently, Vilkas gathered Tilma's frail form in his arms. Njada got up, inefficiently wiping the blood from her arms with the soiled cloth. Ria and Athis - for once not at each others throats - offered to get water and wrappings to clean and dress the wound.
“Bring everything to my old room,” Vilkas instructed them. In his arms, Tilma whimpered. “We'll have you resting in a bed in no time, Tilma,” he assured her, not entirely sure the old woman was still conscious enough to hear him. “Red?” Vilkas then inquired, turning to face his wife.
But instead of getting up, Falka had stretched out across the stairs as best as she could and was lying there on the floor, one arm covering her eyes.
“Falka!” His outcry made all the Companions present in the hall turn their heads towards them.
Falka raised her arm to look at Vilkas. Worry deepened the etches on his face, all the more intensified at the sight of her weariness. Sighing, Falka slowly sat up and rested herself against the nearest wooden pillar. After a few moments, she drew a deep breath and, steadying herself on the pillar, tried to pull herself up.
“Woah…” she groaned, reeling, and sank down to the floor again.
“Red, you're scaring me.” Vilkas took a step towards her. In his arms, Tilma whimpered.
“Njada!”
The young woman tore her gaze from her Harbinger, and looked at him. “Here, take Tilma.”
“Why me,” Njada protested. “Tilma's too heavy for me!”
“Because! Tilma has cooked and washed for you as well as all of us for years, and now you can't even-”
“Vilkas,” Falka's voice interrupted his shouting. “Njada will help me. Right?”
Caught between Vilkas and Falka, all Njada could do was stammer her agreement. Vilkas watched as she helped Falka stand, then grunted something incoherently and left.
When Falka caught up to him, Vilkas had already placed Tilma on the bed in his old room. More exhausted than she would have admitted to be, Falka let herself slump into one of the chairs, watching him. Njada stopped in the doorway, surveying the scene in front of her.
With a feeble voice, Tilma complained about the chill in the room, though her speech was so slurred she had to repeat it twice before Vilkas finally understood her. He pulled a thick blanket from a chest, wrapping Tilma's frail body into it.
“Send for Danica,” Falka at last spoke up.
Puzzled, Njada looked at her, eyebrows raised high. Even Vilkas diverted his attention from Tilma to cast a worried look at his wife. “Red?”
“Send for a healer,” she repeated, this time more vehemently.
“No, no healer,” the old woman muttered in her bed, barely understandable. “'m fine.”
At Tilma's slurred and slow speech, Falka tellingly nodded in her direction.
“I know,” Vilkas mumbled. He sighed, then nodded his agreement. “Get Danica, Njada.”
“Red,” Vilkas woke Falka some moments later. Tilma's wound had been cleaned and bandaged, and Vilkas was keeling in front of Falka now. “What's wrong with you?” Concern shone in his eyes.
“The healing,” Falka mumbled.
“The healing?” he echoed, his brow furrowing. “Come here.”
Vilkas pulled her up from the chair, only to take it himself and pull Falka back down with him. She huddled up against his chest.
“I never saw you get so drained from healing an injury such as this before.”
Falka shook her head. “That wasn't it. Something else drained me. Tilma…” She paused, shaking her head again. “I can't describe it. It's just… it completely dried me. Look.” Her hand described the gesture Vilkas had come to know so well since he had met her. But this time, no ball of fire sat on her palm at the end of it. She tried again, but to no avail. “To the last drop.”
“That why you sent for Danica?”
Falka nodded. “Something else drained me…”
“By the gods,” Vilkas sighed and pulled her closer.
A knock on the door brought them back to reality. Danica had arrived. While she carefully examined the old woman, Vilkas filled her in on Tilma's accident.
“You healed it?” Danica queried, prodding at the still present injury. Tilma moaned in complaint.
Falka told her what she had told Vilkas earlier. Danica narrowed her eyes at Falka, then again bent over Tilma's body. A few moments went by, then Danica's hands were immersed in golden light. The entire room was washed in the radiant brightness, bathing everything from walls to furniture to their faces in amber hues. Danica muttered to herself as she let her power wash over Tilma's still body. Vilkas and Falka exchanged a worried glance.
“You're right,” the Healer finally admitted. The room returned to its usual, much dimmer illumination as she let the energy on her palms dissolve. “There's more than the laceration to attend to.” She held up a hand, choking off Vilkas' intended interruption. “But let me finish my examination first.”
“She needs to rest for a few days,” Danica stated. She had finished Tilma's examination and had joined Vilkas and Falka in the Harbinger's small apartment for a beer.
“But she only stumbled over the short flight of stairs,” Vilkas shook his head in denial. “Surely there can't be that much harm done.”
Danica shook her head. “I am afraid her fall today is not the cause, only the outcome.” She looked him in the eye. “She's old, Vilkas. I am afraid her heart… it's not as strong as it used to be.”
Vilkas looked at her, distressed and for once lost for words. “Her heart?”
The healer nodded. “It is weak.”
“What do you mean? And what about her speech?”
Danica shook her head. “I… I can't say for sure. For now, I tried to strengthen her as best as I could and gave her something to help her relax. The loss of blood has weakened her severely, much more than it would have weakened one of you. It was good luck you treated the wound so efficiently. Otherwise… she might have bled to death today.” She sighed. “But she did not, and she might still have some years before her. If she recovers from this.”
“What are we to do?” Falka asked.
“Here.” Danica placed a small bottle on the table. “This should help her.”
Falka took it up and held it against the light. “What is it?”
“An extract made of Fly Amanita, Mora Tapinella and Scaly Pholiota, mostly, to strengthen her heart. A spoonful thrice a day should suffice, I'd say. And she should drink a lot. Tea from Juniper berries and lavender would be best.”
Falka and Vilkas nodded at the Healer's instructions.
“And most importantly, she needs to rest. Don't let her get up anytime soon. And once she does, she must not work as hard as she did before.” Danica took a swig from her tankard to let her message sink in. “She has tended to Kodlak since he had fallen ill, am I right?”
The two Companions nodded.
“I thought as much,” Danica sighed. “How long has he been gone now?”
“Almost a year,” Vilkas hesitantly supplied.
“And now that he's been gone and all the responsibility's fallen from her shoulders…” Danica did not finish her thought.
They sat in silence for some time. Vilkas was staring at some point in the distance, lost in thoughts. Danica finished her ale, studying him and his wife.
“Where's Farkas?” she finally spoke up.
“In Solitude,” Falka answered. “Do you think…”
Danica sighed. “Maybe… You should send for him,” she reluctantly confirmed. “Maybe…” Helplessly, she shrugged. “I'm sorry I can't help you more. Tilma's an old woman. She's been fit as a young lamb for so long, but now, I fear, age has finally caught up with her.” The healer sighed again, then finished her beer. “I should be going now.” Danica stood. “I will drop by tomorrow to see after Tilma again. Until then.”
The next morning, Tilma's condition hadn't improved much. Only her slurring speech from the day before had lessened. When Vilkas brought her something to eat, she was much too weak to eat any of the food. She obediently took Danica's medicine, drank a cup of tea, and fell asleep again. Danica came by in the afternoon to check up on the old woman, fussing over her for some time with increasing concern spreading over her face when Tilma complained of pain in her chest.
After the healer had left again, Vilkas brought another cup of tea and sat with Tilma, trying to distract her with some talk. He reminded her of the winter it had snowed so heavily he and Farkas had built their own mead hall in Jorrvaskr's backyard, and a small smile crossed Tilma's face.
“You must have been seven or eight winters,” she said. Her voice was feeble and weak, barely more than a whisper. It hurt Vilkas to hear her like that.
“Eight, I think,” he answered, swallowing his pain.
“And then you hid inside, showering everyone who came to train in the yard in snowballs.”
“Aye,” Vilkas nodded. “Shor's beard, Skjor was livid.”
“Not more than when you hid the ale,” Tilma smiled weakly.
Vilkas grinned. “He and Vignar, aye. We must have been twelve or thirteen…”
“My boys,” Tilma sighed. “And now you've all grown up…”
Vilkas remained silent, not knowing how to reply. Instead, he busied himself by pouring Tilma another cup of her tea.
That night, Falka and Vilkas woke to the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Vilkas got up, and found Tilma had struggled out of bed, intent on answering a call to nature. The old woman was deeply ashamed at her own ineptitude and kept babbling about returning to her own bed. After that incident, they left the doors between their bedrooms wide open so that Tilma could call for them if she needed assistance.
By mid-morning, Vilkas came to bring her another serving of Danica's tea.
From the instant he stepped into the room, Vilkas knew something was off. Tilma stared at him with blank eyes, not really seeing or recognizing his face. Only when he addressed her by name did the old woman finally know who he was.
“Why am I in your room?” she croaked, her eyes darting this way and that, never staying on his face for more than an instant.
“You fell, Tilma,” he explained as he sat down on the side of the bed. “You hurt you head, and we brought you here to recover. Don't you remember?”
She took some time to digest this, all the time not truly heeding his question. “Where's Farkas?” she asked eventually.
Vilkas helped her to some tea. “He's in Solitude, but we've already sent for him. He should be back soon.”
Suddenly, Tilma jerked her head up to look at him, spilling hot liquid over his hands and the blanket. “Alone?” she inquired. “Isn't Jergen with him?”
Vilkas froze. He stared at her open-mouthed.
“Is he?” The old woman was genuinely worried, clasping Vilkas' arm tightly. “Or Kodlak? The little one mustn't be out on his own! He's too young.”
“No…” Vilkas finally managed to stammer. “Farkas is a grown man, he can take care of himself.”
“What are you talking about, Vignar?” Tilma, lost in her own world, chided. “The roads aren't safe for a boy to travel on his own.” Her voice went shrill. “Why do I always have to remind you men you have to look after the two boys? You must not let them go wander off all on their own! Is Vilkas here? Didn't he go with his brother?”
A full face-on hit with a heavy warhammer might have hurt less than Tilma's wandering mind. “Of course not, Tilma,” Vilkas finally found the strength to whisper. His voice was breaking. He exhaled, trying hard to ignore the lump in his throat. Taking her hand in his, he decided to go along with her fantasies for the moment. “Farkas isn't on his own. We sent two of the Companions to get him.” No sense in mentioning Ria and Torvar. “They will all be back with us in a few days, Tilma.”
That finally let the old woman relax again. “Good,” she mumbled. “That is good. So the boys are safe, then. Good…” She sighed, and drifted off to sleep some moments later.
Tilma had forgotten the incident when he came to see her in the afternoon. Vilkas, hardened in battle as he was, though, did not dare ask her his name, afraid of her answer. When Danica came by and he told her of the incident, she only shook her head, powerless to do anything for the old woman.
“Tilma has never shown any signs of confusion before,” he lamented to Falka that evening when they went to bed. “Her mind and tongue have always been sharp as a blade.”
“I know,” Falka nodded. Tilma had been a well of humorous remarks and wits for anyone who would listen all through their budding relationship. And since that assignment at the museum last autumn, she had started pestering them about children, setting both Falka's and Vilkas' teeth on edge.
“She didn't recognize me, Red.” Vilkas rubbed his face, trying to wrap his mind around the affair. He looked tired. “She was convinced Farkas and I still were children, and she mistook me for Vignar. I can't go in there…”
Falka hugged him tightly. “You have to, Vilkas. And you will.”
“I know,” Vilkas sighed.
“For now, try to get some sleep.” She kissed him, and gently pulled him down onto the bed.
Tilma's condition did not improve for days. If she did acknowledge anybody at all, she was convinced he or she was somebody from days long gone. Not even skilled Danica could provide any remedy. Tilma's severe illness had all of the present Companions on edge.
And then, three days after she failed to recognize Vilkas, Tilma greeted him happily when he brought her some breakfast. Her memoires, it seemed, had once again started to return. As soon as he was sitting at her side and helping her to tea and a sweetroll, she started talking about getting out of bed. Encouraged by her good mood and her improving physical condition, Vilkas and Falka wrapped Tilma in thick blankets and carried her upstairs. Athis and Njada had arranged a comfortable daybed for her in some sheltered corner of Jorrvaskr's patio, and Tilma was content to enjoy the first, faint sunrays of early spring. Vilkas joined her, bringing with him some of the by now ill-famous tea Danica had recommended.
Tilma made a face. “I never thought there'd be so much lavender left in Skyrim after the winter.”
Vilkas smiled. “Red picked it.”
“Ah, her.” Tilma's scowl disappeared, to be replaced by a smile. “She's a good woman.”
“Aye,” Vilkas nodded, smiling.
“But why do you keep calling her by that awful name? She's got a lovely one of her own, you know? And don't you tell me I wouldn't understand.”
Tilma was back to her old self again. Relief flooded through Vilkas body, lessening the strains of the last week. Over the last days, he had barely slept or eaten, ill with worry for the old woman. He closed his eyes, for the first time truly feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. Everything was going to be fine again.
“All right, I get it,” Tilma's voice cut into his reverie. “It's not for me to ask. But now, tell me, boy,” she pressed on. The change in her voice made Vilkas open his eyes again. He knew that tone and knew what was to come. “Njada tells me Falka's fainted the other day. From weakness.” A meaningful look accompanied the old woman's prying. “And she said that Falka has said something was consuming her energy?” A light shone in the old woman's eyes, a light that Vilkas had thought he would never see again.
“Tilma…” Vilkas sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face to hide the smile that tugged at his lips.
“Do you even know, boy?” Tilma pressed on. At the exasperated look on his face, a smile spread over the old woman's face.
“Of course I do,” Vilkas huffed. “You taught me well enough.”
“Good. So? Any chance of the sound of small feet filling that old hall with laughter again?”
“Wolf paws or dragon claws, which would you prefer?”
“Oh, Vilkas.” Tilma let herself sink back down into her furs again. “I'm sure the two of you'd have a lovely child.”
“There's not enough mead around for that to happen.”
“My boy,” Tilma sighed, squeezing his hand. “When did you ever grow so bitter?”
“Maybe you should try Farkas, he should be back any time now.”
“Truly?” Tilma was puzzled. “Should I?”
And truly, Farkas returned from Solitude the same evening.
“How is she?” was his first question. Njada, Athis, Vilkas and Falka were sitting at one end of the long table, having their dinner.
“Farkas.” Vilkas got up to greet his brother. “She's… better.”
“Thank the gods,” Farkas sighed. “Where is she?”
“Downstairs, in my old room.” Vilkas sat down again. “She was asleep when last I looked for her, though I'll bring her supper once I'm finished.”
Only then did Farkas notice the looks on the faces of his other shield-siblings. Njada was sweating, her face red as a tomato. Athis was sweating, too, and hiccups wrecked his body perpetually. Only Falka was happily spooning her food. “What's with you?” Farkas asked.
“Her cooking.” Athis pointed his spoon at Falka.
“Huh?”
“She's poisoning us,” Njada added. “Don't know how Vilkas is still alive.”
“So it's a little spicy,” Falka defended herself. “Never thought I'd have the Companions crying because of my cooking. I know it's not that bad.”
“I'm not crying,” Athis retorted between hiccups.
Farkas shook his head. “It's hot? So?”
“Try for yourself.”
Farkas joined his shield-siblings at the table and helped himself to a bowl of steaming food. Under the expectant eyes of his friends, he took his first bite. “'s good,” he said, moving the food around in his mouth. “Don't know what-” His eyes bulged. He coughed. And swallowed. And coughed some more. “By Hircine! That's-”
“Hot, aye,” Athis completed.
Farkas grasped at one of the bottles of beer standing on the table, but Vilkas stopped him. “Don't drink anything. Here.” He pressed some bred into Farkas' hand. “That'll help.”
“By the gods, woman!” Farkas glared at Falka while chewing on his bread. “Are you trying to kill us?”
Falka only grinned. “Tilma's in no condition to cook. But I never thought some spices might fell a bear like you.”
“Yeah, me neither. How can you take it?” The last question was directed at his brother, who it seemed was faring much better than the rest of them.
Vilkas shrugged. “You get used to it. And you get to like it.”
“I highly doubt that,” Farkas replied, taking another - microscopic - bite of his food.
“She,” Njada pointed her spoon at Falka, gasping for air, “is never to cook again.”
Farkas laughed. “'s good to be back home. Despite this…” He let the food from his spoon fall back into this bowl again. “Dragon Stew.” He took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “So, how's Tilma?”
“Farkas!” Tilma's weakened voice greeted him as he entered Vilkas' old room. “You're back.”
“Aye. I'm back.” Gingerly, he placed the tray Falka had pressed into his arms on the small table beside the bed.
“Oh no, not more tea,” Tilma complained. “All they give me is this bloody tea. I tell you, they're poisoning me.”
Farkas chuckled. “Nah, You don't know what they're having for supper today. Something Falka came up with. Hot as the insides of a dragon. Njada claims she's poisoning them.”
Tilma smiled. “You should have been here yesterday, when it was Njada's turn to cook.”
“That bad, ah?”
Tilma nodded. “From what I've heard… Anyhow, come here, my boy.”
Farkas sat down on the bed next to Tilma and hugged her. He couldn't help but notice how weak she was, much weaker than he remembered her. And frail. Barely heavier than Wuuthrad. Vilkas had warned him about her state, but it was one thing to be told about it and another to see how the woman had diminished since he had last seen her.
Tilma fussed a bit when Farkas made her drink her tea, but Vilkas had made him promise and so Farkas did. Once the cup was drained, the old woman sank back into her pillows.
“Now tell me,” she asked, a smile curling her lips. “Who is she?”
“Wh- What?” Farkas wrinkled his brow.
Tilma laughed. “The girl that has you riding to Solitude every time you've got a few days to spare.”
Farkas blushed. “Uh…”
Tilma reached out for his hand, padding it.
“How'd you…”
“Know?”
Farkas nodded.
“I raised you, or have you forgotten? I've known you for all your live. How can't I not know?” She smiled. “So, tell me. Is she lovely?”
Farkas nodded again. “Very.”
“And does she have a name?”
“Cal. Calla.”
“What a lovely name. Not like what you brother calls his Falka.” Tilma wrinkled her nose.
Farkas grinned. “Ah, that's just Vilkas.”
“Aye.” Tilma nodded. “That's him.”
“Besides, I believe Falka likes it. Or she likes him enough to let it pass.”
“Stop distracting me,” Tilma chided, though mirth showed on her face. “Tell me more about… Calla.”
And Farkas told her everything he knew about the lovely Dunmer woman he had met in Solitude.
The next morning, Farkas found Vilkas preparing Tilma's breakfast and tea.
“I don't know what you've got,” he approached his brother. “Tilma looks perfectly fine to me, if only weakened from her illness.”
“She had a good day yesterday,” Vilkas replied. “There are days when she is… not that well.”
This one turned out to be such a day, as Farkas found out only moments later when he went down to see after Tilma. She had struggled out of her bed during the night. Farkas found her on the floor, too weak to get up on her own. Carefully, he put the old woman to bed again while she was babbling about Kodlak and how she needed to bring him his breakfast. Inwardly, his heart bled while he tried to tell her as gently as he could that Kodlak had gone to Sovnguard.
“Is that so?” The old woman looked at him with wide eyes. “When?”
“Last summer.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I'm afraid.”
“Oh.”
Tilma let herself be helped to her breakfast in silence.
“Vilkas used to bring me my breakfast,” she all of a sudden interrupted the silence. “When you were gone.”
“Yes, he said so,” Farkas nodded.
Tilma did not hear his reply. “He is a good lad. A bit bitter on the outside, but inside, he's got a good heart. Oh!” All of a sudden, joy spread over her face. “Did you know Vilkas has married Falka? It was such a lovely ceremony.”
Farkas gaped at the old woman in front of him, unable to speak.
“She's such a nice girl, that one,” Tilma babbled on. “You should meet her one day.”
Farkas fled the room as soon as he could, and took the direct route to Jorrvaskr's ale reserves.
“You drinking already?” Vilkas addressed his brother when he found him outside, staring over the empty plains of Whiterun. “It's not even noon yet.”
Farkas didn't turn to face his brother. After some moments, he took another gulp of his beer. Vilkas stood next to him, silently waiting for his brother to speak.
“Tilma. It's like you said.” Farkas eventually spoke. “She told me you married Falka. Like she couldn't remember I was there!” He looked at his brother. “She recounted the bloody wedding as if I hadn't been there, Vilkas!”
Vilkas sighed. “There are days she barely recognises us.” He clasped his brother's shoulder.
“I was there, sitting right next to her! I rode with her on the coach to and from Riften! And now…” He shuddered. “And now she can't even remember I was there. As if I'd miss your wedding.”
“She was certain we were but small boys a few days ago,” Vilkas offered. “She even went so far as to chide me for letting you wander off to Solitude without Jergen.” He swallowed. That memory still pained him every time he thought of it.
“'s bad, huh?”
“Aye, it is.”
They fell silent, none knowing what to say to comfort the other. From behind them, the sounds of the city washed over them. Heimskr's mad shouting, the hammering of Eorlund's hammer on steel, the laughter of children and the clashing of swords from the training yard.
Falka found the two brothers outside hours later. She sidled up next to Vilkas, resting her head on his shoulder. Absent-minded, he put his arm around her. She had had a goal in mind when she had come outside to look for them, but for the moment Falka was content to linger next to the brothers. It was cold, though none of the men seemed to mind. She shivered, knowing she'd never get used to the weather. One lonely crow flew over the city and perished in the mountains to the north. Falka sighed, taking the bird as her sign. “Tilma has gone to Sovnguard,” she said. “She's hale again.”