Sorry, Lass

His temper as a child was worse than Farkas' but their elders assumed it was merely the hotheadedness of youth. Promising that he'd grow out of it. Adolescence did nothing but expand his vocabulary, teaching Vilkas new ways to wound those he cares about the most. How to find weaknesses and twist the words of those who've trusted him. To find pleasure in them leaving.

He detests the way his presence harms those around him. They'll never voice it but Vilkas knows it to be true, that he is only allowed to remain at Jorrvaskr due to his usefulness. Even Farkas looks upon him with pity that boils Vilkas' blood. How the hell can the rest of them control the beast within them so well? Why is he alone in this anger?

Vilkas has secluded himself from the recruits for years. He is not suitable to be around others. His peers communicate but newcomers give him a wide berth, often looking upon him with fear. Vilkas wishes he had the capacity to be like his brother, to test their mettle instead of bloodying whoever dares to stand against him. He can grit his teeth and make promises but in the end his nature always wins.

If only they knew how deeply Vilkas detests himself. How he curls into his bedding and wishes that the beast would let him die. Vilkas' bones ache with every sob he fails to stifle, painfully aware of how thoroughly his own potential has been wasted.

Once he'd been eyed as Kodlak's successor. Vilkas prided himself on that, molding himself into a man that his Harbinger could be proud of. His knowledge, prowess on the battlefield, the practiced strategic mind - all of it fucked because he can't leash the monster in his veins.

Vilkas doesn't want to hate his brother. He doesn't think he does, anyway. The jealousy is simply too much to bear. Farkas spent years trying to ingratiate Vilkas into the Inner Circle, socializing him like a reactive dog. Vilkas buries his head in his pillow and forces himself to relive the memories, painfully aware that he's done nothing but disappoint his brother.

He snarls and hurls insults to those attempting to be kind. He cannot name a reason for the anger burning within him, can do nothing but let it consume him. Farkas swears that it's possible to tame the beast within him, that all wolves work on their own timeline, but Vilkas' heart is heavy with the truth. He will never beat this and he must accept that.

Loneliness isn't too bad, Vilkas supposes. It's a small price to pay for the sins he's committed. He lumbers through Jorrvaskr with his eyes cast down, staring at the scuffed tips of his boots and moving on instinct. The only way to keep the beast's temper from flaring.

The training yard is safe. The others are all still in bed, recruits exhausted from previous days and peers aware of his schedule. Vilkas doesn't bother with the rack of blunted weapons, instead drawing the broadsword he favors so much.

He can feign normalcy for a few hours if he drains this need for violence on poor practice dummies. Hacking, slashing, allowing himself to imagine they can bleed until his muscles burn with exhaustion. Vilkas tears through the training yard, demolishing the false enemies until he's soaked in sweat.

"Oh, sorry." A voice breaks his concentration and an eager shiver runs down Vilkas' spine. It's dangerous, the way this simple intrusion has him dipping toward violence. He counts the steps they take toward him and beneath his tunic his blood heats, pumping too fast through his veins.

Vilkas whirls around - they're too close, within his reach. Three training dummies remain. The beast is not quelled. It's ugly head raises at the sight of a whelp staring at him with fascination.

This recruit doesn't look at him with disdain. Their cheeks are flushed but not with fear. Their eyes widen and a hand reaches out apologetically, sending Vilkas reeling back a few steps. Dark hair falls in his face, cutting through his vision.

"Sorry." They mutter again, thankfully remaining in place. Vilkas doesn't know what he's feeling but is certain this will not end well. "Are you Vilkas?"

"Yeah." He gulps, failing to ignore a shiver of temptation running through him. His skin feels too sensitive, alert to the slightest movement they may make. Like a beast identifying its prey.

"You should go. I'm not -" Vilkas can't finish, a wave of bloodlust stealing through them. He's not fit to be around others. They should have been warned to stay away. To keep their distance from him. He's not human.

"I wished to speak to you." Their admission is so soft that Vilkas shudders. It's disgusting to be treated this gently. He's a monster that should be caged. His head is shaking against the string of demands pounding in his skull.

Bite. Make them regret this. Make them bleed for it.

Something in him boils and Vilkas thinks he may be sick. It's unfamiliar and terrifying, like his anger is becoming too hot to handle. Vilkas falls to his knees, spine aching as he forces his body to the ground.

"Please." He barks out, vision blurring with fear because they're too fucking close. "I don't want - gods, it burns." His skin is on fire. Vilkas heaves out a breath and knows he's scaring the poor whelp but he cares little for his reputation. His sole focus is the safety of his fellow Companions. Including them.

"What can I do?" They offer and his teeth grind against the humiliation. He should've shouted for Farkas or Aela. Someone strong enough to aid him. Instead there's a group of recruits whispering near the doors whose names he didn't bother to learn.

"I can't - I don't know what I'll do." He swallows down the litany of threats. The beast's seductive claws rake over his brain, whispering urges to bite, to take. To sink his teeth into this recruit and never let go. It feels possessive and selfish, somehow different from the usual instinct to kill. Vilkas finds he doesn't like it.

it takes every ounce of control to remain in place when their belt is buckled around his throat. The beast revolts against such a touch - how dare they leash him, bring him to his knees. He should snap at them, use this moment of vulnerability to teach them about how dangerous wolves can be.

The other end of their belt is knotted around a tree and the recruit scurries out of his reach. Vilkas is relieved to finally see a flash of concern cross their features. They have some common sense, then.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" They shoo at the other whelps, planting their body between Jorrvaskr and Vilkas. His teeth gnash together and he wishes someone would just fucking hit him. Knock him out until his blood cools. Anything to stop whatever's happening.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Vilkas snaps once they settle onto the ground not too far away. The recruit merely looks at him again with those big eyes.

"Not really."

Hours pass in silence. Vilkas' mind slips between moods, alternating between violence and shame. He does little to fight it. He allows the leather belts to dig into his skin, focusing on the pain instead of the insistent eyes watching his every move.

"Vilkas." Farkas' worried tone draws his attention. His brother rushes closer, falling to his knees beside the recruit. Vilkas merely slumps into the tree, attempting to reign in his reactions.

He's already ruined his image. There is no coming back from this. Vilkas basks in his brother's disappointment and wonders if this is his rock bottom. Maybe they'll finally kick him out. Vilkas supposes he's better suited for life outside of the city, anyway. Strip him of his titles and release him to the wilds like the animal he is.

"You shouldn't be here." Farkas' attempt at whispering doesn't quite work. He's tugging at the whelp's arm and thank the fucking gods they'll finally leave. Vilkas allows his eyes to close and prays for his blood to cool.

"I want to be." They insist and shamefully, Vilkas is relieved. That possessive voice within him purrs.

"It's not safe -"

"It's perfectly safe now." The recruit insists and Farkas huffs out a sigh. Vilkas feels awful for putting his poor brother in such a sad situation but can't make his mouth form an apology.

"Do you need help?" Farkas offers and Vilkas rolls it over in his mind. He can still feel it, the beast lurking just beneath his skin. His senses are heightened in search of stimuli, seeking any reason to pounce.

"Safer here." Vilkas grunts, blushing at the matching stares he's met with. "I'm fine."

The recruit stays beside him. Even as the hours pass and the sun heightens overhead they watch him, leaving only to fetch food. Vilkas is shocked with a second plate is nudged carefully just within his reach. He wants to refuse, to allow his stomach to growl until it consumes him. Perhaps enough pain will quiet the beast.

"You should eat." They say simply, taking a spoonful of stew that admittedly smells quite good. Vilkas is ashamed by his slow movements, knuckles sore from gripping the ground.

The food settles in his stomach and as the beast finally shrinks, Vilkas is beset with guilt. He doesn't even know this person's name and they've seen him at his worst.

"You shouldn't be here." He echoes his brother's earlier words instead. The belt is chafing his throat but Vilkas refuses to let himself be freed. Not while anyone remains close.

They inch closer and that feeling returns, the one that's not quite anger. Vilkas hears himself growling but the foolish recruit doesn't back down. They crawl closer and the beast is distracted by their eyes free of fear, shamefully aware that somewhere under all the rage there is lust.

He's a disgusting monster. Vilkas knows that he is nothing more. He wrenches away from them, finding far too much comfort in his restraints as his back hits the thick tree he's anchored to. The recruit merely blinks at him.

"Get the fuck away from me." Vilkas spits, his heart hammering too hard in his chest. They need to run and never look back at him. To keep that piercing gaze to themself.

"I'll be around." They offer, finally standing. The recruit brushes off their pants and give Vilkas one final piercing look. "If you want a friend."

Vilkas isn't sure how many hours pass. He remains at the base of that tree, leashed like some forgotten pet until he's certain that the others have retreated. The fires of Jorrvaskr burn low and the main hall is mostly abandoned when he finally stalks toward his quarters.

His beloved. The most favored of his consorts. Miraak has not been the First Dragonborn for decades, has separated himself from that man. But you remain. In his loneliest nights he traces the lines your hands would make down his body, recalling the comforting weight of you in his lap and the expensive silks that rippled around a body he knew too well. Miraak is haunted by the memory of your touch.

Miraak has paid little mind to the passing of mortals in his life. He'd shed that skin, looking back would be pointless. Though, after the occasional glass of wine Miraak would find his eyes drifting toward you. Jealousy he has no right to feel driving him to seek you out, searching the mortal plane to ensure no one else has captured your heart.

Robes you never touched pool around him as Miraak kneels at your grave. It's unremarkable, obnoxiously plain as if those in your life are unaware of how vibrant you'd once been. Clawed fingers trace the rough edge of your headstone and rage bursts forth within him. A hatred for himself that leaves poor Miraak nauseous.

He left you. Without a word or a proper goodbye. He'd known that it would be the last kiss, the last touch, a final farewell that he gave you no warning of. Miraak collapses into the grass, clutching at the spot in his chest where you reside. The throbbing, raw pain that he refuses to let heal.

Intoxicating. Addicting. There are far too many words he'd use for you but he cannot avoid the final one - gone. Miraak can no longer remember the taste of your lips or the exact tone of your voice. Try as he might the memory has faded with time, leaving behind nothing but a craving that can never be sated.

How many years have passed? He cannot be bothered to count. Miraak has spent generations hidden away in Apocrypha's shelves, gathering knowledge and power among the shadows. His names have been forgotten to time and though his pride is hurt he supposes it is best to shy from a spotlight. His followers grow slowly, painstaking effort for so many years to avoid drawing attention.

Rumors of another born with a dragon's soul reach his ears. Miraak disregards it - Dragonborns have come and go without him paying too much mind. He's getting close to a breakthrough, can feel it. Getting distracted now would be foolish.

The Last Dragonborn is quickly becoming a thorn in his side. Miraak dislikes the meddlesome way their name keeps popping up - reports from Nirn, prophecies of the First and Last, the rate at which they're slaying dragons. It's all terribly annoying.

Miraak cannot recall the last time his feet touched this soil. Nirn is brighter than he remembers, sunlight piercing eyes far more accustomed to shadows. The crumbling remnants of his temple are familiar enough as he stalks through the hallways in search of his rival.

The Last shall not kill the First. He will make sure of that. Miraak will continue this unnatural life, he will ascend to godhood as intended. Failure has never been an option. He happens upon the doors of his old office, flung open so carelessly as someone noisily rifles through his belongings.

Miraak watches as this mortal being claws through his desk. Mildew has eaten away many of the books he'd once cherished but he cannot be bothered with nostalgia now. Magicka crackles around gloved hands, a sickening green that has stolen all other color from his life, and he prepares to end that damned prophecy.

The Last Dragonborn turns, unaware of his presence and Miraak is fairly certain he's dreaming. Your eyes sweep over his shelves, a mouth he's craved for millennia pinched into a frown. Too many feelings swirl in his gut and his spell gutters out, gloved hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

Your hair is shorter. Oh, how Miraak longs to run his fingers through it once more. He'd never had a reason to see you in armor but Miraak recognizes this body, has spent far too many evenings with his face pressed to that crook of your shoulder.

The Last Dragonborn turns to him and Miraak cannot think. They look at him with your eyes, mouth opening without saying a word. He should defend himself, should kill this intruder and get on with his life. But Miraak cannot bring himself to raise a hand against you.

"Are you Miraak?" Thank the gods for his mask. Miraak's knees buckle at the melodic way your voice wraps around his name. He's clutching the door and failing to maintain a shred of composure. He'd forgotten how easily you could cut through all his bravado with a single word.

"Who are you?" He demands, comforted by the sharpness in his voice. His chest heaves with each breath, the wounds he'd nursed so carefully raw and bleeding at the sight of you. Your nose wrinkles and dozens of memories pop into his rattled mind of that exact expression, you tucked securely into his lap and lashing back at one of his many advisors.

"The Dragonborn." Your voice scoffs and Miraak's old heart plummets. It must be some joke from the gods. Some sort of cosmic punishment. The one prophesized to be his demise wears the face of the only love he's ever known.

Those lips he'd once kissed twitch into another frown. How Miraak wishes to sweep you into his arms once more, desperate to feel you melt into his touch. His arms ache but he forces them to remain still, the old pain in his chest growing with every second that passes.

Eyes that gazed at him with adoration are now guarded. He is unfamiliar, nothing more than a threat. This Last Dragonborn is not you, they have no memory of how deeply in love you'd been so long ago. Miraak is ashamed to admit that he cannot count how many years it has been since he lost you.

"How did you find this place?" He sounds breathless but still cannot bear to reach for his weapon. Miraak watches your brows tighten, hand on the hilt of a sword that remains sheathed.

"Dunno." Miraak could cry from the simplest word. "Just had an instinct, I suppose."

Your heart drew you here, Miraak is certain. Some fragment of his beloved must be nestled somewhere within this Dragonborn's soul. Miraak wishes once more he could draw you closer, to be allowed to feel your warmth one last time.

"Do we know one another?" Your voice is hardening and Miraak knows the moment of relative peace is ending. The grief is horribly fresh, after all these years he is losing you again.