This is "this love will be my downfall," also known as "how many synonyms for 'fight' can I come up with!" Seriously though, this was supposed to be an angsty oneshot about Mayenor, my Dragonborn, having to choose between Vilkas and Brynjolf. And wouldn't you know it, it turned into another chapter series. Ask me if I'm surprised. (I'm not.)
Anyway, as usual, I hope you enjoy! Please please please don't hesitate to leave comments or criticism!
God bless!
topside
Something is wrong.
He can tell from the moment she barrels into Jorrvaskr, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with deafening force, that she is furious. Rage positively radiates from her, and, as she stomps down the stairs and tosses herself into a seat at the long table, some of the whelps nearest her scatter lest they fall victim to her anger. He sits in his usual spot at the end of the table, a tankard of ale resting in front of him, and he eyes her with a secretive smirk. She catches his gaze and her pretty lips twist into a scowl.
"The fuck are you looking at?" She snarls, and he leans back in his chair, now grinning.
"Now, now, Shield-Sister," he chides, his patronizing tone causing her to ball her hands into fists. "Such language! What happened to the eager young Nord who first stepped through those doors?"
"I grew up," she snaps, grabbing a hunk of bread and ripping it apart with her teeth. He admires her strong neck and animalistic fervor.
"Well that's a shame," he sighs. "Here I was hoping you'd grow up enough we could have a decent fight, but you've already gotten old."
"I'm not old!" She protests through a mouthful of bread, which she hurriedly washes down with mead from a nearby pitcher. The strong, bitter taste makes her eyes water as she struggles to swallow the acrid liquid. "I'm not old," she repeats once her mouth is empty. "And I can take you any day!"
Her challenge lacks eloquence, and he has to bite back a sigh. He has fought at her side and he knows she is strong; her strength sometimes allows him to forget that she is barely out of childhood, with fewer than twenty winters under her belt. He often teases her, goads her; inciting a reaction from her gives him an indescribable joy. He also dreams of her, of suffocating her with kisses and teaching her how a real man loves his woman. But he refuses to view her as more than a Shield-Sister and rival for now; she is too young for him. He knows the only way he can interact with her without his affection being revealed is through taunting and sparring.
"If you really think that," he says, hauling himself to his feet and taking a gulp of his mead, "then let's see you prove it." She hesitates, clutching her hunk of bread too tightly, and he throws back his head and laughs. "Are you scared, whelp?" He teases, and she tosses the bread back onto the table, standing with fists clenched.
"I'm not a whelp," she says lowly, "and I'm definitely not afraid to put you in your place." She reaches over her shoulder and draws the greatsword Eorlund forged for her in the Skyforge; he barely has time to palm his own dagger, the only weapon he carries on him while in Jorrvaskr, before she lunges toward him.
"Vilkas! Mayenor!" She stops mid-swing when Aela's voice rings out across the mead hall's main room. Vilkas turns to face her, calm expression belying the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stoops to retrieve his own sword from its place beside his chair. "Take it outside." Aela orders, pointing to the doors that lead out to the courtyard. Obediently, Mayenor re-sheathes her weapon and heads for the doors, Vilkas following. He gives Aela a curious look as she and Farkas fall into step behind him.
"I have to make sure you don't kill one another," Aela explains, as though her motives should be obvious to him.
"And you?" Vilkas questions his brother, who grins sheepishly and shrugs.
"I just wanna watch a good fight," he admits, and Vilkas feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Farkas lives a simple life and finds joy in small things, and sometimes Vilkas envies him.
"Are you coming?" Mayenor's petulant voice reaches his ears through the open doors, and he lingers at the threshold, letting himself wish, just for a moment, that he could approach the girl with his true intentions instead of baiting her into fighting so he can satisfy his desire for physical contact, however briefly.
"No weapons," Aela cautions as she and Farkas find seats under the awning, where they'll be protected from the blistering heat of the midday Skyrim sun.
"What?" Mayenor asks, looking taken aback.
"No weapons," Aela repeats, and she reaches a hand out to the girl, clearly expecting her to surrender her sword and sheath. While Mayenor gapes at this unexpected turn of events, Vilkas places his own weapons in his brother's care, then turns to face his opponent. He is surprised to see that she is unloading her weapons without any further argument; he's even more surprised to note how many weapons she has to discard. Two daggers emerge from hidden sheathes on each hip and one more from each boot. She lifts her bow, a black construct covered in engraved runes that glow faintly with a pearly sheen, over her head and sets it on the table, followed by a quiver of orcish arrows. Finally, she unstraps her greatsword's sheath and surrenders it, sword securely tucked inside, to Aela. Even the older woman looks impressed as she takes stock of Mayenor's personal arsenal.
"A real warrior stands alone and doesn't rely on weapons," Vilkas quips, but he instantly regrets it as Mayenor's green eyes turn fiery. He always takes his provoking a step too far, and he's afraid she's beginning to hate him. He doesn't want her to hate him; one day, he hopes she'll learn to love him.
"I'll show you," she mutters, spinning on her heel and marching into the training courtyard. "Come on. Let's see who the real warrior is." Vilkas grins and descends the steps to join her. She raises her fists, settling into a fighting stance, and he does the same, noting that she looks stiff and uncomfortable. He attributes that to her sudden lack of weapons; he understands as well as anyone else that having a sword by your side gives you a sense of safety that can't be achieved otherwise.
He gets lost in his thoughts – lost in her – and almost misses her first attack. He steps aside just in time, and she stumbles a bit before whirling around to face him again.
"You're getting slow, old man," she purrs, and the venomous glee in her voice sends a shiver of desire down his spine. She enjoys fighting, and he finds that dangerously attractive.
She lunges again, and he dances aside, shifting forward to snatch her wrist as she passes by him. He twists her arm behind her back, pulling her tight up against him. Her fingers scratch at his chest as she squirms to get away, but he only holds her tighter.
"Want to give up now," he hisses in her ear, and she stiffens as his hot breath wafts across her neck, "or continue this charade?" She merely grunts in response, and after a second more, he feels a sharp pain in his knee. He stumbles back, realizing she kicked him, and with enough force to break the bone in a smaller man.
"I told you I'm going to put you in your place, and I intend to do just that," she tells him firmly, and it takes all his willpower not to sweep her into his arms and pepper her with kisses. He loves how stubborn she is.
She darts forward and manages to land a punch on the side of his jaw, and the pain brings him out of his moment of admiration. His beastly instinct is beginning to kick in, but he battles it, knowing that once he starts fighting in earnest, the skirmish will be over and she will ignore him and sulk for the rest of the night. So he begins to prowl around in a circle, and she moves in the opposite direction, eyes darting across his body as she tried to find an opening. While she searched him, he leaps forward and sweeps his legs behind her knees; she crumples to the ground with a yelp of surprise. He could easily pin her to the ground now, but he refutes his training and returns to a fighting stance, waiting while she picks herself off the ground and readies herself for another attack.
"He's like a cat with a mouse," Aela observes with amusement, her voice carrying to the fighters. "Playing with his prey." Farkas chuckles.
"He always does this with her," he remarks, watching his brother. "Though he never takes it easy on me…"
"I'm twice her size," Vilkas comments, eyes still glued to Mayenor's. "I don't want to crush the little thing." Mayenor scowls, obviously objecting to his referring to her as a 'thing'. She sprints toward him, catching him off-guard, and he instinctively thrusts a fist out to meet her stomach; he hears a sharp crack and winces sympathetically as she groans, fingers curling around his wrist as she tries to remain upright. He slips his free arm around her shoulders to support her; she shrugs him off and stumbles away, bent nearly double and clutching her side, still managing to pierce him with a poisonous glare.
Aela steps up beside Mayenor and puts gentle hands on her shoulders. The girl collapses gratefully into the older woman's embrace; over her head, Aela frowns at Vilkas, who, for a moment, is at a loss for what to do.
"I didn't mean to-" He stammers, but Aela is leading Mayenor away, back into Jorrvaskr. Farkas thumps down the stairs to join Vilkas.
"She'll be fine," he assures his brother; Vilkas continues to stare after the women, looking stricken.
"I wasn't trying to hurt her," he repeats, and Farkas frowns.
"Of course not. And you've done worse than that training the whelps. Remember when you almost cut Ethelia's arm off? Don't worry about her." Vilkas purses his lips and realizes that Farkas is blind to his feelings for the girl, something Vilkas had begun to fear his brother suspected.
"She's just a kid," he grunts in response, shouldering past his sibling. "Don't want to kill her." He stops to retrieve his weapons, then stomps into the main hall, good mood fouled with worry. He casts a glance toward the stairs down which he knew Aela had led Mayenor, then falls into his usual seat and takes up his tankard, filling it with mead. If he can't find comfort in being by Mayenor's side, he'll find it in a few pitchers of mead.