The Second Curse of the Companions
Chapter I
Vilkas snorted, tossing the remains of a hamhock down onto his plate. The cool winds that blew from the Pale to the plains of Whiterun now swept across the city, diving through the great porch of Jorrvaskr. Shouts and cries echoed off of the tight buildings of Whiterun as merchants closed up for the day and parents called for their children. Vilkas already had a headache, and he'd only had two bottles of mead.
Adding to the din was the newest member of the Companions, Velas Dotheri. The second mer Companion in recent history, the first being Athis, who leaned against the city wall, cheering Velas on. The Bosmer was an excellent hunter, and the best shot with a bow that Whiterun Hold had seen in a long time, even better than Aela (a fact that did not escape her and got under her skin frequently). Currently the main body of the Companions, with the exceptions of Vilkas, Skjor, Kodlak, Aela, and Vignar were standing around the archery targets, whooping and yelling with delight as Velas took shots at the targets.
Velas was a showoff and a scoundrel. He boasted that he had hauled in over five hundred pounds of game once, but when Vilkas had sneered at him, "How did you carry all that, then?" he had become defensive. The quickwitted archer had come back with a serious reply days later, but Vilkas had discounted it as horse dung. The damn elf was too cocky, too sure, too ready to run his mouth.
At least, he was.
When Skjor had sent Velas on a journey to recover what might be a fragment of Wuuthrad, he had taken Farkas along to watch and report back to the Circle. Inside the target location, Dustman's Cairn, some force had shaken the entire crypt and woken the dead inside. Farkas said that Velas had shaken like a leaf, turned pale white, and screamed his head off. Vilkas had never encountered draugr before, but he had read enough to gather that this was the general reaction when the ancient coffins opened from the inside. He didn't begrudge Velas that.
What he did begrudge Velas was the fact that Farkas had quite literally taken an arrow to the knee. The Silver Hand had made an appearance, but with each new wave of draugr, Velas had withdrawn more and more into himself, at one point babbling incoherently and curling up in the corner. One confrontation with the Silver Hand occurred at the same instant that draugr had burst out of their tombs, and Velas had broken down completely. Until then, he had defended Farkas and slew most of their enemies with his trusty warbow, but this time was different. Velas broke down into hysteria, causing Farkas to take one arrow to the knee and a greatsword to the chest. It wasn't fatal, but he was still having to visit the Temple of Kynareth every hour.
Vilkas hated cowards. They were the lowest form of being. He wasn't dull enough to classify those who saved their own necks before others as idiotic or a separate life form. He was intelligent enough to make them out to be what they truly were; milk-drinkers without a shred of compassion or love for their shield-brothers. If you were alone, then saving your own hide wasn't a trait to be disparaged, it was a trait to be commended. If someone was putting their life in your hands and you let them come to harm because you were dealing with some petty moral or emotional conflict, then you were lower than trash and deserved the most painful death it was within Vilkas' power to grant.
Even with his nearly-blinding rage, Vilkas had given Velas one more opportunity to prove his worth. If he had proven himself to be a true coward, through and through, then Vilkas would have quietly taken him somewhere near Rorikstead and killed him. You did not let his family come to harm. It was as simple as that.
After the Dustman's Cairn incident, he had become somber and quiet, speaking only rarely. All of his joviality was gone, making him an infinitely deadlier archer in Vilkas' opinion. His banter used to interfere with his aim, but now that he was a silent hunter, his precision increased almost to the point of ridiculousness. This would come in handy with proving himself to Vilkas and the Circle.
Eighteen days after Velas had returned with a seriously wounded Farkas, a dragon attacked the Western Watchtower. The Jarl had called on the entire guard except for a few men and the entire company of Companions to help combat this threat. Kodlak was a tad wiser, and only sent Vilkas, Farkas, Aela, Skjor, and Velas. Vignar, for one, wouldn't have been much use. And then there's Torvar.
After a long, difficult battle, the dragon spitting fire and ice all the while, Velas finally dealt the killing blow. As the fiend swept over the tower, it dipped next to the roof, where Velas was shooting. Making a split-second decision, the hunter leaped onto the dragon's back. Aela ordered the guards to cease firing on the dragon for fear that they would hit Velas, but there was no need. The Bosmer was quicker than a shade, flitting nimbly up the dragon's backside and planting a foot on its head. The sole ebony arrow in Velas' possession did the deed.
The only problem with this victory was that Velas and the dragon's corpse were hurtling at hundreds of metres per second and hundreds of feet in the air. When the gargantuan body crashed thunderingly to the ground, everyone saw the thin, wiry Companion fly off of the head of the beast and skid to a stop with a sickening crunch a few yards away from the watchtower. When the Companions and surviving guards rushed over to the bloody form of Velas, he chuckled and merely coughed,
"How's that for courage, eh?"
When the newly-incepted Companion awoke days later, Vilkas conceded that he had misjudged the hunter and forgave him for Farkas' injury. Velas had never looked as genuinely happy.
The mead hall had rang with the merriment the night that Velas had returned to Jorrvaskr, fully healed. They had all gotten plastered, and a bit of Velas' old happiness had shown its face, purified of its ego. Vilkas and Farkas had agreed that they liked him better like this, and Torvar certainly enjoyed having his drinking buddy back.
But sometimes Velas relapsed into his cocksure airs for an hour or two, like he was now. Vilkas was disgusted with the elf at times like this, but there wasn't much he could do. Especially not when he had done Whiterun such a service, and survived the tests of the Companions. He had spoken to Kodlak about the relapses of egotistical dramas, but the old man had just suggested that Vilkas should focus on when Velas was performing as a strong warrior and not as a loosemouthed fool.
Another shot slammed home into the bullseye of the target, eliciting another round of cheers from the gathered Companions, and another drink from a severely inebriated Torvar. Even while drunk, Velas' aim was impeccable. The Bosmer could consistently hit the centre of the targets while wasted, blindfolded, bound, and beaten half out of his senses.
Vilkas would watch, but he wouldn't join in the pointless rowdiness, especially not with Skjor lounging in a chair next to him. Night was falling, and Aela was lighting torches around the training yard, scoffing at Velas' skill. She playfully volunteered to show the hunter how a bow was supposed to work, and Velas unexpectedly surrendered his warbow, grinning devilishly and handing Aela a few cheap iron arrows.
A chorus of "Oohs" went up from the gathered shield-siblings.
A cacophony of laughter went up from the gathered shield-siblings when Aela missed the target completely. She thrusted the bow back into Velas' arms and stalked away, muttering about "that damned swill from the Mare's got my head spinning, that's all."
Skjor hadn't said anything all night, but he rolled his head across the back of the chair to look at Vilkas and spoke softly.
"I have a job that I'm going to assign to Velas tomorrow."
Vilkas cocked his head. "Why are you telling me?"
"I thought that you might like to go along."
A silence between the two of them while yet another round of cheers erupted from the gathered family. Apparently Velas had just shot an apple off of Njada's head without looking.
"Thank you, Skjor. What's this job?"
Skjor chuckled nastily. "I'm giving him that bandit job that Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone asked us to do as a personal favour."
Vilkas whistled lowly, shaking his head. "An entire camp, living and operating out of the swamps? We'd need Aela and Farkas for that, at least. In addition to Velas and myself."
The old wolf waved a hand dismissively. "You forget that you have a dragonslayer at your back."
A derisive snort. "Yes, one that seizes every time he sees a corpse."
Skjor laughed openly, drawing a few looks from the shield-siblings in the yard.
"True. But will you go with him? Even Velas Dotheri, the Mighty Slayer of Dragons, must have a shield-brother, and Farkas is understandably reluctant to go anywhere with him."
Vilkas bent his head, thinking. Finally, he met Skjor's icy eye. "Only if Farkas comes with us. I'll ask him, don't bother. I need someone I can depend on to watch my back, because Velas the Mighty has displayed a mighty tendency to curl into the foetal position every time something dies and moves afterwards."
Skjor laughed again, then agreed.
A/N: So, this is the first chapter! Review, rate, etc.
But I'm looking forward to tormenting Vilkas in the next chapter. :D