Mmmmkay everyone, this is my first ever fanfic on this site! It's a(nother) Farkas X OC fic, in case you clicked on the story without reading the summary for some reason, but I try to make something a bit different with it than the old cliché. So no insta-love, no soulmate-stuff, etc. This fic is character-centric and conversation-heavy instead of action-oriented. There is also no Dragonborn, or if there is, only as a side character. I dearly hope that Bronwen is not a Mary Sue. All opinions are appreciated.
Have fun!
It has not been a good day for Farkas, even though the commission had been a relatively simple one. The Silver Hand camp he was to eliminate – probably sent out from one of their strongholds to form a new permanent base – had been estimated small enough to enter without a shield-brother, so he had been by himself. That had been no problem for him; he rather went without an ally than with an incompetent wannabe-whelp who endangered them both.
So far, so good.
Then a Silver Hand scout had spotted him, even though he had approached as silently as he could, which, admittedly, was not easy in the heavy armor he usually wore. Thus he, who had hoped to sneak into the camp and ambush the inhabitants, had been ambushed himself. To add insult to injury, a sabre cat who had, unbeknownst to him, been stalking him for a while, had deemed this moment perfect to attack him, too. The Silver Hands' attempts to get rid of the ferocious beast had only further aggravated it. And to think they could hunt werewolves if they had trouble with a kittycat! Well, a big kittycat. A damn big cat. And heavy, too, with sharp claws and no intention to accept a compromise.
The cat had attacked all of the fighters, but Farkas, being alone, had been literally hit the hardest. In the end, he, already badly hurt, had been forced to transform to take out his opponents, human, elven, orkish, and feline, and it had cost him a lot of energy he already could hardly muster anymore. When he transformed back, Farkas' knees bent like twigs and he fell onto his hands, trembling from pain and, stress and exhaustion. With the heat of the battle vanishing from his blood, Farkas felt all the wounds he had received; a deep gash on his neck from which blood shot in his breath's rhythm, several bite and claw wounds on both of his arms and hands, more deep, gaping cuts on his left upper arm and on his thigh which bled pretty badly, plus several smaller cuts which wouldn't have worried him on their own. Also, he was slightly giddy and felt a swelling form on his skull where a cross guard had hit him when he tried to evade a heavy sword blow. Maybe he should take on wearing helmets, even though the things restricted his field of vision and annoyed him in general.
Farkas knew he was in bad shape. He had lost a lot of blood and was losing more by the second, and he was in really bad pain, even though he had never admitted it. He felt like just curling up and sleeping it off, and he wished so badly someone would help him with at least getting up or fetching medical supplies; but alas, he was on his own and therefore the only person he could count on in this hostile land, and there was no time for regrets. He drew the nearest corpse closer and began ripping their clothes apart so he had bandages with which he could at least keep the bleeding under control. His fingers trembled as he slung the rag around his neck. His blood ran down his fingers and into his bracers like the creeping fingers of death.
When he had patched himself up as well as he could and drank a bit of water from a nearby canteen, he took a moment to think of the next step. There was no way he was going to make it home in his condition. But Solitude and all the villages and towns he knew in Haafingar were far away, either, and he doubted he would make it even there. Still, it could be the only chance he had. Groaning, every muscle, every little wound, flaming in pain, he stood up. For a moment, he faltered, but found his balance quickly. He tried drawing a deep breath, but it was as if his lungs had decided to deflate and not let any more breath in than was absolutely necessary for survival.
Kodlak, being the wise old man that he was, had once told him: "Even a long journey begins with a single step." He had probably meant it figuratively, but Farkas had to think of it as he put one foot in front of the next as if he was walking for the first time in his life. Farkas felt mortified. He, the exalted strongman of the Companions, had trouble walking like an old woman, was whining about pain and wasn't sure whether he could make it home alone. Slowly, he set one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm he quickly adopted. There was nothing to be done about this now. All he had to – and really could – think about was coming into safety, preferably before it got dark.
Then, the hailstorm began.
It was not a heavy hailstorm, but nevertheless, in his weakened state the cold really got to him. The ice balls shot from the sky like divine missiles and hit him all over the place, into his face, his hurting and still bleeding wounds, wherever they got. The second time this day he regretted not wearing a helmet, but all the regrets in the world wouldn't help him now. He just seemed to have really, really bad luck today.
When he first heard the voice, he thought his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him, but then, he heard it again.
"Boy, over here! Where do you think you are going?"
It was the shape of a woman, holding some article of clothing over her head to protect her from the hail. Farkas stopped dead on his tracks and stared at her past the white tails of the hailstones. He probably stared at her for a moment too long, because she came closer, her steps forceful, and said: "Come on in. You're but catching your death out here in this weather."
Farkas' field of vision blurred, but she seemed to be of middle age, her hair strawberry blonde and her face weathered. When she examined him, her fierce expression softened.
"Got cut up pretty badly, have we?", she asked sympathetically, then placed the cloth on her head and put her hand around his bracer.
"Uh", Farkas tried to protest, but his brain already refused to shape an objection. What the woman proposed – coming "on in", wherever that might be – sounded good. Safe. Like where he wanted to go. On weak legs, he followed her.
Behind a small grove, a hut became visible, or rather, a small house. She opened the gates and led him into a house. The hail drummed heavily against the outsides of the wooden walls, yet, compared to the outside, the quiet was really nice. Farkas shivered from the sudden warmth that surrounded him.
The woman threw the clothing into a corner and led Farkas into the next room, where a fire crackled homily.
"Sit down in front of the fire, boy", she said, "I don't want you to get a cold."
Farkas didn't have the energy left to tell her that because of his beast blood, it was impossible for him to catch a cold, even if he had wanted to. It seemed too inviting to just sit down and let the fire warm him up again, so he did as she proposed.
He heard her leaving the room and going up stairs. When she came back, she positioned something over the roasting spit and hung two kettles onto it, then knelt next to Farkas, who had reclined into a sunken sitting position, and asked: "We should get this armor off you, shouldn't we?"
He nodded faintly and began doing so. She, to his surprise, helped and seemed to know what she was doing. With every piece of armor he dropped, Farkas felt less high-strung and overburdened and more comfortable and sleepy.
While they were doing so, the woman introduced herself: "My name is Maelys Ellene and I'm the owner of this homestead. Whom do I have the pleasure with?"
"Farkas", he said, and after a short hesitation: "Of the Companions."
"Yes, I figured out that last part", the woman answered, sounding amused.
Well, it wasn't as if every farmer knew what Companion armor looked like... or was it?
Maelys pulled his shirt over his head like a mother might have done with her tired son, then told him to also strip down his trousers, took one of the kettles from the spit and poured the warm water into a wooden bucket, also pre-warmed from standing close to the fire. Farkas was too well trained a fighter to not feel unprotected with his armor and weapon removed, so he threw sideglances in his gear's general direction every now and then, but he didn't feel threatened in any way.
Casually, Maelys handed him a golden-brown bottle. The scent told him it was mead.
"Drink, Farkas. Having gashes like those tended to is not a comfortable thing, in case you didn't know."
"I did", he protested vaguely, but drank anyway. The mead got to his tired head quickly and clouded his pain.
"I should warn you. I'm not a restorationist, nor am I a surgeon", Maelys added, but got to work anyway, so he didn't feel any need to answer. He had apprehended she would apply mead to his wounds also, or even try to cauterise them with a hot iron, which could cause pain beyond comprehension, but she applied honey and garlic instead. The worse wounds, she stitched together to keep them from bleeding, then dressed them in clean bandages she had prepared by laying them into the hot water, in which, as he could see now, lay a silver ring to kill the germs.
How ironic.
It hurt pretty badly, but aside from sometimes sharply drawing breath when the pain really got to him, he held still and didn't utter a single sound.
When he was all patched up, Maelys dipped a cloth into the hot water, rubbed a cake of soap that smelled like herbs on it, and began cleansing him of blood, sweat and gore. She started at his shoulders and back, gently rubbing his sore body, which further helped his muscles to relax. She cleaned his arms also, wasn't at all shy to clean his legs, even scrubbed his feet with – at least he thought it was that – a slight smile on her chapped lips, before cleaning his chest and stomach, too, and then, taking a fresh cloth, she started on his face.
When she scrubbed the area around his eyes a bit too long and too strongly, he leaned his head away, feeling disgruntled, and told her: "You can rub all you want, those stains have been painted with a needle."
"Is that so?", she asked, obviously wondering why someone would have themselves tattooed with something that looked, to her, like dirt stains. "Then well."
She laid the wet cloth away and took the one she had carefully put over the roasting spit; it was a towel, and by Talos, it was pre-warmed. The nicest thing he had seen in a long time – or at least, today. He was almost dry already, but still, she gently wiped the water off his skin. The warmth crawled into his tense muscles and eased the soreness and pain. He could hardly imagine anything more pleasant in his vulnerable state. Then, she took the other kettle and he heard her pour its contents into some sort of bowl. A moment later, she handed him a steaming tin cup. It was a herbal tea.
"Drink, so you won't be hurting so badly this night", Maelys instructed him. Without thinking, he did after her words.
He heard her leave the room again, presumably putting away that things she had used, while he remained on the carpet, staring into the dying fire, completely outspent. When Maelys came back, she handed him two blankets and some rolled-up clothes.
"I'm afraid I don't have another bedroll, let alone a bed, so you will have to make do with the floor", she said. "I also don't have another pillow, so I took some of Calvach's clothes and rolled them into something you can use as a pillow. There's more tea in the kettle, in case you're thirsty. Do you need anything else, Farkas?"
He couldn't think of anything. He couldn't think, fullstop. He just wanted to sleep, nothing more. At this point, he was reeling even in his sitting position, he was so exhausted.
Maelys seemed to notice he was in no shape to answer, so she helped him lay down comfortably, carefully positioned his head onto his makeshift pillow, placed the blankets over him and tucked him in. He fell asleep before she left the room.
