Hey friends! Welcome to my first piece of Skyrim fiction, which is based on the Companions questline. I'm retelling the story a bit. You'll notice I've tried to gloss over the bits we're all so familiar with in the interest of avoiding redundancy, and tried instead to fill in the gaps. I've also rewritten parts of the plot (and you'll know them when you see them!) so don't expect an exact retelling of this part of the game.
That said, enjoy! And let me know what you think!
Freya woke, but not because of the sunlight. In her home, the sunlight couldn't reach her, though a small fire crackled in the fireplace, illuminating the hearth.
Sleeping indoors had become unfamiliar enough that upon waking, she was often disoriented. As though she couldn't sleep without Skyrim's rocky soil at her back, without her frigid winds whistling across whatever skin she'd been foolish enough to expose.
But no, she was in Riften. The air was different here, moist, not warm, certainly, but warmer. Green things grew here. The wind that whipped through the Rift was temperate, and threatened rain rather than tiny stinging hailstones and blinding snow.
She hadn't intended to put down roots, yet she had. She had approached Jarl Laila's steward and presented her with a truly exorbitant sum. She asked for a home in the town square, and told her to furnish it. Freya was not a domestic person and never would be, so she merely threw down coin and made other people take care of the details.
When Jarl Laila called for her only a few weeks later and presented her with a Thanehood, it had surprised her totally, and filled her with dread.
It was the third time that she'd been offered such. Jarl Balgruuf, in Whiterun, had bestowed the title on her once, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She remembered the exhilaration of the moment, she remembered the half-fought smile on Balgruuf's weather-beaten face. She felt genuine friendship for the man, then. He had an easy laugh, and a compassionate and intelligent gaze. He loved his people and he worked tirelessly on their behalf. Jarls like him were rare in a land where thrones were usually won by murdering everyone in line ahead of you.
Later, when she pressed him into the ground with her boot, a sword poised over that tender spot where skull met spine, she thought of that moment.
"I expected better of you." He'd said later, as his attendants and disgraced Housecarl led him away, into exile. He'd spoken the words quietly, not even in anger. Just matter of fact. Those words cut her heart out. Moreso than killing her way though city guards whose faces she recognized, moreso than watching shops she'd patronized burn. Those five words made her wonder if this rebellion was worth it, if Ulfric Stormcloak was worth it.
Vignar, the new Stormcloak Jarl, had offered her her Thaneship back, before fighting had even petered out in the other districts. She'd turned him down.
Instead, Freya spent a sleepless night in Dragonskeep, in the home of her former friend, then traveled back into the green south and hid in Riften. Hid from the war, hid from the memory of half-razing Whiterun, a town she'd sworn to protect. She'd broken up a little band of drug smugglers and criminals (in truth, more out of a sense of restlessness than civic duty), and in exchange, Jarl Laila had given her stewardship of the entire town. It had shown her just how raw the wounds were.
Iona had come over sometime in the wee hours, apparently, and had brought with her fresh bread and fish from the market.
The women ate together in silence, cutting thin slivers of cheese off a wedge from the basement, and drinking watery mead.
"I'll be away for awhile, Iona." Freya said, picking at the remnants of her breakfast.
Iona wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, one eyebrow shooting up in interest.
"Indeed? Will I accompany?" Iona was her Housecarl, her sword and shield when she accompanied her into the field, and was responsible for looking after her estate when Freya went out alone-keeping the pantry stocked and the spiders and creeping vines from taking over. Iona had fulfilled both duties admirably, but it was no secret that she preferred letting bandit blood out into the ground over sweeping it.
"Not this time, friend. It's a personal matter I must attend to."
Iona was disappointed, but tried not to let it show.
"As you wish, my Thane. I'll look after Honeyside while you're away."
She started out before the sun was at its zenith, circling out around the walls of Riften, back to the stables. She bought another horse, a grey gelding whom the stablemaster informed her was called Rokkr and had a gentle disposition. Freya thanked him then tried to forget that information immediately. It was much easier to watch dragons disembowel horses who did not have names or personalities.
Freya packed light, her good sword on her back, some spares tied to the saddlebags. Enough food and mead for a few days, some healing droughts and linen bandages.
There was no resistance on the road- the Stormcloaks had made sure of that- and the weather was cool and breezy, perfect for traveling. The road (and there was, for once, a road) was well-trodden, the terrain gentle. But Freya's mood could not be lightened. She wasn't sure what she would find at the end of this well-trodden road.
The walls and ramparts of Whiterun had been left more-or-less intact by the Stormcloak siege, and the familiar city crest still fluttered in a now-colder wind. Torches cast wan light, backlighting pacing, blue-clad soldiers in guttering orange. Overhead, the stars gleamed.
She dropped Rokkr at the stable, sliding a few coins under the stablemaster's door and slinging her saddlebags over one shoulder. Her boots crunched on gravel as she mounted the small hill that led to the gates. From out of the wilderness, the song of summer insects was reaching a pulsing crescendo. She thought of how much she liked the sound, and how the air was fragrant from the woods and cooking meat. She thought of this, instead of thinking of how, a short time ago, she was beating this city's gate in while fire and arrows rained down upon its inhabitants.
A few civilians were still meandering the street in the Wind district, most of them in an advanced state of inebriation. She considered joining them, going to the Drunken Huntsman and obliterating her ability to think advanced thoughts, but then... Then she might see the wives or lovers of those who she'd slain, their children. And that, if it had to be done at all, would best be done sober.
Freya walked to the end of the boulevard, looking up at the hulking form of Dragonsreach above, her shoulder starting to ache fiercely from the weight of all her provisions. Before she even started up the stairs, she knew that she could not stay there. Would never stay there again.
A third option appeared in her mind.
The first time she'd visited Whiterun, she'd become introduced to a woman called Aela- after, of course, they'd almost been clobbered to death by a giant right outside the city gates. They'd been sitting together on the grass, cleaning gore and mud off of their weapons and armor, when Aela had told her to stop by her home, Jorrvaskr, if she needed lodgings. She hadn't taken her up on the offer at the time, but she saw no reason not to now.
Freya turned, grunting as she shifted her heavy saddlebags to her other shoulder, and started up the stairs toward the Cloud district.
Aela had given her fairly precise directions to Jorrvaskr, but Freya was still not exactly sure that she had the right place. The enormous structure before her looked, for all the world, like an upturned sailing ship, its hull rounded, its rudders pointing at the stars. It was an extreme departure from how dwellings were generally assembled in Skyrim, which was to say, as quickly and efficiently and sturdily as possible. Skyrim was not given to interesting architecture.
She entered without further preamble. It was getting later- and therefore, her arrival was presumably becoming less welcome- by the moment.
Freya closed the door behind her, and took stock of her surroundings. Before her was an enormous hall, a firepit hewn right into the ground like a trench. Behind this was a long, banquet style table the likes of which she had only seen in castles.
Freya trudged over and ran her hand over it. The once-smooth surface had been worn away by years of scrubbing and re-scrubbing. Whoever kept house here was extremely diligent.
She was just wondering whether to call out a greeting when, fortuitously, Aela herself entered, from a set of doors behind the table, opposite where Freya had entered.
Aela was much as she remembered- a tall, sturdy woman with unruly auburn hair, white skin, and eyes a color Freya had never before seen on a Human. The effect had been, and was currently, striking. She radiated confidence, pride. It was in the set of her shoulders and the motion of every step she took. Aela froze for a moment only, before recognition set it.
"Freya! So you've finally come! Do you need lodging?" She said, dropping a rucksack on the ground and circling around to clap her on the back in a rib-rattling greeting.
"I have indeed. And I do, if your offer still stands." Freya smiled and nodded, tension uncoiling inside her. She had been a bit afraid of what kind of greeting she might receive, considering how her last visit to Whiterun had gone.
Aela hauled the heavy bags off Freya's shoulder with ease and slung them across her own.
"Of course. Come, let's put your things in my quarters. Hopefully you're not too weary for a drink?"
"Never." Freya said dryly.
Aela's hospitality was startling. Skyrim's denizens, in general, were not overwhelmingly hospitable. It was probably the climate, both political and literal. She wondered if Aela's origins lay elsewhere.
She followed her host down a set of stairs and into a well lit, comfortable sub-level. Rooms radiated off from a center hallway that stretched off for a considerable distance.
"Good gods, Aela. Where exactly are we?"
Aela turned around, looking back over her shoulder for the barest instant, and smiled.
"Jorrvaskr, home of the Companions."
Freya felt one of her eyebrows raise. "And who exactly are they?"
"Ah, Tilma." Aela was saying to a tiny, elderly lady in a wool dress and apron, who had appeared from what seemed to be a pantry. "Would you please prepare a plate for my guest?"
"Of course, dear." Tilma said.
"You are hungry, yes?" Aela said. It wasn't quite a question.
"Famished. Thank you, ma'am." She said with a nod to Tilma.
The other woman laughed, waving her hand. "Please, my dear. Don't call me 'ma'am'. Makes me feel old."
While she devoured bread and cheese and cold grilled leeks, Aela explained.
"I have ulterior motives for inviting you here." She said matter-of-factly, pulling the cork of a bottle of mead out with her teeth.
"Mm?" Freya grunted, prevented from saying anything further by the fact that her mouth was very full.
"Indeed. But first I should answer your question. The Companions are warriors, shield-siblings of the five-hundred followers of Ysgramor. We fight for our honor, and, for a fee, for anyone else's. We are protectors, and assassins. My mother was a Companion. And her mother. And all the women in my family, back to Hrotti Blackblade. You could say it's in my blood. And I think..." She said, pausing to take a long draught of mead. "...It's in your blood, too."
Freya took a moment to absorb this, chewing. Since Alduin's defeat, quite a few groups had courted her, in one way or another.
"Aela, my mother was a tavern girl." She said, skeptically. If Aela wanted her to join her little band, she was going to have to do better than that.
Aela arched an eyebrow at her, snorting.
"That's not what I meant. You would be an asset to Jorrvaskr. After all, I've seen you in action. And heard about more of your exploits after that."
"What about how I betrayed Jarl Balgruuf and helped his enemy take the city? Have you heard about that one?" The bitter words left her mouth before she could restrain them. She was exhausted and half-drunk, and the very last thing she wanted at that moment was to hear more about her own 'exploits'.
She expected Aela to be angry, but she only turned her head on one side in a way that Freya found distinctly canine.
"Why did you do it, then?" She asked neutrally.
"Because I swore an oath to the Stormcloaks." She said, drawing circles on the table with her fingertip. She didn't mention that how the words of that oath had tasted like ash in her mouth even as she spoke them. Freya had limited faith in Ulfric Stormcloak, in any man. And although his ambition seemed to have less to do with creating a free and sovereign Skyrim and more to do with becoming High King, he was still a banner to unite the uprising under.
She spoken the oath, because she had to. Because the Stormcloaks had the best chance of removing Skyrim from under the boot of the Empire. She did her duty, and prayed the Ulfric would surprise her.
Aela shrugged.
"No matter. The Companions have no interest in politics, or the war."
Freya took a deep breath, then released it. She finished the mead she had been drinking in one long pull.
Aela clapped her on the back again.
"Decide nothing now. It's late. You can meet the others in the morning."
Aela stood and walked toward the stairs, and Freya followed dutifully. Their debate wasn't over, but at that moment, the thought of a warm bed was enough to make her hold her tongue.
They wound through Jorrvaskr's long hallways until they reached Aela's door. She entered, then light flared as she lit a candle. Freya followed.
Aela's quarters were sparse in the extreme, but her bed was big enough for two. Freya stripped down to her tunic and trousers and slid in first. As a child, she'd shared a bed for years with the two daughters of a maid at the tavern, so this was familiar territory for her.
Aela lay beside her, and Freya noticed for the first time that she smelled strange. Not bad, certainly, merely unlike what she'd expected. Like pine sap and cold air, but also like fresh blood.
"Rest well, dovahkiin." Aela said, and blew out the candle.