A Friend in Deed
Three nights since her first transformation, Ethne couldn't sleep. She lay on her pallet in the whelps' den with her body aching like she'd been run over by a mammoth and her blood roaring in her veins, but the worst of it was that she couldn't stop thinking about the Silver Hand—what they'd done to Skjor, and mostly what she and Aela had been doing to them. It was justified, she told herself. They were monsters who tortured living people out of ignorance and prejudice, and they'd deserved to die. But she still felt uneasy. She couldn't deny how much she'd enjoyed tearing them apart as a wolf, feeling their blood spray in a warm shower across her face. That wasn't like her. She didn't abhor killing in defense of others or her own life when every other option was exhausted, but she had never reveled in the taking of another's life before.
Finally, after she was not sure how long, Njada's snores became too much for her. She pushed herself up and fled out into the main corridor of Jorrvaskr's living quarters. She could hear the odd creak of someone's footsteps above—probably Brill—but otherwise the place was still. Everyone in the Hall was either already asleep or simply enjoying some quiet time to themselves.
She hated to disturb the peace with her troubles, but she had to talk to someone, even if she couldn't tell them what she and Aela had been up to. Light flickered from the twins' wing, so she went that way and found Farkas' door open. The creak of metal and leather and his low, contented humming told Ethne he was definitely awake, so she knocked and poked her head inside.
"Farkas?"
He was seated at his table to the left, cleaning his armor. She startled him, and he got up too quickly and almost knocked over his chair. "Ethne? What is it?"
She winced. "Sorry. Are you busy? I can go."
"No, wait." He bundled up the armor and chucked it across the room. It landed in a heap beside his bed with a loud clatter.
Vilkas shouted irately from across the hall, "Keep it down, brother! I'm trying to read!"
"Sorry!" Farkas shouted back, not abashed in the slightest. He pulled the second chair out from the table and invited Ethne in. "Don't mind him, he reads too much anyway. It ain't right," he told her cheerfully.
She smiled, but said nothing as she took the offered seat. Books were one of the few points of common ground she'd been able to find with Farkas' surly twin.
"So," Farkas said, retaking his own chair. "You wanted to see me? Looking for a job?"
"No," she answered, avoiding his curious blue eyes and instead gazing about the room. She'd never been inside before. "Why do you have a bar down here? I know you like your ale, but . . ."
"Oh, that was here when I moved in," he said. "I guess this wasn't always a bedroom, but I like it. People come to visit me, and we have a good time. Hey, do you want something?"
He started to get up again, but she waved him back down.
"That's all right. I, uh . . . " She shook her head, feeling like a Nord's worst milk-drinking, sweetroll-missing nightmare.
"What?" Farkas was worried now. "What's wrong?"
"What was it like?" she asked quietly. "Your first time. Aela said it was bad."
He looked confused for a moment, but only a moment. "Oh, that. Well, I don't really remember. They told me I ran halfway to Riften before they finally caught up with me. I killed two sabre cats and a bear, by myself!"
He said it with such pride that she tried to smile for him, but it must have come off wrong, because his face slowly fell.
"Did I upset you?" he said. "If I did, I'm sorry."
"No, no," she assured him wretchedly, "it's not your fault. I just . . . I thought it would be different. Stronger, better senses, that sort of thing. And it is that, but . . . I thought I would be a better version of myself, but I feel like a worse one." She felt tears starting to well in her eyes, and she looked determinedly down at her hands on the table, hoping Farkas wouldn't notice.
"Um." He scratched the back of his head and seemed uncertain of whether he ought to look at her or not. "Maybe you should talk to Vilkas. He's better at this sort of thing than I am."
Ethne shook her head with a rueful chuckle. "I'm sure he could give me some good advice, but he'll also give me that look, like me and my problems exist just to piss him off."
"That's just his face," Farkas said, more or less fondly. "I think it gets stuck that way sometimes. I could punch it for you, see if that helps."
She had to laugh, and she risked looking up again, but the earnest concern on Farkas' face undid her, and the tears fell.
"Hey. Don't cry." He leaned forward and laid one of his giant hands on hers. "What can I do to help? Just tell me, I'll do it."
"Oh, you are helping." She pulled one arm loose so she could wipe her cheeks on her sleeve. "Just listening to me and not laughing, or thinking I'm weak."
"Well, you're not. I stood for you, so I should know that better than anyone. If anybody says different, I'll knock their teeth in."
"Thanks. I think." She smiled through her tears. "You're a good friend, Farkas. I haven't really had one since I left home. I forgot what it feels like."
He squeezed her hand, and she realized that a grip she might have found crushing before was no problem. She frowned.
"I know you like being powerful as the wolf," she mused aloud. She realized belatedly that Farkas had been about to say something, but it was too late now. "Does the rest of it ever bother you? The . . . the bloodlust, I mean? Wanting to run, and hunt, all the time?"
He looked uneasy, as though afraid she wouldn't like his answer. "Not really. You get used to it, I guess. Or at least I did. Aela likes it. But you don't have to change if you don't want to. Kodlak says it's bad, so me and my brother and him haven't been doing it for a while. Except, well, you know," he amended sheepishly, referring to the incident in Dustman's Cairn when he'd transformed to save their lives from agents of the Silver Hand, revealing the Circle's secret to her and kicking off the whole sorry chain of events that had led to this moment.
"But it's hard, isn't it?" Ethne said glumly, raising her eyes. "I don't know how you do it."
He shrugged uncertainly. "I got used to that, too. But yeah, it's hard for the old man, and for Vilkas. It makes him cranky—more than usual, I mean." A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, but it faded away. "I don't know; I just don't think about it. I worry about some things sometimes, but not so much it makes my head hurt, like some people I could mention." He tossed his head in the general direction of his brother's room. "It's better to do things than sit around thinking them to death." Inspiration struck. "Maybe that's what you need. Something to take your mind off things."
Ethne cocked her head. "Like what? It has to be midnight by now."
"Well, there's always someone awake at the Bannered Mare. If you don't want to drink, we could get Mikael to play a song for you, or see if Uthgerd is there. She doesn't like us 'cause we wouldn't let her in, but she likes to fight, and I know you'd beat her in no time flat." He got up and tugged Ethne after him.
She went along willingly, though not without trepidation. "I don't know. Isn't this a bit silly?"
"Yep!" He didn't show any signs of slowing down, but he stopped abruptly before the whelps' quarters. "Oh, you might want a cloak or something, though. I keep forgetting you're not a Nord."
She laughed. "I look nothing like a Nord." As a Breton, she had thick auburn hair and pale green eyes, with somewhat rounded features and gold-tinged skin, token of her race's ancient ties with the Aldmer.
"But you've got the heart of one, and that's what counts. Go on, I'll wait."
Resolving to take that as a compliment, she gave in and fetched her cloak as quickly and quietly as she could. Nobody noticed, and she let Farkas lead her out of Jorrvaskr and down to the Bannered Mare. She had a few drinks with him after all, and Mikael played, and when Uthgerd challenged her she put the other woman on the floor in no time flat. Uthgerd laughingly complimented her on the best fight she'd had in ages, and she bought the next round. There was almost another fight when Mikael got a little too sweet with Ethne for her liking, but Farkas offered to re-tune the bard's fingers for him, and that put a stop to that.
It was very late indeed when they weaved their way back into Jorrvaskr—or rather, Ethne weaved, and Farkas clutched her arm above the elbow to keep her from breaking her neck on the stairs. He helped her fall into her own bed rather than someone else's or the floor, and she finally slept.
The hangover, she decided, was completely worth it.
AN: Oh lord, I haven't written fanfiction in ages, and now my fanfiction is spawning more fanfiction. I'm working on a more adventurous story with my Dragonborn and her favorite Companion much, much further along their timeline, but my brain keeps veering off into fluff or angst, so here's a little fluffy angst. I know I'm not the first to touch on this theme and I won't be the last, but I hope you like my take on it as much as I've enjoyed some of yours. {= )
Edit (2.27.17): Tweaked a few things to fit better with details I picked up on further trips through the lore.
For the record, "Ethne" is an Irish variant on Edna or Enya, and should be pronounced "ETH-nah," not "ETH-knee" (like I keep wanting to do my own self).