The boy swings his legs under the chair. He's still just short enough that his feet don't quite touch the ground. Farkas is taller, just by a bit, and his feet touch the ground. But Vilkas' feet do not.
If he weren't sick, he might be outside with Farkas right now. Farkas is down playing with the other children in the town square, but Vilkas is sitting in Jorrvaskr. He's read three books this week already, borrowing them from Askar and Kodlak and even Hedvika, Aela's mother. Maybe he'll know all his histories by the time he's seen ten winters, and he'll be smarter than Vignar.
Today, though, he doesn't much feel like reading, and so Mhiralda will teach him to knit.
She's an older woman, a Redguard and member of the Circle. She's sterner than Hedvika, but warmer than Arnbjorn, and probably just as wise as Askar and Kodlak both. She tells him that knitting is an old art from Hammerfell, and that it's much easier than the nalbinding Tilma does in her spare time.
When she promises that strong fingers will make it easier to hold the iron sword he keeps dropping, Vilkas agrees.
So now he sits with a pair of knitting needles in his hands and a messy swatch hanging from them, and he's smiling so much he almost forgets he's sick. It's simple, and he's actually making something. It's not neat and sturdy, like Mhiralda's, but he will practice and he will learn. One day, if he keeps it up, Mhiralda says she will teach him how to make shirts and caps and all sorts of things.
When he's knitted a full square, Mhiralda helps him cast the yarn off the needles. Vilkas tucks the swatch into his pocket, proud of himself and eager to learn more.
